Mabel had found a cushion on the sofa at the back of the booth where Shunty-Mae used to snooze and began hurling it into the air and pouncing on it as it landed. Her antics were a welcome distraction. Imelda stood up.

‘Well, it’s certainly a possibility worth considering,’ she conceded, hoping that she didn’t sound as uncertain as she felt. ‘Let’s take Mabel for a stroll before she wrecks the place.’

Outside, the daylight was dwindling into dusk, and Kings Road was a steady stream of white and red head and taillights illuminating the snake of homebound traffic. As they made their way back to Imelda’s house, she spotted a familiar figure in one of the glass and wrought-iron shelters that provided a sea view for those who preferred to eat their fish and chips in the fresh air. MI5 Clive was weaving a complex cat’s cradle of coloured elastic across the metal fretwork on one of the benches.

‘Good afternoon, Clive.’

He looked up, careful to keep his fingers still hooked through the intricate arrangement of elastic bands.

‘Good afternoon, Madame Burova, Tarot Reader, Palmist and Clairvoyant, Billie In The Bowler Hat and Mabel Who Nobody Wanted.’

Mabel trotted over to greet him, but Imelda pulled her back, fearful that she might interfere with Clive’s labours.

‘I’m afraid I can’t chat,’ Clive said brusquely. ‘The security of the nation’s entire winter brassica crop is dependent on these messages being delivered in time.’

Imelda nodded. ‘Of course, Clive. We completely understand.’

_______________________

Later that evening, Imelda stood in her kitchen cooking dinner while Billie sat on the floor playing with Mabel, who was busily disembowelling a stuffed toy. Ever since Billie had arrived, Imelda had been studying her face, searching for a likeness to either one of her birth parents. Sometimes Imelda thought that the tilt of her lips when she smiled, the colour of her eyes or the way she wrinkled her nose when she was concentrating seemed familiar – reminiscent of someone else, but the recognition was always fleeting and Imelda wondered if it was little more than wishful thinking. Billie looked up from the floor and sniffed inquisitively. Imelda laughed.

‘You look like Mabel when you do that.’

Billie scratched Mabel’s chin. ‘I’m flattered. She’s such a gorgeous girl! And anyway, I can’t help it. Whatever it is you’re cooking smells delicious.’

Imelda poured them each a glass of vodka from the icy bottle that she had retrieved from the freezer.

‘Stroganoff. It’s Papa’s special recipe.’

After they had eaten, Billie leaned back in her chair, sated, and Imelda poured more vodka. Mabel had snuggled down into her bed and was snoring contentedly. Imelda sensed that she and Billie were beginning to relax a little more in one another’s company. The stiffness was softening like new shoes having been worn several times. Perhaps it was the vodka.