The chill of the kitchen tiles rises through the cable knit of her socks. She pours milk over a snapping bowl of Rice Krispies on the tiled work surface and fills her favourite puffin mug with water. At the clink of crockery, Jameson appears and offers his paw. She shakes it, his wet nose brushing the tips of her fingers. She can feel the bones of his claws under the tough fur.

She turns to the window, the stoneware bowl freezing her palms as she eats. She finishes her cereal and sees patterns in the milky dregs: the shape of a bird, the shape of a house. The clock on the wall says ten thirty. She never lies in this late and neither does her father, except for the days when he doesn’t get up at all.

‘Dad?’ she calls. She vaults back upstairs and knocks on his door. Silence. She enters slowly, squinting at the mound of lumpy blankets in the half-light. ‘Dad?’

‘What is it, Lauren?’ His voice sounds swollen and cracked.

‘Where’s that lady?’

‘What lady?’

‘The one from last night.’

There is a long silence. Just as Lauren thinks he is falling back asleep, he says, ‘What?’

‘The lady in the dressing gown.’

‘I dinna ken what you’re on about.’ His voice snaps into Scots when he’s frustrated.

The silence ebbs back. ‘Lauren, leave me be the now. I’m not feeling well.’

As she turns to leave, he speaks again from beneath the covers. ‘Have you made yourself something to eat?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll be down in wee while … and I’ll cook us a fry-up. OK?’

‘Can you get the boiler going?’

‘In a bit.’

Standing by the bedside table she can see the back of his head and his long mess of hair, the colour of lightning. He turns towards her with his eyes closed. His chin is light-grey stubble.

‘Dad, do you not remember that lady?’ She hovers in the doorway, knowing that the more she asks, the more she will wind him up.

Sure enough, his tone changes to a warning. ‘Lauren. Away and read your book. See Billy. Please, now, on you go. I’ve got the cold this morning.’ His eyes stay shut.

Lauren shakes her head, slumps back to her room and pulls back the curtains. The dim morning light feels strange. From a nest of T-shirts on the floor, she picks up a Jacqueline Wilson novel that she has borrowed from the library bus and drinks her water. A damp spot is spreading quickly across one corner of her ceiling.

Their orange Bakelite phone rings like a musical drill. When she doesn’t hear her father creaking, she runs downstairs to answer it.

‘Hi, Lauren. It’s Billy.’

‘Hi.’ She knew it would be.

‘My mum says she’s making apple scones today. She was wondering if you want to come around.’

‘Yes please.’