They changed the subject, talking about their days. Violet’s had been boring, she said. Joyce was happier with factory work – she liked the company, the banter. And Larry was never too far away.

‘Eh,’ Cynthia said to Em, ‘didn’t you say you was meeting up with that O’Neill girl? Dot said she’d seen you both.’

‘Sunday, she said. That was something I wanted to ask you, Mom. She’s coming over from Handsworth way, with her little boy. Could we come here? It’d just be better than Edna’s.’

‘Course you can,’ Cynthia said. ‘It’ll be company for Robbie . . .’

‘Is that that Katie O’Neill?’ Joyce said, trying to recall the facts. ‘Didn’t you tell me – isn’t she the stuck-up little bitch who told you to get lost when . . . ?’

Em nodded. ‘Yes, it is her. But she’s different now. Seems ever so nice.’

‘I should hope she flipping well is different,’ Joyce said.

‘It was a long time ago,’ Em went on. Though she, too, could not quite forget the hurt of it, the way Katie had rejected her all those years ago. ‘I’m quite looking forward to seeing her.’

She realized, as she made her way home, that Katie’s visit was beginning to loom large in her mind. Katie had always had a glow around her at school, at least so far as Em was concerned. She knew she had to try and grow out of the picture that she had of Katie. After all, they weren’t children any more, picking best friends in the playground.

‘I mustn’t be silly about it,’ she told herself. ‘We’ll probably just have a quick catch-up and then never see each other again. And I don’t s’pose she really wants to know the likes of me anyway.’

But Katie had seemed so pleased to see her this time, and Em knew that really she hoped for more than that – she wanted Katie’s friendship.

Fifty-Six

By the time Em opened the door to Katie that Sunday afternoon, she was in such a state of nerves that her hands were trembling.

On the step stood Katie, looking as smart and neat as ever in a navy coat and hat and, beside her, her beautiful boy, his deep-blue eyes peeping out from under dark curling lashes and a red knitted hat.

‘Hello,’ Em said, flustered. ‘Come on in – it’s freezing out there. Come and get warm by the fire, the pair of you.’

‘Hello,’ Katie said, ushering her son in with her. ‘It’s all right – this lady is an old friend of mine, Mrs . . . ?’

Em laughed. ‘Mrs Stapleton. But you can’t call me that, for goodness’ sake!’ She wanted to say: Call me Auntie Em, but it seemed too eager. ‘Hello again, Michael. Oh, isn’t he beautiful, Katie! I’ll call Robbie – he’s upstairs.’

As she did so, Cynthia came and greeted Katie. Em, calling up to Robbie, was praying inwardly: Please let them be all right; don’t let Robbie do anything wrong. She was worried that her son might be too boisterous for the younger one, or even take a dislike to him.