Dancing In The Dark

by Maureen Lee

Genres: Family Life; Sagas; Women's Fiction; 20th Century Romance

Synopsis

A brilliantly compelling Liverpool saga following the lives of two women - three generations apart. Millie Cameron is not at all pleased when she finds herself obliged to sort through the belongings of her aunt Flo, who has recently died. She hardly knew her aunt and besides, she has her own career to think about. But when she arrives at Flo's basement flat, Millie's interest is awakened. As she sorts through her aunt's collection of photographs, letters and newspaper cuttings she finds herself embarking on a journey - a journey to a past which includes a lost lover and a secret child. Picking through the tangled web of Flo's life, Millie makes the startling discovery that all the threads lead to herself...

Release date: November 10, 2011

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 386

Sample

It always began with the sound of the footsteps, the soft, slithering footsteps on the stairs, the unshod feet in their well-darned socks lifting steadily from one step to the next. He wasn’t the sort of man to wear slippers. Listening, I would picture him in my mind’s eye, just his feet, coming up the narrow beige carpet with the red border, the cheapest you could buy, worn away to threads in the middle and secured to the stairs with triangular-shaped varnished rods that slid into bronze brackets at the side. I saw everything very, very clearly, in precise detail.

Even on the nights when there were no footsteps, I never went asleep before Mam came home from work at ten o’clock. Then I would feel relatively safe, but not completely. Mam had never been able to offer much protection. But even he must have realised that a child’s screams at dead of night might have alerted someone; a neighbour, a passer-by.

I still dream about it frequently, always the footsteps, never the violence, the terror that was to come. Because in my dreams I am not there when he enters the room. My bed is empty. Yet I can see him, as though an invisible me is present, the tall figure of my father, an expression on his dark, handsome face and in his dark eyes that I could never quite fathom. Was it excitement? Anticipation? Behind the glitter of the main emotion, whatever it might have been, I sensed something else, mysterious, sad, as if deep within him he regretted what he was about to do. But he couldn’t help it. The excitement, the anticipation, gripped him like a drug, stifling any other, kinder, feelings he might have had.

In my dream I would watch him slowly undo his belt buckle, hear its tiny click, the feathery smooth sound the leather made as he pulled it through the loops of his trousers until it dangled from his hand like a snake.

Then he would reach down to drag me out of bed, but this was a dream and I wasn’t there!

Oh, the look on his face then! I savoured it. I felt triumphant.

At this point, I usually woke up bathed in perspiration, my heart beating fiercely, still triumphant, but at the same time slightly sick.

I’d escaped!

Sometimes, though, the dream continued, just as life had continued in the days when the dream wasn’t a dream but real.

I knew that when he came back from the pub, always drunk, he would scratch around downstairs, poking here and there, in the dirty washing, through the toys, searching for something that would give him an excuse to let rip with a thrashing. He liked to have an excuse. He’d find the mark of a felt-tipped pen on a tablecloth that Mam hadn’t had time to wash, paint dropped on a frock at school, the arm off a doll, or toys not put away properly. Anything could trigger the sound of those slithering footsteps on the stairs.

There were other nights, the best ones, when he would fall asleep in the chair – according to Mam, he worked hard – or he might watch television. Looking back, my memory softened slightly by time, this probably happened more often than I used to think.

In the extended dream I still wasn’t there, but now my little sister was in the other bed, and it was she who bore the brunt of our father’s anger, or frustration, or excitement, or self-loathing, or whatever it was that made him want to beat the life out of his wife and children, so that his dark shadow lay heavily over our house, even when he wasn’t there.

There would be no feeling of triumph when I woke up, just desolation and despair. Would the dreams never end? Would I ever forget? For the rest of my life, would I, Millie Cameron, never stop wishing that I was invisible?

The sun spilled under the curtains, seeping on to the polished window-sill like thick cream. The wine bottle that Trudy had painted and given me for Christmas dazzled, a brilliant flame of light.

Sunday!

I sat up and stretched my arms. I was free to do whatsoever I pleased. In the bed beside me, James grunted and turned over. I slid carefully from under the bedclothes so as not to disturb him, put on a towelling robe and went into the living room, closing the door quietly behind me.

With a sigh of satisfaction at the thought that it was all mine and mine alone, I surveyed the room, its dark pink walls and off-white upholstered sofa, old pine furniture and glass-shaded lamps. Then, I switched on the computer and the television and reversed the answering-machine. In the kitchen, I paused momentarily to admire the effect of the sun on the Aztec-patterned tiles before filling the kettle. Back in the living room, I opened the door to the balcony and stepped outside.

