‘Nah, don’t think so,’ Stella said. ‘It’s just he’s a worrywart.’ She sat down, close to Ali. ‘I’m glad we came here.’

‘Then I’m glad too.’

They sat in silence for a minute or two, then Stella said, ‘Mum, there are some people in Adelaide I never want to see again.’

‘Oh, sweetheart.’ Ali stroked Stella’s hair, waiting for more. There was never any point pressing this girl for information. She alone decided what she was prepared to divulge.

‘And I don’t think I want to go to drama school.’

‘Then don’t, darling.’

Stella looked at her. ‘Is it that simple?’

Ali smiled and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Sure is,’ she said.

16

SHEFFIELD,
28 JULY 1979

Alison didn’t show up that Saturday afternoon, on the day of the Manchester gig. Daniel quartered the bus station, pacing about, checking his watch, checking the timetables. Dooley, John and Steve waited in the van on double yellow lines, and Steve drummed his fingers on the steering wheel while the engine of the Transit ticked over. He waited longer than he should’ve done, longer than he would’ve done for anyone else, and when he finally roared off without her, they were cutting it fine and he was fuming, and gutted. Daniel, feeling obscurely responsible, was first pissed off, then agitated, then anxious, trapped by obligation to stay with the band when all he wanted was to jump off the moving van to go and find her. But he still didn’t know exactly where she lived, and he was ashamed of this now, although she was fierce in her refusal to take him home, and it’d been weeks now – months even – since he’d pressed her on the subject. She came to his own house in Nether Edge with such dependable reliability that he’d stopped even wondering about her home, and where it might be in the warren of Attercliffe terraces. So while the white van screamed over Woodhead Pass, Daniel was quiet with concern, and the other three thought only of their set, and all of them had a strong sense that something good had gone bad before it really had a chance to get started.

Peter needed help, Alison could see that, but she didn’t know what to do. He’d stopped his terrible, jagged crying, but now a dense silence had replaced the sobbing, and his face was stony and withdrawn. If he looked at her at all, it was only glancingly, as if he kept forgetting she was there, then, seeing her again, remembered she was irrelevant. ‘Peter,’ she kept saying. ‘Please, please, Peter,’ tugging at his arm, pulling his sleeve, trying to find her brother behind that mask and bring him back, but her own voice sounded wheedling and pleading to her ear, so she stopped, and tried to think instead.