‘You’ve been alive all this time?’

‘I’ve been in Coventry, most of the time. But I always knew that I had a little girl in Birmingham somewhere – a lovely little girl . . .’

Pain flared harshly in her. ‘Go away!’ She jumped up, screaming at him. ‘You just go away and leave me alone! Why have you come back now, when you’ve been dead to me all this time? What use are you now, after . . . after everything? Get out – just go away from me!’

The sobs started to break out of her and Michael, terrified by his mother’s emotion, clung to her, crying too. She pulled him close, clinging to him, dimly aware of Marek and that man – that man – talking in low voices. She put her face in her hands and sank back down on the step, crying so deeply that she was aware of nothing until a warm presence materialized beside her, and strong arms were round both her and Michael and she was being held tightly and lovingly.

‘It’s OK,’ Marek said, as they perched side by side on the step. ‘It’s OK, he’s gone, he’s gone. No need to worry.’

He let her cry, saying little, just holding her and rocking her slightly until she came back to herself, as if up into the light, and reached into the sleeve of her blouse for her handkerchief. As he released her, she felt him gently kiss the top of her head. She raised her eyes to him. For a moment they looked at each other.

‘Thank you,’ she said, wiping her eyes, but still barely able to stop crying. ‘That was a shock.’

Marek kept his arm round her back and it felt so reassuring. Katie became aware that Sybil was standing close by, drawn from the kitchen by the screams. She said nothing, but her face was full of enquiring sympathy. Michael was quieter now too, watching her.

‘It is true, what he said?’ Marek asked. His sensitive face was close to hers, his eyes full of tenderness.

‘You mean is he really my father? Yes – I think he must be. In some way I knew, as soon as I saw him.’

‘But when did you see him last?’

‘When I was two – or three. Somewhere in between. She told me – my mother . . .’ She wrung her hankie in her hands. ‘He was my dad. He was good to me.’ She began to weep again. ‘And she told me he was dead. That he died of TB . . .’ She turned her face up, bewildered. ‘Why did she do that? Why?’

Sybil considered. ‘The truth was that he left her? Maybe she was too proud to admit it.’

‘And he never came back,’ Katie said, bitterly. ‘Not once, to see me, see how I was. Why has he come now?’

‘Who knows?’ Sybil said. ‘Guilty conscience? My goodness, what a thing – you poor girl.’ She became practical, holding her hand out to Michael. ‘Now, little man, you come along with me and we’ll find you some tea. Mummy will come and join you in a minute.’