‘You poor girl. But couldn’t you—no, I suppose not. And you’re resigned to it now. I still think it’s best. When your baby’s born—they’re so rewarding. I loved it. When they’re little, watching them grow. And I love them, I love my children. It’s such a pity they’re so far away. I hardly ever see them. They phone me up, of course, but it isn’t much good. They’re always so scared I can’t cope after their father died. I have to keep proving to them that I can.’ Emma smiled valorously, proud of her façade. Her eyes were moist. ‘I’ve missed all the grandchildren, too. It’s awful. I just love babies, children. They fascinate me. These tiny helpless little things that just come to life day by day, until they’re people. Oh, I’m sure you’ll be glad.’ She raised her head. ‘There’s the kettle.’

She went to make Rachaela the unwanted tea.

She made none for herself, but left Rachaela at once with the mug in her hand.

The room darkened oddly, perhaps a trick of the electricity.

The summer came at the beginning of August.

The city baked, the trees turned coppery. Ochre dust rose from the blazing pavements.

A blue sky of cobalt made a lid for every stink and fume. Everything smelled and tasted of asphalt, petrol, car exhaust and sweet ice-cream.

Rachaela’s back ached continually. She could put this down to her job. The red dress was firm but the apron hid it. One of the girls made a crack that Rachaela had put on weight due to the food.

One day she amassed ten pounds from those careless customers who did not count their change.

The man from Horsley Road had fixed the music centre. The radio was not very good but the tape and record players were excellent.

She bought books and lined the shelves of her bookcase.

Emma found excuses to appear, but not very often. Emma still did not know her first name.

September was a tawny month, tanned, cooked skin on the streets, brown crispness on the leaves.

October yellowed, banana sunsets cut with gilt, lemon first-light as Rachaela, cramped and sleepless, saw the dawn begin, and the trees in the park like topaz flags.

Storms at night. Downpours of hot rain.

Sibelius, Mozart, Shostakovich.

No need to think. So sluggish. She would have to give up the Pizza Eater. Her back shrieked, and when she bent to serve the late-night customers with their breath of beer and Cinzano, her head swam. Nobody had noticed she was pregnant. They thought she had got fat, a good advert, on the succulent nosh.

The summer ended on the first night of October. Hail thrashed the roofs and glass windows.

Rachaela had called in sick and sat at her window and watched it, her back packed with cushions and pillows.