First night I kept vigil by the window. Second night I kept hearing his key turn in the lock and I’d be bursting with joy and forgiveness for like five seconds. Third night I cried myself awake. Fourth night I cried myself to sleep. Fifth night I knew he wasn’t coming back. Sixth night I either had to pull myself together or dip into my savings.

So what are your future plans, Miss O’Donnell?

Should I go home? To what? Put it this way:

Nuns left a pile of shillings for the gas meter

on the ledge by the front door –

as if we’d dare.

Used to wonder if those coins’d take me

on the train to freedom

in Manchester or London.

Never stopped dreaming of escape,

but where to? Who to?

To this day can’t see a train

or a bus without wanting to hop on it.

Got to keep moving, me.

How are you going to do it, Jessie? Stay on the road and survive?

Working on it. What is my USP? What do I have to sell?

Yeah, because as the song goes, ‘Pick yourself up, dust yourself off …’

It’s not any old song any more. It’s my flaming mantra.

When and where were you happiest?

Obviously with Terry and Kwame. And nine days ago the rain stopped awhile, the sun came out, and Stanley and I woke up from a siesta to a rainbow wearing a stripy polo-neck sweater, arching its spine backwards over the sea. I linked his arm and we stood there outside our caravan. A perfect moment, which I thought we were sharing.

Stanley or Terry – if you had to choose?

Don’t be daft! You don’t know love until you’ve carried a child inside and devoted yourself to its upbringing. Still, Stanley was such a special lad.

Go on, admit it – do you miss him?

So very, very much.

Not dropped that madcap idea of driving to Australia, then?

It’s not madcap, smart arse. Yes, it is. No, it isn’t. Yes-no-yes-no-yes-no. Oh, shut up. Look, it’s what keeps me going. I want my son back …

How would you like to be remembered?

Oh, go to hell!

Mama Hortense’s Singing Kitchen

‘I’m a cook, contralto and comedienne. Any offers?’