Winifred Peters Is Not Sorry for Her Loss

by Louise Jensen Duffy

Genres: General Fiction; Friendship; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

A warm, witty and uplifting coming of middle-age novel set in 1930s Australia about shaking off the dust and making a new start. Perfect for readers of Joanna Nell, Rachel Joyce and Sophie Green.

When her husband departs, her adventure begins...

1933. In the tiny outback town of Bittamilla, Winifred Peters is burying her husband after decades of silent submission, surrounded by her ungrateful collection of children and their grasping partners.

On discovering a surprise inheritance, Winifred makes a sudden decision to flee the town, and when she encounters a young wife taking refuge from her abusive husband, the two women head for bustling Sydney. There will be bumps on the road, but the city brings unexpected adventures, new friends and the chance to finally find their voices.

But when the past catches up with them, will they be able to hold on to their hard-won freedom?

Release date: April 9, 2026

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 368

Sample

Bittamilla, Western Division (Outback), New South Wales, 1933

I trailed the fistful of dried dirt onto my husband’s coffin, opened my hand, released the last powdery red dust of it and thought, take that, you bastard. Around me, the westerly wind whipped grit and dry leaves like a blast furnace. A loose panel of corrugated iron in the side fence creaked.

All my children were there in the churchyard, the six who’d lived and the three who hadn’t. Those still living crowded around the open grave with their families. My eldest boy, Cecil, held his hat in one hand and his wife in the other. His thinning hair was already showing grey at the temples, his figure bulky in a rarely worn suit, now too small.

The minister waved away a fly and spoke, but I didn’t hear. I was free; after almost forty years, I was free. Tomorrow I would wake in blissful solitude. For the first time in my life I’d be alone. I’d choose what time I got up, I’d choose what I had for breakfast and when I made it, I’d choose what I did with my day.

I would choose.

People moved, and I turned without thought to follow. Inside, I nursed a bubble of hope so wonderful I could barely contain it, and there was no room for anything else. Not for the minister’s rote words, not for the concerned glances my grown children shot each other, not for watching where I put my feet.

I stumbled and would have fallen, my trodden-down shoe rolling on a bone-dry twig, before someone caught my elbow and steadied me.

‘Are you ’right there, Mrs P?’ It was my son-in-law – well, one of them – wiry and sun-beaten but with a kind smile.

‘Thank you, I’m good, love.’ I patted his hand on my arm. ‘Are those your boys over there?’ A few of the younger children, my grandsons, in their Sunday best and slicked-down hair, had started a game among the older headstones and bleached wooden crosses. The graves simmered in the harsh glare, each marker showing a high-tide line of red-brown dust.

‘Cripes, I’ll stop them.’

‘No, no, let them have some fun . . .’ But it was too late, he was off, relishing the opportunity to escape my bereaved presence, no doubt. If only he knew.

I smiled as I watched him join the kids, his half-hearted attempts to quiet them adding to the sport. Regrettably, this was the moment the minister chose to loom beside me.

He eyed my grin with a cod-like look of disapproval. ‘May I offer my condolences?’

‘Ah, yes, I was . . .’

He grasped both my hands between his bony fingers and throttled them heartily. ‘It was a shame we didn’t see more of Les in church, Mrs Peters.’

‘Oh, well . . .’

‘However, I’m sure he’s gone to his just reward.’

‘Indeed.’ I tried to wrestle my hands free. ‘I sincerely hope he gets what he deserves.’

The pop-eyed look returned for a second, before he clearly decided I couldn’t have meant what he thought.

‘Of course.’ His attention wandered away, and I waited, impatient for the rest of him to follow. ‘We’ll see you next Sunday, Mrs Peters.’

I managed a nod. I wanted this day to be over. I wanted everyone to go away and leave me to my blessed peace at last.

The crowd was moving towards the gate, gravel crunching underfoot, the men replacing their hats.

‘Get those bloody kids out of there.’ The time limit on Cecil’s temper had expired. ‘Show some bloody respect.’ His children, trailing in his wake, twitched as he strode off, jamming his hat to his head.

He’d be wanting to get home, back to Binalee. Cecil had been in sole charge of the property for over three years, since Les had finally given it up and we’d moved into town. It felt longer.

