She swiped her eyes as the grief was overtaken by anger.

Why didn’t you tell me, Rin? What could be so bad you couldn’t tell me?

Something. Whatever Josh had been involved in, it had been so bad, so shaming, they’d kept it secret even from her, the person who’d kept their secret, the three of theirs, for nearly twenty years.

Chapter Fourteen

Breakfast on the fly didn’t happen at Dunnington Road. As kids, she and Luke had come down every day to find the kitchen table laid, butter in a dish, the tea already brewing. In winter, Christine, messianic about hot food, had done them porridge or a boiled egg with buttered soldiers. Seeing the one she’d made for Lennie this morning caused Robin a stab of feeling, not all of whose strands she could identify. Guilt and frustration, obviously – yes, she should have made Len breakfast – but there was something painful, too: Lennie had Robin’s old egg cup, a stretch of china wall with Humpty’s two stripy legs dangling, the cup part formed by the top of his trousers.

Because of the late finish, Maggie had told her to come in at ten. ‘Great, so I’ll drop Len off,’ said Dennis. ‘You and your Mum can have a coffee before you go, Robin.’

She opened her mouth but was silenced by a look. For me.

Hard to know who was more uncomfortable. She assumed her mother would sit back down to finish her toast but after seeing Lennie and Dennis off, she chucked it in the bin and started clearing the table at warp speed, as if now her husband was gone, her own right to eat had expired. The milk was back in the fridge, jam in the cupboard, taps running before Robin could carry a pair of plates to the sink. ‘She makes me feel so lumbering,’ she remembered telling Rin. ‘Like some kind of … pachyderm.’

Christine washed and Robin dried, the draining board filling faster than she could clear it. On the windowsill was a vase of daffodils, new since yesterday. ‘Those are nice,’ she said to break the silence. ‘Bright.’

‘I thought we all needed something hopeful-looking.’

Robin turned, her hand reaching for the cupboard automatically, the order of the house so deeply ingrained in her that, even now, sixteen years later, she had a whole neural pathway for her parents’ toast rack.

Her mother carefully cleaned the egg cup, rinsed it then handed it to her.

‘Gran gave me this for Easter years ago. You had it all this time?’

‘You never said you wanted it, so …’

‘No, I mean, you kept it. You didn’t throw it away.’

‘I wouldn’t.’ Christine looked startled. ‘It’s yours.’

‘You don’t have to keep stuff if it’s cluttering up your house.’