What a glorious day, unseasonably hot for late September. The roses bordering the communal garden were overblown red and yellow cabbages, the dew-drenched grass glistened like wet silk. In the furthest corner, the biggest tree had already begun to shed its tiny, almost white leaves, which scattered the lawn like snow.

I loved my flat, but the thing I loved most was the balcony. It was tiny, just big enough for two black wrought-iron chairs and a large plant-pot in between. I knew nothing about gardening and had been thrilled when the squiggly green things I’d been given last spring had turned out to be geraniums. I enjoyed sitting outside early in the morning with a cup of tea, savouring the salty Liverpool air; the river Mersey was less than a mile away. Occasionally, just before bed on warm evenings, I would sit with the light from the living room falling on to the darkness of the garden, reliving the day.

Most of the curtains in the three-storey block of flats that ran at right angles to my own were still drawn. I glanced at my watch – just gone seven. From the corner of my eye, I became aware of activity in a kitchen on the ground floor. The old lady who lived there was opening a window. I kept my head turned away. If she saw me looking she would wave, I would feel obliged to wave back, and one day I might find myself invited in for coffee, which I would hate. I was glad I’d managed to get a top-floor corner flat. It meant I was cut off from the other residents.

The kettle clicked and I went to make the tea. There was a political programme on television, so I switched it off and turned up the sound on the answering-machine. I nearly turned it down again when I heard my mother’s voice. A shadow fell over the day when I remembered it was the last Sunday of the month; my family would be expecting me for lunch.

‘… this is the third time I’ve called, Millicent,’ my mother was saying shrilly. ‘Don’t you ever listen to that machine of yours? Ring back straight away, there’s bad news. And I don’t see why I should always have to remind you about dinner …’

I groaned. I could tell from the tone of my mother’s voice that the news wasn’t seriously bad. Possibly Scotty had been on one of his regular sexual rampages and other dog owners had complained, or Declan, my brother, had lost his twentieth job.

Just as I was about to take my tea on to the balcony, the bedroom door opened and James came out. He wore a pair of dark blue boxer shorts and his straw blond hair was tousled. He grinned. ‘Hi!’

‘Hi, yourself.’ I eyed his tanned body enviously and wished I could turn such a lovely golden brown in the sun.

‘Been up long?’

‘Fifteen, twenty minutes. It’s a lovely day.’

‘The best.’ He enveloped me in his muscular arms and nuzzled my neck. ‘Know what today is?’

‘Sunday?’

‘True, but it’s also our anniversary. It’s a year today since we met.’ He kissed me softly on the lips. ‘I went into a wine bar in Castle Street and there was this gorgeous leggy ash-blonde with the most amazing green eyes – who was that guy you were with? I knew him slightly – that’s how I managed to get introduced.’

‘I forget.’ I felt uneasy. Remembering anniversaries seemed a sign of … well, that the relationship meant something, when we had always maintained stoutly that it didn’t.

‘Rodney!’ he said triumphantly. ‘Rod. I met him at a Young Conservatives’ do.’

I moved out of his arms and went to the computer. ‘I didn’t think you were interested in politics.’

‘I’m not, but Pa maintains it’s good for business. He makes lots of useful contacts in the Party. Is there more tea?’

‘The pot’s full. Don’t forget to put the cosy back on.’

He saluted. ‘No, ma’am.’

When he came back, I was seated at my desk. He stood behind me, his arm resting lightly on my shoulder. ‘This your report?’

‘Uh-huh.’ I pressed the mouse and the words rolled down the screen. I read them quickly. Despite night school and the subsequent A level in English, I worried that my terrible education might be obvious when I wrote at length. I hoped I hadn’t split any infinitives or put an apostrophe in the wrong place.

‘You’ve spelt “feasible” wrong,’ James said. ‘It’s “-ible” not “-able”.’

‘I did that bit when I was tired. I probably wasn’t thinking straight.’ He’d gone to one of the best public schools in the country, followed by a good university.

‘Shall we go somewhere special for lunch to celebrate? How about that new place in Formby?’

‘Sorry, duty calls. Today I’m lunching with my parents.’ I wished I had a more pleasant excuse.

‘Of course, the last Sunday …’ To my irritation, he knelt down and twisted the chair round until we were facing each other. ‘When am I going to meet your folks?’

