The opening lines to ‘The World of Irene Mansell’ by Patrick George Callaghan from 2004… To the south of Kensington Gardens, high above the watchful, glittering towers of the grand Imperial Institute, wholesome breezes fell upon the narrow arboreal road leading to the quiet respectable villas of Dorset Square… Further to the south, the River Thames shone silvery, like the path of a passing snail, in the lowering moonlight… Black of night. She was late. It had gone eleven. Her daughter was never this late. In the basement kitchen of number 10 Mrs Mansell – The Llewellyn’s cook, fussed over her single seed like a preventive hen. Her eyes darted angrily once more to the small window that looked out over the small stairwell running to the street above. She would know her daughter’s footsteps – she would know them well. She tied the leg of Canterbury Lamb for the tenth time, mindful in one last pull, and looked at the slowness of her mantle clock. It...
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