Joyce, biting on one of her fingernails, looked helplessly at Em.

‘It’ll take time, Mom,’ Em said. ‘But they said he could get better.’ She could only just speak, through the lump in her throat.

‘I know,’ Cynthia said, wiping her eyes. ‘But he looks so poorly. I don’t see how he can get better.’

During those days, because of her father’s illness and being back in her mom’s house, Em found more of these painful memories kept coming back to her: things that had happened when they were all very young, things that usually she tried to forget. The years of her mother’s worst illness, when Em had been left to look after the others, were the most awful. Bob had taken comfort in the arms of another woman and Em had been like a worn-out, harassed mother at the age of eight. In those days they hadn’t known if their mom would ever get better and come home. Bob had been so sad, so lost without her.

One dinnertime, when it was just Em and Cynthia at home, they had been cleaning the house, trying to keep themselves occupied. They’d done upstairs most of the morning, Em cleaning her old childhood bedroom. She stood for a moment, thinking back. She remembered once, when things were really bad with Mom away, she had lost her temper with her father. That time he had come and sat on her bed while she wept bitter, desperate tears, and he had been sorry, and kind in his rough way. The memory brought her to tears again now. He’d been a quiet man all their lives, just always there, sleeves rolled up eating his tea, or in his chair, tired and mucky from work. But she knew his life revolved round them – all of them, but especially Cynthia, his wife. He was lost without her.

Em leaned on her broom, tears rolling down her cheeks, and a sudden extra dread seized her. How might she be without him? If Dad didn’t get better, would it make Mom poorly again as well? They had all hoped those days were over, and Em prayed from the bottom of her heart that they were.

Downstairs, at dinnertime, they listened to Worker’s Playtime and cleared up a bit. Cynthia cut some bread, holding the loaf under her arm. She fetched a couple of plates, then clicked off the wireless. Not looking at Em, she said, ‘I’ve always loved him. Your dad. Even with what happened.’

Em was completely taken aback. From the day Dad had come back home, after his time away with that woman, until now, none of them had ever mentioned it or her – Flossie Dawson – again. Everything about that heartbreaking time had been locked away in the past as they tried to heal and keep going as a family. But Mom must have been thinking back, just the way she had. Em felt the blood banging in her ears.

‘I know, Mom . . .’