‘Come on, Mum, we’d better get back and get the spread on.’ My daughter Ida raised a hand against the glare and her fine-boned face contorted as she watched Cecil stomp away. ‘He’s getting more and more like Dad every year, isn’t he?’

I nodded. Not only in appearance, although he was that too, a meaty bull of a man with a bull’s temper and small, shallow-set eyes.

The girls bore me off and I went with the tide. It wasn’t far, out through the churchyard’s wood and chicken-wire front fence, down under the skeletal shade of a line of red gums and over the railway tracks. We were on the straggling outskirts of Bittamilla here, a town of almost two thousand people; it was a hub for hundreds of miles around, even having its own ice works, garage and several hotels. A thriving hive of activity after Binalee.

My daughters, Ida, Florence and Edith, had been over since early morning, helping with the preparation, baking and cooking, making sure everything was ready for company. They were three peas in a pod, tallish, with the same nut-brown hair and clear-cut features. They took after me mostly, with the barest hints of their father.

The windows stood wide, but the fire in the wood stove still stifled the tiny kitchen as the girls worked and chattered. Each had brought a stack of crockery and cutlery so there’d be enough for everyone.

They laughed among themselves over the ancient pump outside the back door, which had to be worked to bring up brown brackish water from the well.

‘Jeez, Mum, you still using that old thing?’

‘What else do you expect me to use? The rainwater tank’s been empty since the spring.’ I swallowed my twist of annoyance; they wouldn’t laugh so much after lugging in buckets of water.

Florence shrugged and tossed her carefully set waves. ‘I thought Dad might’ve let you get the water put on by now.’

Ida rolled her eyes. ‘It costs money to hook up to town water. You know what Dad was like.’

I said nothing. Ida wasn’t wrong. As Les had been endlessly fond of reminding me since we’d left the property, we were on a fixed income and there wasn’t a penny to waste.

The scrap of a house, more a shack, was thronged with people after the service. Four unlined weatherboard rooms under corrugated iron, with a straggling line of lean-to kitchen, laundry and dunny out the back.

The men overflowed under the bull nose of the veranda, while the women gathered in the stifling heat inside. Floorboards creaked as people moved about. The sooner this was all over, the sooner I’d finally have the place to myself.

I’d wedged myself into a seat next to the open front window, hoping for a breath of breeze and shamelessly eavesdropping on the men outside. It was apparent they didn’t realise their conversation could be heard.

‘What d’you say about the old bugger? I dunno.’

‘Mean old bit of work, wasn’t he?’

‘Tighter than a fish’s arsehole.’

‘Eh, steady on, mate, it’s the bloke’s funeral.’

‘Yeah, and he was good with the sheep.’

I put my hand over my mouth to hide a smile. The talk moved on and the shrill of cicadas nearly drowned the men’s voices.

A trio of flies executed lazy spirals above the trays of food on the table. Sandwiches, cake, biscuits, bush brownie and scones; all would be dry at the edges. An array of crocheted, bobble-edged covers spoilt the flies’ access.

Heat radiated from the sagging, stretched hessian ceiling. Sweat trickled uncomfortably down my lower back under my girdle. If everyone would go away, I could get out of my shabby ‘best’ and take my shoes off.

When the adults had been served, the kids were herded through for a feed and allocated a saucer by Ida. She was the plainest of the girls, with Les’s solidness built into her lines. Under her beady eye, each child decorously chose a selection for their saucer, but as soon as her back was turned, small hands grabbed and pockets were stuffed.

‘That’s it, kids, leave no scone standing.’

That was my middle daughter Florence’s husband, handsome and Brylcreemed. He grinned before reaching to take the last scone from the plate.

Ida whipped back to find a line of innocent faces. Her eyes narrowed. ‘Right. Enough now. Out the back, you lot.’

‘But Mum, I need the dunny.’

‘Henry.’ Ida flushed red and swatted at him.

Flo’s husband laughed. ‘It’s out the back too, son, don’t fall in.’

Ida glared over her shoulder at him as she shepherded the children out through the kitchen.

‘Don’t get your clothes dirty.’ Her voice came loudly from the other room. I could hear muffled grumbles from the children, but thank heavens she let them be, for once.

She bustled back in, teapot raised. ‘Who needs more tea?’ She poured and moved on, poured and moved on, every inch the consummate hostess in the crowded, dingy room. She had to return to the kitchen twice to replenish the pot. I wished she wouldn’t. I wanted everyone to leave.

