Freddie began to wail as Alicia began to chant, ‘Isn’t, isn’t, isn’t.’ Freddie hit her; I nearly hit the car in front as I turned to restrain Freddie’s flailing arm. In the midst of the chaos, Effie read her Charlie and Lola comic calmly, sucking her thumb, wisely ignoring her siblings.

* * *

‘I spy with my little eye, something beginning with – motorbike.’

‘Beginning with motorbike? Er –’ I tried for solemnity. ‘Motorbike?’

‘No.’ He was triumphant. ‘It’s – motorbike.’

‘Fred-die!’ Alicia kissed him affectionately. ‘Silly!’

‘This isn’t our house.’

‘This is a funny place.’

‘This is – where is this, Mummy?’

A group of children kicked a ball against the wall of the last square house in the cul-de-sac.

‘I’ll only be a sec. Stay here and listen to Winnie-the-Pooh.’

‘I’m bored of Winnie-the-Pooh,’ Alicia moaned. ‘It’s for babies.’

‘I want to play football. I can do really high kicks,’ Freddie said, watching the big boys reverently. ‘Shall I show you?’

‘Look, we’ll be home in half an hour, I promise. Then you can have footballs, telly, and –’ I floundered, bit the parental dust – ‘ice cream.’

‘OK,’ they sighed in unison.

Bang, went the ball. Bang, went my head.

I rang the doorbell. The PVC front door bore an intricate pattern of gold leaf in the thick frosted glass. A middle-aged woman answered, gingham tea-towel in hand. She looked droopy and sad; pretty once, washed-out now. Even her frizzy hair was limp.

‘Hello.’ I offered her the bouquet of rather pathetic carnations I’d just bought at the petrol station. ‘I just came to say – I’m so sorry about Katya.’

‘Kate,’ she sniffed. ‘Her name was just plain Kate. None of that fancy foreign stuff.’

‘Of course,’ I agreed quickly. ‘Kate.’

‘Not Angel either. Just Kate.’

‘Sorry. Yes, Kate. It must be awful for you.’ Effie and Fred’s voices were rising querulously behind me. I tried hard to concentrate. ‘Such a tragedy. She was so young.’

‘She looked young for thirty-two, I know that. She always took such pride in her appearance.’ I could feel her need to talk about her daughter. She looked down at the flowers, and then eyed my car parked at the edge of the postage-stamp lawn. ‘Do you want to come in?’

‘Oh, I won’t.’ I did badly want to go in. ‘I’ve got the kids. I don’t want to disturb you. We’re—I just wanted to say sorry.’

I just want to know how your daughter knew my husband. What they had planned together.

‘Bring them in,’ she said, peering over my shoulder. ‘I’d be glad to see some little ones.’

I felt sick with guilt and duplicity. This woman’s daughter had died in my house; this was dishonest and—I hesitated. But I desperately needed to know why she had been there in the first place.

‘If you’re sure.’