‘What point is there in you meeting them?’ I said coldly.

‘You’ve met mine.’

‘You invited me, I didn’t ask.’ I disliked going to see his family in the converted, centuries-old farmhouse in its own grounds three miles from Southport. I felt out of place, uncomfortably aware of the stark contrast between it and my own family’s home on a council estate in Kirkby. His mother, with her expensive clothes and beautifully coiffured hair, was always patronising. His father was polite, but in the main ignored me. A businessman to the core, he spent most of the time on the phone or ensconced in his study plying fellow businessmen with drink. Phillip Atherton owned three garages on Mersey-side, which sold high-class sports cars to ‘fools who’ve got more money than sense’, according to my own father. Atherton’s rarely dealt in cars worth less than twenty thousand pounds. James was nominally in charge of the Southport garage, but his father kept a close eye on all three.

The phone went. James was still kneeling, his arms around my waist. After three rings, the answering-machine came on, with the sound still turned up. My mother again. ‘Millicent. You’ve not been out all night, surely. Why don’t you call back?’

James’s eyes sparkled. ‘Millicent! I thought it was Mildred.’

‘I would have hated being Mildred even more.’ I got up quickly to pick up the receiver. I didn’t want him hearing any more of the whining voice with its strong, adenoidal Liverpool accent, one of the reasons I’d told my mother never to call me at the office. ‘Hello, Mum.’

‘There you are!’ She sounded relieved. ‘Can we expect to see you today?’

‘Of course.’

‘Sometimes I worry you’ll forget.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘As if!’

‘Don’t be sarcastic, Millicent. After all, it’s only once a month you visit. You’d never think you only lived a few miles away in Blundellsands. Mrs Mole’s Sybil comes every week from Manchester to see her mam.’

‘Perhaps Mrs Mole’s Sybil’s got nothing else to do.’

‘You might like to know she’s got two kids and a husband.’ There was a pause. ‘You’ve become awfully hard, luv.’

‘Don’t be silly, Mum.’ With an effort, I made my voice softer. Mum set great store by the regular family gatherings now that only Declan was left at home. ‘What’s the bad news?’ I enquired.

‘Eh? Oh, I nearly forgot. Your auntie Flo’s dead. The poor old soul was knocked down by a car or something. But the thing is, luv,’ her voice throbbed with indignation, ‘she was already six feet under by the time some woman rang to let your gran know.’

‘Why should Gran care? She had nothing to do with Flo.’ Auntie Flo had, in fact, been a great-aunt, and the black sheep of the family, I had no idea why. Gran never mentioned her name. It was only when Auntie Sally had died ten years ago that I first set eyes on Flo, at the funeral. She was the youngest of the three Clancy sisters, then in her sixties, had never married, and seemed to me an exceptionally mild old woman.

‘Blood’s thicker than water,’ my mother said meaninglessly.

‘What did Auntie Flo do that was so awful?’ I asked curiously.

‘I think there was a row, but I’ve no idea what it was about. Your gran would never talk about it.’

I was about to ring off, when Mum said, ‘Have you been to Mass?’

To save an argument, I told her I was going to the eleven o’clock. I had no intention of going to Mass.

I replaced the receiver and looked at James. There was a strange, intense expression in his light blue eyes, and I realised he’d been watching me like that throughout the entire conversation with my mother. ‘You’re very beautiful,’ he said.

‘You’re not so bad yourself.’ I tried to sound jokey. Something about his expression disturbed me.

‘You know, marriage isn’t such a bad thing.’

Alarm bells sounded in my head. Was this a roundabout way of proposing? ‘That’s not what you’ve said before.’

‘I’ve changed my mind.’

‘Well, I haven’t.’ He came towards me, but I avoided him by going on to the balcony. ‘I’ve tried it before, remember?’

James was standing just inside the window. ‘You didn’t keep his name. Were things really so awful?’

‘I didn’t want his name once we were no longer a couple. And it wasn’t awful with Gary, just deadly dull.’

‘It wouldn’t be dull with me.’

So it was a proposal. I stuffed my hands in my dressing-gown pockets to hide my agitation and sat down. Why did he have to spoil things? We’d made it plain to each other from the start that there was to be no commitment. I liked him – no, more than that, I was very fond of him. He was good to be with, extraordinarily handsome in a rugged open-air way. We got on famously, always had loads to talk about, and were great together in bed. But I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life with him or with anybody else. I’d struggled hard to get where I was and wanted to get further, without having a husband questioning my every decision, interfering.