Out the window, a horde of screaming children streamed around the side of the house, their footsteps drumming on the baked-dry ground and silencing the cicadas. Kids dodged around the giant gum, a bush remnant that loomed over the house, crunching through the dry leaf litter that killed everything in its scraggly reach.

Chasing them was Ida’s oldest boy, Henry, with his hands dangling awkwardly under his face, wiggling his fingers. I squinted out the bulging window-screen. What the blazes was the child doing?

‘I’m a giant squid,’ he crowed, as squealing children darted around the front yard.

All eyes in the lounge room rotated to the windows.

‘Do you like my testicles?’ Henry bellowed to the men lining the veranda as he capered past. ‘I’m a squid.’

All eyes in the room swivelled back and focused on Ida, the boy’s proud mother.

‘Ah.’ Her face flamed. ‘Henry’s reading a book about . . . I think he may have . . . Excuse me, I might, I’ll . . .’ She abandoned the teapot and fled the room.

‘FEEEEEAAAARRRR my testicles.’ Henry shot past the window waving both hands exuberantly above his head.

A red-faced Cecil lurched into view, eyes bulging dangerously. I knew I should go out there – this wasn’t going to end well for the boy – but I was shaking with silent laughter, my hand to my mouth, my eyes watering.

‘My testicles, my enoooooormous testicles.’ Henry danced across the dried lawn, kicking up dust, his fingers undulating. ‘I’m a giant squid.’

Cecil caught him by the shoulder and shook him like a rat. A few seconds later, Ida erupted into view, heading towards them with a bang of the front screen door.

I sucked in air as Cecil’s large, meaty hand, so like Les’s, rose and fell. Whack. ‘I’ll squid you, you little bastard.’

I winced with each impact. Mercifully, Ida barrelled into the pair, swiping Cecil over the head with a roundhouse clip.

‘Stop it, you bully. He means tentacles.’

‘Well he can keep those to himself as well. This is a bloody funeral.’

Around me, silence reigned as the assembled guests flapped their ears.

‘The trouble with you, Cecil—’

‘Push off, Ida.’

Outside, my two eldest degenerated into squabbling and name-calling.

I bit my lip and rose a little unsteadily. ‘Ahem. Would anyone like more tea?’

Luckily, the tears coursing down my cheeks had a chastening effect, distracting from the affectionate family discussion in the front yard.

Later, I stood by the warped, peeling front door as the guests shuffled past to offer condolences, the women giving constipated nods – ‘I’m sorry for your loss’ – the men searching for something to say.

‘He was a good man with livestock, was Les.’

A gust of hot wind swirled dust up the road, and it pattered against the tin letter box where it clung to its lonely, tilted post.

‘My word, yes, he was bonzer with the sheep.’

I resolutely fought back my smile again. This was the best the town of Bittamilla had to say of my late husband. Personally, I thought they flattered him. He hadn’t been that good with sheep.

At long last the place emptied of everyone but family. I was looking forward to them leaving too, to be honest. I wanted to be alone with my joy. I needed peace and quiet, privacy to hug my delight about me, to settle into it like a cool bath.

I’d offered to give the girls a hand in the kitchen, and been rebuffed, when Cecil appeared, a little dried-up man in tow.

‘Mum, Mr Beresfield is here to read the will.’

Bother, I’d forgotten. ‘Do we have to do that now?’

The boys exchanged exasperated glances, which I deliberately ignored. What was there to say after all? Les had bought this tumbledown shack when we’d given up Binalee to Cecil’s management, and Cecil provided our income from the property. What else was there?

How I’d cried, the first time I saw this place. I’d lulled myself to sleep for years beforehand with the thought of the house we’d have when we finally moved into town. In my imagination it was neat, easily cleaned, with indoor plumbing, gas run in, possibly even electricity. Instead, Les had snapped this hovel up cheap without a word to me; a bargain, he said, with all the contents, ready to move in. It had been home to an old hermit for forty years and not been cleaned once in that time from the look of it. A bargain I don’t think.

The family squeezed in around the dining table, which had been cleared of its myriad dishes and the cloth removed. The flies remained, circling lazy patterns above us. Long fingers of sunlight reached through the side windows to highlight dust mote rays.

