But to go to the United States of America! Never in his wildest nightmares had he thought of such a thing. Mario came from a small town in Nevada called Silverpeak – daft name – and his family owned a grocery store and a ‘soda fountain’, no doubt similar to the establishment he dreamed of owning. Janine intended to work until the babies came along so that she and Mario might save up enough money to buy a small farm – though they called it a ranch – in the beautiful countryside surrounding Silverpeak, and to do her credit she had invited her father to go with her across the Pond, as her boyfriend called the Atlantic, and stay for as long as he could be spared from the shop.

Albert walked across the kitchen, aware that he was shivering though he had not removed his coat, and bent to light the fire he had laid earlier, aware not only of loneliness but also of a strong desire not to have to eat the meal he had planned, a piece of cold meat pie, a packet of Smiths crisps and a couple of rounds of bread and margarine: cold comfort on such an icy day. He supposed he could light the oven and heat up the meat pie, but it seemed pretty pointless really. After all, what was food? It was just fuel which one devoured so that one could keep going.

Albert went into the pantry and extracted the slice of meat pie; it was smaller than he remembered and the crust looked grey rather than golden brown. He carried it across the kitchen and then, on impulse, chucked it on to the fire which was just beginning to take hold. He decided he fancied fish and chips. His favourite shop, Pownall’s, would be frying already; if he hurried, he might get a nice piece of haddock. He was halfway to the kitchen door when a nasty smell of burning caused him to stop in his tracks. He had feared that the slice of pie might put out the fire, but instead it had caught and was causing a most horrible smell, and clouds of smoke. Sighing, he retraced his steps, poked the flaming pie through the bars of the grate, then added a couple more pieces of kindling. It was far too cold to sit in the kitchen all evening without a fire; best get this one going properly before he went out for fish and chips.

Half an hour later, with haddock and chips wrapped in a copy of the Daily Mirror, Albert returned to the flat. The fire was now burning brightly and the fish and chips smelled good, but the minute he closed the door behind him the loneliness swept back. It was all the fault of that skinny little kid who had bolted into his shop and hidden behind the counter. He could picture her in his mind, getting slowly and reluctantly to her feet, casting terrified glances towards the shop door. She was a scrawny kid, he reflected now, with fine untidy hair, ragged clothing and plimsolls whose soles flapped as she walked. Yet she spoke nicely, without a trace of the Scouse accent, and had seemed bright enough, though she had not had the sense to dress decently when searching for a job. Perhaps she wasn’t as bright as all that. But then he remembered she was living with an old grandmother, and had made no secret of the fact that money was short. She would be very conscious that her Sunday clothes were meant for special occasions; he remembered how Janine had cherished her green pleated skirt, pale yellow blouse and green cardigan, to say nothing of her shiny black shoes. Thinking back, he realised he could not blame Tess for not wanting to wear her best clothes in the rough and scuff of the market.