‘Such goings on!’ scolded Angie. ‘Never took place when old squire were oop t’ big house, I can tell thee! Ecky thoomp! A body can’t sleep peaceful with things cooming to this pass, a nice young lad like you, pockets stuffed with wicked gambling money, belly full of apple cider…Thee ought b’rights be out in fields a digging oop them there turnips!’

She played Mangel Wurzel all the way on the tram out to Victoria Road, but as they walked up the alley, a brisk little wind scurried along the dark flagstones and Angie shivered suddenly in her thin dress.

‘More rain and thunder on the way. I hate these cool changes,’ she said. ‘You can feel the air getting colder; ugh, it’s like something creeping up on you in the dark! Well, here’s your gate and you’re home with fifteen minutes to spare. Honest, I don’t understand why you flap so much about always getting home before that Thelma. She can’t eat you. I’m like Cinderella’s godmother, always got to get you home before you turn into a pumpkin. Or a mangel wurzel. Ouch, tottering around in these shoes all day…hang on while I take them off. My poor feet, what I’d like to do is fall into a bath filled up with that scented bubble stuff and stay there for about a hundred years! Stay there for ever and never come out…’

Seymour climbed the locked gate and gazed down at her. ‘If you’re tired you could have an early night, Angie,’ he said.

‘Oh, could I now?’

‘Well, you never look after yourself, so someone has to nag. After you have dinner, a proper one and not three cups of coffee and a million cigarettes, you ought to go straight to bed.’

‘Can’t,’ said Angie. ‘I’m going in to get changed into Senorita Rosita. You haven’t seen Senorita Rosita yet, have you? It’s red and black ruffles with a big red rose on one shoulder. Then I’ve got to go out again, all the way back into town and I won’t be home till late. So, yah.’

Seymour could tell she was tired by the blurred lines of her face and the way she stood slumped against the fence, shoes dangling by their straps from one hand. Even the feather on the jaunty little hat had drifted from its anchorage to curl limply by her cheek.

‘You’re nuts!’ he said. ‘Who says you’ve got to go out? You shouldn’t…’