I remembered Gary’s astonishment when I said I wanted to take an A level. We’d been married two years. ‘What on earth d’you want that for?’ I recalled his round pleasant face, his round moist eyes. We’d first gone out together at school and had married at eighteen. I’d realised, far too late, that he’d been my escape route from home.

Why did I want an A level? Perhaps to prove to myself that I wasn’t as stupid as my teachers had claimed, for self-respect, to gain the enjoyment from books that I’d only briefly experienced before my father had put a brutal stop to it.

‘I’d like to get a better job,’ is what I said to Gary. I was bored rigid working at Peterssen’s packing chocolates. ‘I’d like to learn to type as well, use a computer.’

Gary had laughed. ‘What good will all that stuff be when we have kids?’

We were living in Kirkby with his widowed mother, not far from my parents. Although we’d put our name down for a council house, one would not be forthcoming until we had a family – not just one child but two or three. I visualised the future, trailing to the shops with a baby, more kids hanging on to the pram, getting a part-time job in another factory because Gary’s wages as a storeman would never be enough to live on. It was why we’d never even considered buying a place of our own.

Two years later we were divorced. A bewildered Gary wanted to know what he’d done wrong. ‘Nothing,’ I told him. I regretted hurting him, but he was devoid of ambition, content to spend the rest of his life in a dead-end job wondering where the next penny would come from.

My father was disgusted, my mother horrified: a Catholic, getting divorced! Even so, Mum did her utmost to persuade me to come back home. My younger sister, Trudy, had found her own escape route via Colin Daley and had also married at eighteen, though Colin had been a better bet than Gary. After ten years they were still happily together.

Wild horses couldn’t have dragged me back to Kirkby and my family. Instead, I rented a bedsit. I had my English A level by then, and until I bought my flat, nothing in life had given me more pleasure than the certificate to say I’d achieved a grade C. Armed with a dictionary, I’d made myself read the books I’d been set, struggled for hours to understand them in the bedroom at my mother-in-law’s, while downstairs Gary watched football and game-shows on television. It seemed no time before the words started to make sense, as if I’d always known them, as if they’d been stored in my head waiting to be used. I shall never forget the day I finished reading Pride and Prejudice. I’d understood it. I’d enjoyed it. It was like discovering you could sing or play the piano.

Once settled in the bedsit, I took courses in typing and computing at night school, left Peterssen’s, and began to wonder if it had all been worth it as I drifted from one dead-end office job to another – until three years ago, when I became a receptionist/typist with Stock Masterton, an estate agent’s in the city centre. Of course, I had to tell George Masterton I’d worked in a factory until I was twenty-four, but he had been impressed. ‘Ah, a self-made woman. I like that.’

George and I hit it off immediately. I was promoted to ‘property negotiator’. Me! Now George was contemplating opening a branch in Woolton, a relatively middle-class area of Liverpool, and I was determined to be appointed manager, which was why I was writing the report. I’d driven round Woolton, taking in the number of superior properties, the roads of substantial semi-detacheds, the terraced period cottages that could be hyped and sold for a bomb. I’d noted how often the buses ran to town, listed the schools, the supermarkets … The report would help George make up his mind and show him how keen I was to have the job.

It was through Stock Masterton that I’d found my flat. The builders had gone bankrupt and the units were being sold for a song, which was unfair on the people already there who’d paid thousands more but the bank wanted its money and wasn’t prepared to wait.

‘I’ve not done bad for someone not quite thirty,’ I murmured to myself. ‘I’ve got my own place, a job with prospects and a car. I earn twice as much as Gary.’

No, I’d not done badly at all.

Yet I wasn’t happy.

I leaned on the iron rail and rested my chin on my arms. Somewhere deep within I felt a deadness, and I wondered if I would ever be happy. There were times when I felt like a skater going across the thinnest of ice. It was bound to crack some time, and I would disappear for ever into the freezing, murky water beneath. I shook myself. It was too lovely a morning for such morbid thoughts.

I’d forgotten about James. He appeared on the balcony tucking a black shirt into his jeans. Even in casual clothes, he always looked crisp, neat, tidy. I turned away when he fastened the buckle of his wide leather belt.

He frowned. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing. Why?’

‘You shuddered. Have you gone off me all of a sudden?’

‘Don’t be silly!’ I laughed.

James sat in the other chair. I swung up my bare feet so they rested between his legs and wriggled my toes.