I sagged into my chair with a sigh. At any rate, if I had to sit through this, I’d finally learn the amount of the fabled ‘fixed income’ Les had fretted over every day of the last three years. At my back, the wood of the bare wall was a furnace, the sun outside beating directly on it.

Ida and the girls fussed about, bringing cups and a fresh pot of tea. ‘Cuppa, Mum?’

‘No thank you.’ I’d drunk so much already I gurgled.

In response, Ida plonked a cup in front of me with a rattle, and seated herself with icy, purse-mouthed dignity across the table.

The solicitor had been given Les’s place at the head of the table, with Cecil and his wife beside me. We were all crammed in on borrowed chairs, sweating in the heat, the empty grate behind the lawyer giving out a dead-ash smell.

Mr Beresfield made a great show of extracting a sheaf of papers from his briefcase, which I took to be Les’s will. He tapped the bottom of the paper sharply on the polished wood of the table before clearing his throat.

He read out the details in a voice as dry and papery as what he held.

The whole of the property, Binalee – house, equipment, land and livestock – went to Cecil. I’d hoped Les might have made some provision for the other kids out of the property but hadn’t expected it. I waited to hear the solicitor say that Cecil would continue to provide my income, but he didn’t say it. I leant forward with a frown. Would it come in later?

Instead, he moved on to this house, to my home. It was left jointly to our other two boys, Neville and Frank, to be sold immediately and the money divided between them.

My head jerked back like I’d been slapped. ‘What? But I live here . . . How can . . .?’ My breath was coming in shallow pants, drying my open mouth. ‘How . . .?’

Cecil leant forward. ‘Dad knew we’d look after you, Mum. You’ll come and live with us.’ He motioned to his wife. ‘For a while at least, then you can go to one of the others.’

The boys exchanged glances. They’d known about this, the boys at least, had known about it and discussed it between themselves. Hot bile came up the back of my throat and I swallowed hard. From their blank faces, it was equally obvious the girls hadn’t known.

I didn’t understand. How on earth was I to live? How had it not occurred to me that Les might do something like this?

Across the table, Ida’s cheeks were flushed, her ears red as she glared at the solicitor. ‘And what about us? What about the girls, don’t we get anything?’

Mr Beresfield pushed his spectacles up his nose and peered at her. ‘Ah, Mrs Lambton, isn’t it?’ He referred back to the paper. ‘Naturally, naturally. Yes, here it is. Mr Peters has left you his silver half-hunter, for your oldest boy when he comes of age.’

Ida’s eyes widened. ‘His watch? Dad left me his watch? That’s it? He didn’t leave anything else?’

‘Hmm, there’s his gold cufflinks with the inset garnets; Mr Peters directed those go to Mrs Hexham, for her oldest boy at some stage.’ The solicitor made a half-bow in the direction of Florence, who sat white-faced and silent beside her husband. ‘And his signet ring is to go to Mrs Stockton, in anticipation of her one day having a boy, no doubt, he-he-he.’ The old man twinkled cheerily at Edith, who narrowed her eyes at him.

Ida’s face was ruddy and mottled.

I clenched my hands together to stop them shaking. My tongue rasped against my teeth like sandpaper, but I managed to speak. ‘But what about me? You haven’t said anything about—’

‘Mrs Peters, how silly of me, I was forgetting you.’ I got a thin-lipped smile. ‘The most important person.’

Warm relief melted in my chest. For a horrible moment there I’d thought Les had left me destitute and homeless, dependent on our children. I drew a tremulous whistle of air as the solicitor continued.

‘Yes, here we are. To Mrs Peters, a fine porcelain and bronze epergne, which I believe belonged to Mr Peters’ mother originally?’ The man looked enquiringly at me, but I was entirely unable to respond; I no longer had words. ‘Yes, I think that’s the lot.’ He folded the will and glanced around the table.

I was frozen in my seat. Trembling, all my little dreams fluttering their last. How I detested that bloody epergne. At Binalee, Les had insisted on keeping it on the mantel above the fireplace and, wretched dust and soot trap that it was, I’d have to spend hours painstakingly cleaning it.

Cecil glowered. ‘What the hell is an epergne?’

Ida turned her furious face on him. ‘It’s that godawful cake-stand thing of Gran’s,’ she spat, their earlier quarrel simmering through her tone.

‘There’s no need to be like that.’ Cecil sniffed. ‘Is it valuable?’

