Karen had two children and the younger, a boy called Ben, was a few months older than Clem. In January he had his sixth birthday party, to which Clem was invited – the only girl among ten or so boys, although most of the boys never realized that. She wore baggy jeans, a hoodie with frayed sleeves and scuffed trainers; her dark hair was short and spiky. After the magician, who looked like an overweight Charlie Chaplin and who sweated profusely as he pulled swathes of coloured ribbons from empty bags and blew balloons into the shapes of poodles and swans, had left, they played football on the churned lawn, Clem as ferocious as any of them. Irene was there for the whole time, piling the presents into safe corners, picking up shredded wrapping paper, helping Karen ice the birthday cake – green, for a football pitch, with piped white lines, miniature goals and footballers standing on white plastic discs, each in different postures. She spread peanut butter or honey onto sliced bread, arranged chocolate fingers on plates, ran down the road to the shop to buy sparkling lemonade.

Frankie arrived halfway through, bringing Ben’s present. She was in jeans and a pale pink jersey with a high rolled collar and wasn’t wearing any make-up. Her hair was loose and tucked behind her ears and she looked tired. Irene remembered that, although not much else – not what they talked about; not whether Frankie was uneasy with her, or too friendly, or cool. The three women sat at the kitchen table with mugs of tea, sorting out party bags and watching shrubs getting trampled underfoot. Occasionally one of them would go outside to help Mac referee an argument. It started to rain, and the boys became even muddier and more boisterously quarrelsome. Irene looked at Clem, her damp hair and angry red cheeks. She was bellowing something at a boy twice her size, gesturing violently. Her chin jutted forward truculently; her hands were on her hips.

They charged in for the tea, leaving clogged shoes on the doormat and stuffing handfuls of crisps into their mouths before they even sat down. It was starting to get dark outside so Frankie drew the curtains. Parents began to turn up to collect their children, and Adrian, towing Sasha and Aggie, arrived as well, though Irene was sure she had said she would walk home with Clem afterwards and didn’t need a lift. They all stood round the children at the table while Karen lit the six candles and turned off the lights. In the half-darkness, they struck up raggedly, tunelessly: ‘Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you …’A few sweeter voices wove through the song.