She was promising herself that she would take tomorrow afternoon off to watch the Wimbledon Ladies’ Final, when the phone shrilled beside her.

‘Am I interrupting the author at work?’ said her cousin Ronald.

Since the family had long thought her a ‘workaholic’, Marianne was accustomed to such remarks. But unlike his sister, Shirley, Ronald’s tone was dry, not sarcastic.

‘Yes, as a matter of fact,’ she replied, ‘but for you I don’t mind.’

‘I need to talk to you, Marianne.’

‘Go ahead, I’m listening.’

‘Not on the phone, if you don’t mind. Could you spare me an hour if I drive over after surgery?’

‘I’ll have the kettle on when you get here.’

After she had rung off, a memory returned to Marianne of herself in a call box dialling her grandmother’s number, when something or other had gone wrong in her young life. There were buses and lorries rumbling by as she made the call, so it must have been when the Kleins still lived behind the shop near to Salford docks, before a wartime bomb destroyed both home and business at one fell swoop, precipitating the family’s departure for leafy Prestwich and the midst of Manchester’s north side Jewish community. An empty shop nearby had enabled Ben Klein to continue trading, but had not included living accommodation.

Back with the phone call, Marianne could still see herself with dripping wet hair – it must have been raining – a red knitted muffler around her neck, and relived her relief when her gran picked up the receiver. Who but Sarah did the whole family, adults and children too, turn to for advice? The old lady had retained her faculties to the end, and if she were still alive it wouldn’t be Marianne to whom Ronald would come after his surgery tonight.

She had not yet returned her attention to her work when the telephone rang again.

‘Got a minute to spare, Marianne?’

‘Sure, Uncle Nat.’

‘When did you last visit Harry?’ he said without preamble.

‘If you rang up to prick my conscience—’

‘That isn’t the reason for my call.’

He had succeeded in doing so nevertheless. Though Marianne spoke regularly on the phone to Ann, three weeks had slipped by without her visiting her brother. Harry’s rudeness to everyone and anyone was becoming hard to take.

Her uncle’s next words confirmed it. ‘Harry has just forbidden me to cross his doorstep again, and in my opinion Ann is heading for a breakdown.’

‘She seemed fine when I last called her,’ Marianne replied, ‘and you don’t have to take what Harry said seriously—’