Ida flashed up. ‘What, worried you’ve missed out on something?’

It was too much. I shrouded my face with my hands and wept, great heaving sobs racking my chest. The cruelty of this final blow stole my breath and I choked helplessly.

Cecil’s thick arm snaked around my shoulders, the hot weight of it pinning me down, and I clutched my hands back in my lap.

‘There, there, Mum, we know you miss him.’

His face was smug, plainly relieved that I’d broken down at last. His hand was warm and clammy through the cotton of my sleeve, and I shuddered.

‘Don’t you worry, we’ll look after you.’

Oh God.

Cecil nudged his wife, a stolid, flat-faced thing with pale, wispy hair.

‘Yes, that’s right, you’d like to come back to Binalee, wouldn’t you?’ she said grudgingly, her faded blue eyes flicking briefly to Cecil and back. ‘There’s not much space, but we’ll make you up a bed in the girls’ room. I know you won’t mind.’

‘And you needn’t worry you’ll be a burden, Mum. Kitty’ll love your help with the kids and around the place.’

I choked some more.

‘And when you’ve been with us for a while, you can go to Frank for a bit.’ Cecil nodded at his brother.

‘Not too soon, though, we’ll have to sort something out,’ Frank’s fox-faced wife was quick to put in. She pinched his arm.

His regrettable moustache twitched. ‘Yes, that’s right, Mum. We’d love to have you, but not right away.’

A hollowed-out burning in my chest was making it difficult to breathe, and I wondered if I was going to have a stroke, like Les. The kids had their lives now, of course I knew that. All those lonely years I’d been stuck out on the property since they’d moved away, married and had families of their own. But was this all I meant to them now? Was all the hardship and struggle to raise them, to shield them from Les, forgotten, or had they never even noticed?

The solicitor had set his briefcase back on the table and was tucking his papers away. My hand reached for him of its own accord, desperate. ‘But is that all, is there nothing else?’ There had to be something else, something that would let me breathe again, give me back my life, my modest hopes. My dreams of freedom, of safety, of never having to eat liver and onions ever again.

‘That’s all the bequests and instructions. The residuary estate devolves on you, Mrs Peters, and there’ll be a period of probate, but you needn’t worry about any of that. As executor, Cecil will—’

‘What’s the residuary estate?’ Ida took the words from my mouth.

The solicitor blinked, evidently taken aback by her forthright interruption.

‘It’s what’s left of your father’s bits and pieces. Clothing, pots, pans, what have you.’ He wafted a hand airily. ‘Oh, and his stock certificates.’ He gave us an ironic smile.

Cecil snorted and Frank chuckled. I shook my head. My husband’s penchant for buying shares in whatever ridiculous, useless wildcat scheme he could throw money away on was notorious.

‘And you know, Mrs Peters if we redeem the stock, there may be a pound or two in it for you.’ Mr Beresfield’s brow crinkled. ‘Although I daresay the fees for selling out would likely be more than anything they’re worth.’ He snapped his briefcase shut with finality. ‘But the estate can bear it, I’m sure.’

‘Steady on.’ Cecil leant in. ‘We don’t want to be doing that. None of Dad’s rubbish is worth anything. No point throwing good money after bad.’

So, there was nothing. I was to be left penniless, dependent once again, beholden as ever. The burning in my chest flared up into my head.

The solicitor moved in his seat. ‘As you say, Mr Peters, but the decision is your mother’s. If you let me know what she decides in due course.’

Cecil patted my hand. ‘Mum won’t want that.’

Wouldn’t I? What I wanted was to sweep the cups and saucers from the table, dash them to smithereens and trample on the shards. I dug my nails hard into my palms.

‘I want the certificates sold, please, and to have whatever they return.’ My voice was steadier than I expected.

Cecil turned round-eyed astonishment on me. ‘You don’t want to bother with that nonsense, Mum, not if it’s going to cost money. We’ll talk about it later, eh?’

He smiled apologetically at the solicitor, and I had such an urge to conk him on the head with the back of a teaspoon. In general, I was a champion at holding my temper, biting back my words, keeping it all in. I’d had to be, after all. But this was too much, I’d glimpsed freedom for one brief halcyon moment, before it’d been snatched away, and everything inside me cried out.

