‘What’s going on?’ Charlie asks.

‘There was a car accident last night,’ Constable Roberts says. ‘Your father’s fiancée was caught in some bad weather and ran off the road. I’m afraid the accident was fatal.’

‘Fiancée.’ No, no, no.

Constable Roberts studies me.

Charlie drops into an armchair with a thud. ‘Dad,’ he whispers.

Dad lets his head fall back onto the couch.

‘Fiancée?’ I say.

Constable Roberts frowns, picks his hat up off the coffee table. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, sir. We’ll be in touch again soon.’

The policeman leaves the room, closes the front door behind him. Dad doesn’t move. I hold him as best as I can sitting sideways, and he briefly rests his face on my shoulder before pulling back and wiping his hand briskly across his mouth. Charlie stares at Dad, says nothing.

‘I’ll make us a pot of tea.’ My voice cracks; my throat is clenching. ‘Do you want tea? Charlie?’ No one responds. And then, like a punch that’s made its way across the room, gathering force as it travels, the horror of the moment hits me. I try to stand but my legs won’t hold me. I crumble onto the couch, next to my father.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Saturday 7 December 1974

Charlie

‘What was her name?’

‘Skye,’ he says.

Abby’s banging around in Dad’s kitchen. She’s making sandwiches but there’s enough ruckus it could be a four-course meal.

‘Need some help in there?’ I call out. I can see her: the kitchen and living room are only nominally separated by the kitchen bench and the fact that lino covers one floor, shag carpet the other.

‘I’m fine.’

I look in Dad’s direction, hoping for a moment’s bonding, but there’s no shared understanding between us. He’s staring at the leg of my chair, not at me.

‘She would have called,’ he says, ‘or asked Mal to. When she hadn’t come back by sunrise I phoned him to see how it was going. He didn’t know about Skye coming round, said Carol wasn’t in labour. It doesn’t make sense. It was a woman’s voice. I should’ve asked her name. I can’t figure it.’

‘What can’t you figure?’ Abby sets down a tray with food, plates and paper towels on the coffee table.

‘It’d been a good day. She sang in the bath.’ I don’t know why he’s telling us that but I can see it matters to him. ‘The house smelled of her bathwater, lavender and rose. She left the door open and when I put my head in, the room was warm and she was singing. She was happy.’

‘She lived here?’ Abby asks. ‘How long had you been living together?’

I turn around to glare at her.

Dad ignores us both. ‘She was excited you were coming. We’d put sheets on the beds, tidied up. She made a carrot cake while I trimmed my beard.’ He grimaces. ‘Tried to remember all the things I’d told her you two don’t eat.’

‘I eat everything,’ I say.