‘Cor!’ he gasped.

‘Don’t look like that. People will realise what I’m doing.’

‘Would you like to do it inside where no one can see?’

‘In a minute. I want to take a shower.’

He smacked his lips. ‘I’ll take it with you.’

‘You’ve just got dressed!’

‘I can get undressed pretty damn quick.’ He looked at me quizzically. ‘Does this mean I’m forgiven?’

‘For what?’ I was being deliberately vague.

‘For proposing. I’d forgotten you modern women take an offer of marriage as an insult.’ He took my feet in his hands. I was conscious of how large and warm and comforting they felt. ‘As an alternative, how about if I moved in with you?’

I tried to pull away my feet, but he held them firmly. ‘The flat’s only small,’ I muttered. ‘There’s only one bedroom.’

‘I wasn’t contemplating occupying the other if there were two.’

No! I valued my privacy as much as my independence. I didn’t want someone suggesting it was time I went to bed or asking why I was late home – and did I really want the living room painted such a dark pink? I wished I could start the day again and stop him proposing. I had been quite enjoying things as they were.

James put my feet down carefully on the balcony floor. ‘Between us we could get somewhere bigger.’

‘You’ve changed the rules,’ I said.

He sighed. ‘I know, but it’s not the rules that have changed, it’s me. I think I’m in love with you, Millie Cameron. In fact, I know I am.’ He tried to catch my eyes. ‘I take it the feeling isn’t reciprocated?’

I bit my lip and shook my head. James turned away and I contemplated his perfect profile: straight nose, broad mouth, pale, stubby lashes. His hair lay in a flattering corn-coloured quiff on his broad, tanned forehead. He didn’t look as if it was the end of the world that I’d turned him down. According to his mother, who never failed to mention it, there’d been an army of girls before me. How many had he fallen in love with? On reflection, I didn’t know him all that well. True, we talked a lot, but never about anything serious; the conversation rarely strayed from films, plays, mutual acquaintances and clothes. Oh, and football. I sensed he was shallow and also rather weak, always anxious still to do his father’s bidding, even though he, too, was twenty-nine. I felt irritated again that he’d spoiled things: I didn’t want to give him up. Nor did I want to hurt him, but I couldn’t be expected to fall in love with him just because he had decided he was in love with me.

‘Perhaps we can talk about it some other time?’ I ventured. In a year, two years, ten.

He closed his eyes briefly and gave a sigh of relief. ‘I was worried you might dump me.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it!’ I jumped to my feet and ran inside. James followed. Outside the bathroom, I removed my dressing-gown and posed tauntingly before opening the door and going in. I stepped into the shower and turned on the water. It felt freezing … but it had warmed up nicely by the time James drew the curtain back and joined me.

‘Hello, luv. You look pale.’

‘Hi, Mum.’ I made a kissing noise two inches from my mother’s plump, sagging cheek. Whenever I turned up in Kirkby, she claimed I looked pale or tired or on the verge of coming down with something.

‘Say hello to your dad. He’s in the garden with his tomaters.’

My father – I couldn’t even think of him as Dad – had always been a keen if unimaginative gardener. Dutifully, I opened the kitchen door and called, ‘Hello.’

The greenhouse was just beyond the neat lawn, the door open. ‘Hello there, luv.’ My father was inside, a cigarette hanging from his bottom lip. His dark, sombre expression brightened at the sound of my voice. He threw away the cigarette, wiped his hands on the hips of his trousers and came inside. ‘How’s the estate-agency business?’

‘Okay.’ I managed to keep the loathing out of my voice. He told everyone I was a property negotiator. Nowadays he claimed to be proud of his girls. ‘Where’s Declan?’

‘Gone to the pub.’ Mum couldn’t have looked more harassed if she had been preparing a meal for royalty. She took a casserole out of the oven, then put it back. ‘What have I done with the spuds? Oh, I know, they’re in the top oven. Declan’s promised to be back by one.’

‘Will the grub be ready on time, luv?’

‘Yes, Norman. Oh, yes.’ Mum jumped at her husband’s apparently mild question, though it was years since he’d beaten her. ‘It’ll be ready the minute our Trudy and Declan come.’

‘Good. I’ll have another ciggie while I’m waiting.’ He disappeared into the lounge.

‘Why don’t you have a talk with your dad and I’ll get on with this?’ Mum said, as she stirred something in a pan.

