‘Got to go, kid,’ he said, and he left the house. She listened to the sound of his boots on the pavement, listened to them until they faded entirely, then she walked down the hall and pushed open the door to the living room, where Catherine Connor was sitting at a tilt on the settee, leaning into a bulky, bull-headed man with a can of Tetley’s Bitter in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Martin Baxter. Martin Bastard, Peter called him. There were empty cans on the floor, a greasy newspaper bundle from the chippy, and Catherine’s face had that sour, pugnacious look she got when she’d had too much to drink and she knew it. Her lips were pursed and thin, and Alison knew she was having to concentrate to speak; when she did, she did so slowly, and with a slur.

‘Where were you, were you at work?’

‘No, I was at that party.’

‘Oh, with that lad. Where is he? I wanted a look at him.’

Martin grinned, teeth stained a delicate brown, and said, ‘Oh aye? Who is it, then?’

‘Nobody you’d know,’ Alison said.

‘Try me.’

Alison ignored him. She was still at the door, poised for flight, but her mother patted the sofa cushion on the other side of her.

‘Sit,’ she said. ‘What you stood there for?’

The room stank: a miasma of smoke from the fags and the fire, beer, chip fat, fish. Alison longed to be upstairs, alone, with her books and her records and her thoughts, but she sat down to avoid a scene, and Catherine immediately – although not without effort – leaned away from Martin and into Alison instead. Her shoulder was sharp; she was skin and bone these days. She looked down at Alison’s Wranglers and tutted.

‘Always in trousers.’

‘Jeans,’ Alison said.

‘Same difference. Put a skirt on, show the boys your legs.’

Martin belched, then said, ‘Lads like a lass in a skirt.’

For a few minutes, no one spoke. Martin swilled the beer in its can and stared at the fire. Catherine’s eyes were closed and her breathing was slow, as if she might be falling asleep. Alison bided her time then said, ‘Right, well, it’s late, I’m going up to bed.’

Her mother’s eyes snapped open. ‘Where’s Peter gone?’ she asked in a plaintive voice, looking about her as if he’d been there until a moment ago, as if his absence was hurtful, and surprising.

‘Work, y’silly cow,’ Martin said, and Catherine laughed and flapped a hand.

‘Oh yeah,’ she said.