What she liked best, though, was simply to lounge against his bed on the floor next to him, in a nest of pillows and cushions, and listen to the music they played on his brother’s old record player, or on the JVC Boombox, Daniel’s pride and joy. She sang to him. He played his guitar for her. They put on … oh, anything, everything, sharing their favourites, enduring the stuff they thought they should like, replaying time and again the music they could lose themselves in: Jimi Hendrix, T. Rex, Pink Floyd, Blondie, the Beatles, John Martyn, Elvis Costello and, over and over, Rory Gallagher – obsessively, religiously, with proper reverence. He handed on his old love for prog rock, persuaded her to lie down and close her eyes for the duration of Wish You Were Here. And she revived his brother’s old Northern Soul records, rare finds, his Motown sounds, and Daniel, who grew up watching Joe dance on his plywood square, showed her the moves and together they re-created Wigan Casino in his bedroom with Jimmy Radcliffe and Dean Parrish, the volume whacked up loud enough to make them feel the music in their blood and their bones.

This evening, she stayed for tea. It was Wednesday, quarter to six in the evening. Shepherd’s pie, boiled carrots, peas. Mrs Lawrence told a story about her office, about the man in charge of them all, Mr Whitely, who put on airs and graces, considered himself a cut above. Claire said she knew a woman like that at Cole Brothers, who put on a posh voice to customers, but got all her aitches in the wrong places. Mr Lawrence never said much at the table; neither did Daniel. They each looked at their plates and shovelled in the food, and only spoke if they were spoken to directly. Alison, listening, smiling, occasionally eating, wished Peter was here, with a plateful of hot shepherd’s pie, and wondered what there was for him to eat at home.

‘What was it you said your mum does?’

Alison started as if bitten. Claire had asked the question in all innocence, and her mum looked up from her forkful of mash, knowing – because she’d asked Daniel about this – that Alison wouldn’t talk about her family, apart from the brother. A deep blush suffused Alison’s neck and cheeks and she swallowed and said, ‘She doesn’t work,’ then looked down to escape Claire’s expression of polite bafflement at the evident discomfort she’d caused with a harmless question.

‘I wish I didn’t have to work,’ Claire said, meaning to lighten the tone but making things worse. Daniel glowered at her from across the table and she looked at him, puzzled.