Remember Me

Remember Me

Trezza Azzopardi

Language: English

Pages: 150

ISBN: B01K94OLYC

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


Publish Year note: First published in 2003
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Winnie would say she's no trouble. She's content to let the days go by, minding her own business, bothering no-one. She'd rather not recall the past and, at 72, doesn't see much point in thinking about the future. But when her closed existence is shattered by a random act of violence, Winnie is catapulted out of her exile. Robbed of everything she owns, she embarks on a journey to track down the thief - but she soon finds that what began as a search for stolen belongings has become the rediscovery of a stolen life.

Literary Awards
Wales Book of the Year (2005)

The Man Who Would Be King: and Other Stories

Adam Bede

The Infernal Desire Machines of Doctor Hoffman (Penguin Modern Classics)

Loggerheads and Other Stories

Red Plenty

Henry VIII (The Pelican Shakespeare)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

needed doing in the garden as if he always did this, as ifit was an ordinary day, and I had always lived here. six My father won’t come into the house when he visits; he leans his elbows on the gate, swinging it and staring at the crescent scrape in the path, while my grandfather helps me into my coat and beret. When I’m ready to go, I have my father in front of me and my grandfather at my back. They look but they don’t speak. Around my neck I wear a doorkey on a long piece of string, which my

buffeting against me like the wind off the fen. How should I know, I shouted back, fed up with all the noise. Jean put her arm round me and called an end to the meeting. In the back room, when everyone had gone, she slapped me on the face. Never, ever lose patience, she said, her face hot and close, These people are full of grief. As if I couldn’t understand how that felt. Afterwards, she declared that I needed Coaching, so that I would be able to tell which spirit was rising: this not only

smiling; he has something caught in his fist. He opens it, and a beetle zigzags up into the light. The horses, impaled on their poles, gallop over my head. Their saddles are jewelled with sweat. I’m flying now, I’m falling. My mother’s bare feet are dancing on glass. Over the fields to the scarecrow, to Joseph with his arms wide, balanced like a trapeze artist on the edge of the tower. Watch me fly, Beauty! He’s flying and falling, just like me. Look! A shooting star, Mr Stadnik says, marching

wastebasket under the bench, Never wear cheap shoes, Winifred! Beggars can’t be Choosers, I said. You are no beggar. You could have come to me. I started to tell him about leaving Jean and Bernard, but he flapped his fingers at me. I know all that. Do you think I care? Do you think I – of all people – would believe what they’re saying about you? My mouth was dry. I could barely get the words out. What are they saying? Hewitt smiled, a small ducking of his head. That you are a thief, of

anyone I choose, now: a woman on a riverbank walking in the sunshine, an ordinary person sitting in a tearoom. Anybody, or nobody. I have all I could possibly want, here with me, at the end of this world. I collect the bundle of scarves, the lost gloves, the wooden foot, everything, pile it all in a heap, and put the candle to it. The flames when they catch are as boundless as the sea. We gather round them, peering through the smoke at each other, like children at a bonfire. Across the

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