He didn’t know how the lyrics made Ali feel, didn’t know, couldn’t know, how they spoke to her. He didn’t know – when Ali finished her wine, stood up, said goodnight – that by looking up from the newspaper and smiling at her, or by putting down the newspaper and kissing her, something small but significant might have been salvaged. But he did neither of these things, so she turned from him and went upstairs to bed.

19

SHEFFIELD,
28 JULY 1979

When she knocked on the door of Daniel’s house, and his mother answered, there was a short, startled hiatus in which each of them realised Alison shouldn’t be there on the doorstep, so when Marion Lawrence said, ‘Oh! I thought you were in Manchester, with Daniel,’ Alison immediately replied, ‘No, oh God, yes! I should be,’ and started to cry wildly.

You see, this was the problem, thought Marion, even as she clucked with concern and ushered her into the house: Alison Connor was as jumpy as a fawn; look at her sideways and she’d cry, or bolt. Oh, lovely-looking, granted, and good for Daniel, to a point, because he’d been a lot less moody round the house since they started going out, but she was a worry, oh yes, she was that; she was a youngster troubled with too many secrets.

‘Did you just forget?’ she asked, but Alison couldn’t answer because she was crying too hard, crying beyond all proportion to the event in Mrs Lawrence’s opinion. She hugged her and made all the right noises, while thanking God for Claire and her uncomplicated, sunny nature. ‘Now then,’ she said. ‘Now then. There’s no need for this, it was only a silly concert.’

Alison shook her head and pushed herself away from Mrs Lawrence’s embrace. She didn’t have the words or the will to explain herself, to explain this excessive outpouring of grief, which was all for Peter and had nothing at all to do with the missed gig.