‘Why should I have anything different when I found the perfect filling? Delicious, nutritious and fulfilling all my wishes!’ Randall traded a loving kiss on his wife’s cheek for his packed lunch and on his way out of the kitchen placed both hands on Treasure’s shoulders and gave them a squeeze.

‘Good luck, son. Have pride in yourself and you’ll be fine.’

Half an hour later, Treasure stood outside his new school. His stomach churned and his heart beat so hard that he could hear its frantic rhythm pounding in his head. Swept along by the mob of noisy children streaming through the gates, he had never felt so alone.

_______________________

Madame Burova stood in the doorway of her booth and closed her eyes. The sound of waves and swooping gulls and the chatter of passers-by washed over her. The late-afternoon sun warmed her face and a salty breeze ruffled her hair. Grisha stood beside her, his black nose twitching and his feet fidgeting – eager for a run. It had been a good day and the cash box was almost full. A coach party of Women’s Institute ladies on a day trip had kept her busy for a couple of hours and passing trade had been brisk. When she nipped to the café next door at lunchtime to pick up a coffee and a cheese roll, she had pretended not to notice Shunty-Mae wandering along the promenade with studied nonchalance. She hoped that her mother had seen the queue of customers waiting patiently for readings outside the booth. The crowds were thinning now and the owners of shops and cafés were pulling down their shutters. Imelda fetched her coat and bag and clipped Grisha’s lead to his collar before he dragged her outside, heading for the beach. She reined him back just long enough to close the door to her own little kingdom behind them and turn the key in the lock. It had been a good day.

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

1972

‘I want you to tell her to stop hiding my baccy!’

Ernest Plumb was one of Imelda’s regulars. He was a short, stocky man with a bellicose air, who trailed a pungent whiff of mothballs and pipe smoke in his wake. Since his wife, Joan, had died, he had come to see her every few weeks to continue the constant bickering that had been the mainstay of their forty-two-year marriage. Imelda had tried explaining to Ernest that spiritual readings weren’t like telephone conversations. She couldn’t simply dial dead people and have a chat at will. Joan was no more cooperative in death than she had been in life. She only came through when it suited her, but today she did have something to say and Imelda struggled to suppress a grin.