‘No, Cecil. I’ve made up my mind. I want them sold if they’re worth anything.’ I nodded at the solicitor.

The silence roared as everyone stared at me. To my annoyance, tears of rage burnt in my eyes. I reached for my teacup, but my hand trembled so badly I gave it up.

‘We’ll see. There’s no need to get all worked up about it.’ Cecil pushed his chair back and slapped his hands on his thighs. ‘It’s time we made a move. Do you want to grab some stuff and come out with us now, Mum?’ He scanned the unpainted wood of the walls above the line of sweaty, stupefied faces.

‘No.’

‘It’ll save us a trip into town later.’

‘No, Cecil. I’m not leaving my home for ever with barely a minute’s notice.’

There was another awkward pause before Cecil heaved himself out of his protesting chair and frowned down at me. ‘Easy, Mum, there’s no need to get hysterical. I thought—’

Across the table, Ida stood as well. ‘For heaven’s sake, Cec, she’s just lost Dad, she’s allowed to be upset.’

As the pair glared at each other, the diminutive solicitor cleared his throat. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ He skimmed a side-eyed glance at my loving family as he rose to go, causing a cascade of disturbance as everyone shuffled in their closely packed chairs.

The minute the front door closed behind him, the arguing began.

‘I don’t see why we have to have Mum. Why can’t she stay at Binalee?’ Frank joined Ida in glaring at Cecil.

‘But you and Nev’ll have the money from this place.’ Cecil pointed back and forth between his brothers, thinner, diminished versions of himself, with more hair.

‘As if we’ll get anything for this old dump, and anyway, why can’t Neville take her first?’ Frank said.

Neville sat up straight, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing. ‘Hang on, old man, we’ve got four kids, you know, and another on the way.’

‘All the better, Mum can help.’ Frank frowned at him.

‘I don’t see why the girls don’t have to take a turn.’ Nev glared at his still seated sisters but carefully avoided Ida’s eye, a tactic that didn’t work, as she turned on him.

‘What? When we didn’t get a penny? Not on your nellie.’

‘She’s still your mother,’ Cecil pointed out.

‘She’s yours too, and you got the whole of Binalee,’ said Ida.

‘Too right. Besides, she’ll be a help out there, instead of being in the way,’ said Neville.

I closed my eyes and wished my children in Jericho. This was what came of their miserly upbringing, with Les pinching and begrudging every penny, hoarding what we had before throwing it away, gambling it away on his rubbishing nonsense.

I’d never had a spare penny to spend on the kids, and there was only so much I could squeeze out of the pittance he gave me for housekeeping. On the rare occasions he could be convinced to put his hand in his pocket, it was always for the boys, Cecil mainly.

The squabbling went on around me. All Les’s chickens were coming home to roost, and they were some deeply unhappy chooks. A tide of angry despair rose, swamping me.

Eventually I hauled myself to my feet. ‘Stop it.’ No one heard, and I tried again, with volume. ‘I said stop it, the lot of you.’

Flushed faces turned to goggle at me. I’d a feeling they’d forgotten I was there.

‘I’d like you all to go now, please,’ I said. ‘I want some time to mourn.’ I tactfully refrained from saying what I was mourning.

‘Mum, ah Jeez.’

Shamefaced glances were exchanged, mainly between my in-laws, I’m sorry to say.

‘Look what you’ve done,’ Ida spat across the table at Cecil. ‘You’ve gone and upset Mum.’

Cecil’s brows twitched. ‘It’s not me who—’

I slammed my hands on the tabletop. The teacups jumped. ‘Get out.’ I glared from one shocked face to another. ‘All of you, out.’

‘Mum, you’re upset. Sit down and I’ll get you a fresh cuppa.’ Ida made patting motions at me.

‘Get out.’

Cecil’s brow wrinkled. ‘But we need to sort out—’

‘Cec, you heard Mum, she wants you out.’ Ida took charge, waving the herd to the door. ‘Go on, all of you.’

Everyone but my eldest daughter shuffled from the room.

‘You too, Ida.’

‘What?’

‘I want some peace, love.’ I was tired, bone-crushingly tired.

‘But you shouldn’t be left alone.’

‘Yes, I bloody should.’

‘Mum!’ Ida’s mouth pursed, the wrinkles around it pulling in like a drawstring.

‘Just go, Ida.’

‘Fine. I know . . .