“But I must, dear. I have to make tea for a residents’ meeting tonight.”

Jackie stood in the kitchen doorway and watched her mother-in-law bustle along the passage to the hall. “Did Dan put you up to this?”

Battersea Gran turned, a questioning frown on her brow. “Now, what could you mean by that?”

“It was Dan, wasn’t it? He said to you that I would be home tonight and that I would be able to look after the kids.”

“No, that’s not right, dear. I don’t think you told him when you were going to be home.”

“I did tell him!”

“Well, in that case, he never told me.” There was more than a sense of finality in Battersea Gran’s reply. She picked up her handbag from the hall table, opened the front door, and left the house.

Still standing with arms folded, Jackie leaned her head against the doorframe and closed her eyes. “You bastard, Dan Porter. You damned bastard!”

She turned and walked back into the kitchen, and the dogs cringed when she glowered in their direction. She went over to the fridge, tugged open the door, and took out the cellophane-wrapped steak pie of Battersea Gran’s making. As she thrust it into the oven and turned on the dial, the telephone rang. She sprang to it and picked it up.

“Hullo?” she asked irately. She moderated her tone as soon as she heard the voice. “Oh, hi, it’s you. . . . Yes, I know, I’m sorry. I’ve just been left up the creek without a paddle by my mother-in-law. . . . Because Dan’s gone off to Scotland for some reason and I’ve been left to deal with the kids and the dogs. . . . No, I can’t. Millie and Nina will be back at any minute. . . . I know, I would like that too. . . . It was great. I really enjoyed myself. Thank you for everything, Stephen.”

She put down the telephone, and for the first time since entering the house, a broad smile spread across her face.

13

He entered the kitchen slowly, his weight resting heavily on two walking sticks. He shuffled painstakingly past Katie, who stood holding the door open for him, and drew his arm sharply away from the touch of her outstretched hand. Dan could tell by the look on her face that it had always intended to be more a caring gesture than a supportive grip. He was a couple of inches shorter than Dan, but built as powerfully as a rugby prop forward, and the rolled-up sleeves of his checked shirt showed off muscles that bulged at the effort of keeping himself on his legs. His features were pallid, but bore signs of having been, at one time, healthily weather-beaten, and although his unbrushed mop of brown hair was thinning on the crown, Dan could not detect one hint of it going grey.