As if I would! She’d always tried to pretend we were a perfectly normal family. ‘I’d sooner stay and talk to you.’

She flushed with pleasure. ‘What have you been up to lately?’

I shrugged. ‘Nothing much. Went to a club last night, the theatre on Wednesday. I’m going out to dinner tonight.’

‘With that James chap?’

‘Yes,’ I said shortly. I regretted telling them about James. It was when Declan had jokingly remarked he was thinking of trading in his bike for a Ferrari that I’d told him about Atherton Cars where several could be had. The following Sunday, my father had driven over to Southport to take a look and I was terrified that one day he’d introduce himself to James.

Mum was poised anxiously over the ancient cooker, which had been there when we moved into the council house in 1969. I was three and Trudy just a baby; Declan and Alison had yet to arrive. These days, Mum wasn’t just stout but shapelessly stout. Her shabby skirt, with no waist to fix on, was down at the front and up at the rear, revealing the backs of her surprisingly well-shaped but heavily veined legs. I always thought it would have been better if they had grown fat with the rest of her. As it was, she looked like some sort of strange insect: a huge, round body stuck on pins. Her worried, good-natured face was colourless, her skin the texture of putty. The once beautiful hair, the same ash-blonde as her children’s, she cut herself with no regard for fashion. She wore no makeup, hadn’t for years, as if she was going out of her way to make herself unattractive, or perhaps she just didn’t care any more. She was fifty-five but looked ten years older.

Yet she’d been so lovely! I recalled the wedding photo on the mantelpiece in the lounge, the bride tall, willowy and girlish, the fitted lace dress clinging to her slim, perfect figure, though her face was wistful, rather sad, as if she’d been able to see into the future and knew what fate had in store for her. Her hair was long and straight, gleaming in the sunshine of her wedding day, turning under slightly at the ends as mine and Trudy’s did. Declan and Alison had curly hair. None of us had taken after our father, with his swarthy good looks and bitter chocolate eyes. Perhaps that’s why he’d never liked us much; four children and not one in his image.

The back door opened and my brother came in. ‘Hi, Sis. Long time no see.’ He aimed a pretend punch at my stomach and I aimed one back. ‘That’s a nice frock. Dark colours suit you.’ He fingered the material. ‘What would you call that green?’

Declan had always been interested in his sisters’ clothes, which infuriated our father who called him a cissy, and had done his brutal best to make a man out of him.

‘Olive, I think. It was terribly cheap.’

‘“It was terribly cheap!”’ Declan repeated, with an impish grin. ‘You don’t half talk posh these days, Mill. I’d be ashamed to take you to the pub.’

A shout came from the lounge. ‘Is that you, Declan?’

‘Yes, Dad.’

‘You’re only just in time,’ the voice said pointedly.

Declan winked at me. He was twenty, a tall, lanky boy with a sensitive face and an infectious smile, always cheerful. He was currently working as a labourer on a demolition site, which seemed an entirely unsuitable job for someone who looked as if a feather would knock him down. I often wondered why he still lived at home and assumed it was for Mum’s sake. He shouted, ‘Scotty met this smashing bitch. I had a job getting him home. I forgot to take his lead.’

‘Where is Scotty?’

‘In the garden.’

I went outside to say hello to the little black dog that vaguely resembled a Scotch terrier. ‘You’re an oversexed ruffian.’ I laughed as the rough hairy body bounced up and down to greet me.

A car stopped outside, and seconds later two small children came hurtling down the side of the house. I picked up Scotty and held him like a shield as Melanie and Jake launched themselves at me.

‘Leave your aunt Millie alone!’ Trudy shouted. ‘I’ve told you before, she doesn’t like kids.’ She beamed. ‘Hi, Sis. I’ve painted you another bottle.’

‘Hi, Trude. I’d love another bottle. Hello, Colin.’

Colin Daley was a stocky, quiet man, who worked long into the night six days a week in his one-man engineering company. He was doing well: he and Trudy had already sold their first house and bought a bigger one in Orrell Park. I sensed he didn’t like me much. He’d got on well with Gary and perhaps he thought I neglected my family, left too much to Trudy. During the week, she often came over to Kirkby with the children. He nodded in my direction. ‘Hello, there.’

‘Do you really not like kids?’ Jake enquired gravely. He was six, two years older than his sister, a happy little boy with Colin’s blue eyes. Both Trudy’s children were happy – she’d made sure of that.

‘I like you two,’ I lied. As kids went they weren’t bad, but talking to them g