Upstairs, a light was switched on behind the curtains. On the floor above, another light came on. I heard a window opening.

I didn’t know how long I stood there—seconds or minutes or hours. My legs were buckling. I kept my eyes on that side door. A car passed, and the dog was still barking. Only that door could save me.

The door opened. In a blaze of light, a woman stood there. She was small and dumpy and she wore a dressing gown.

I gazed at her shape, halo-ed in brightness.

‘Mum!’ I cried.

And then I passed out.

Fourteen

Fourteen

When I woke I was lying in bed. Beside me, football stickers were sellotaped to the wall. It was a small room, narrower than my coach. Somebody had taken off my trousers, shoes and sweater and laid them on a chair.

Daylight glimmered through the curtains. My head felt clear. Mentally, I felt my body from top to bottom. Frail, but better. I looked at my watch: it was 2.00.

I must have drifted off again because the next time I opened my eyes I heard a rattle; the door was open and the woman was coming in, carrying a tray.

‘Feeling better?’ she asked. ‘How about a nice cup of tea?’ She pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘I went mad and made us some scones, just in case.’

I nodded, and moved to a sitting position.

‘Let’s make you comfortable,’ she said, and plumped up my pillows. ‘Sugar? Lucky it’s Saturday, so I don’t have to go to the office.’

‘Where do you work?’

She passed me a cup. ‘Gas Board. For my sins.’

I sipped the tea. It spread through my limbs, warming them. It literally brought me to life.

‘Go on, let’s be wicked,’ she said, passing me a scone. She had already buttered it.

‘Delicious,’ I said truthfully, my mouth full of crumbs.

‘There’s more in the kitchen. And flapjacks. You like flapjacks?’

I nodded.

‘What you looked like, you poor thing,’ she said. ‘You’ve no idea.’

‘You’re Hilda?’

She nodded. Then she leant forward and touched my cheek. ‘Colour’s coming back.’

‘How did you get me here?’

‘The man upstairs helped me.’ She smiled, roguishly. ‘Tongues’ll be tattling.’

She was rather plain, with waved brown hair, like women used to have, and a suety sort of face. Have you met people, and you don’t know how old they are? She reminded me of a girl at school, who had already looked middle-aged.

‘Sorry to land on you like this,’ I said.

‘No problem. I didn’t have many plans actually. Nice to have some company.’