‘I saw in triplicate last night.’ Claud stared at Laura. ‘Clearly, in threes.’

‘I can’t drink Nescaff,’ said Laura, returning Claud’s stare. ‘Were you pissed?’

‘I never touch the stuff,’ said Margaret. ‘This is the real thing, want some?’

‘Perhaps I won’t, I’m late as it is.’ Laura reached for her coat. Claud helped her on with it. She was not wearing the Cossack hat today; the back of her neck reminded him of Mavis. ‘I’ll see you out,’ he said.

‘Goodbye, Margaret,’ said Laura, ‘see you when I come again.’

‘Where are you going?’ Claud followed Laura to her car.

‘London.’

‘Aren’t you helping me with my stall?’

‘Haven’t I helped you enough?’ She got into the car.

‘Did you put the bucket over my head?’ Claud held onto the car door. ‘And bash me?’

‘Oh, Claud, don’t be an ass.’

‘Take me with you.’

‘Why should I do that?’ Laura switched on the engine.

Claud leaned in through the car window and kissed her cheek. ‘Laura—’

‘I suggested to your mother that you should give me twenty-five per cent of the sale of that lot.’

‘Oh.’ He had thought she was giving it gratis.

‘It gives you a start, doesn’t it? With your part of the profit you can buy more stock to carry on with.’ She brushed her hand across her cheek as though his kiss had been a fly.

‘Ah—’

‘Brian and Susie will show you the ropes.’

‘Won’t you help me?’

‘Shan’t be here.’

‘But—’

‘Mavis doesn’t always work mornings, she’ll give you a hand.’

‘Did you put that bucket over my head? Did I see you in the pub later? With your doppelgängers?’

‘You may have done.’ Laura put the car into gear and drove away.

‘Damn you,’ Claud yelled after her. ‘Bitch.’

‘You are getting to be so like your father,’ said Margaret when he rejoined her in the kitchen.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Claud was surly.

‘He too used to find romantic excuses for alcoholic accidents.’

‘I’m not an alcoholic. I’m moving out,’ shouted Claud. ‘I’m off.’

‘He said that too,’ said Margaret. ‘I hope you are as good as your word.’

Furious with Laura, Claud rounded on his mother. ‘You don’t believe in me, you have no faith in me, you expect me to be a failure,’ he yelled. ‘I tell you this, Mother, if I don’t make a success of my writing, if I say, because I shall, if I am not recognised, I shall kill myself. Now,’ he said bitterly, leaning close to Margaret so that she flinched with pity at the close-up of his black eye, ‘now tell me my father also threatened to kill himself—’

‘No,’ said Margaret, ‘no. He died of a heart attack, he—’

‘But he did promise to kill himself. I used to hear him. He’d say he’d hang himself, cut his wrists, overdose. I heard him, Mother. He would have, too,’ cried Claud, jubilant with rage. ‘The heart attack happened first, that’s all.’