‘Hello dear,’ said Mrs Kitson, opening her door, kissing her daughter. ‘Had a nice time? Where’ve you been? Sit down dear, put your feet up, no I don’t want any help, the vicar’s been here again, I’ve told him it’s no use, my soul’s my own and God understands me and I’m not leaving my money to the church, nothing against you Father, I call him Father though it’s probably wrong, he’s a Baptist isn’t he? Nothing against you Father, I said, but I think there’s a lot of hypocrites in your business, there’s lots of stories of young vicars with young girls and old vicars trying to talk old ladies round, same as doctors I said to him, we all know that doctors are after old ladies’ money – and probably dentists.’ (She gave the word special, loud emphasis to attract Frances’ attention, had never liked Frances’ ex-husband.) ‘It’s in the paper every day...’

Frances smiled at her mother, let her ramble on, drank a long glass of foul-tasting tap-water, sat back in front of the quiz show on the telly, waited gratefully for cold chicken and boiled potatoes and lettuce, twirled some of her rings round her fingers.

She thought about the people she had seen again, wished Pauline had come to the reunion with Anthony. She and Pauline had understood drama school better than the others, they’d both come from theatrical families, had theatrical memories. Frances’ father, now dead, had been a not-very-successful music hall comedian; he told stories, sang songs, and juggled. He’d occasionally taken his family with him on tour: she had memories of Christmas pantomimes and summer holidays on Blackpool pier; had been given her first taste for the theatre as she sat in his dressing room staring at herself in the mirrors with the lights around them, breathing in the smell of the make-up and the costumes and the paraffin heaters. Occasionally she’d even sung with her father in front of an audience, a rather plump little girl singing with a gu-un, with a gu-un, no you can’t get a man with a gun, in a lace dress. Her father talked non-stop on stage and hardly ever talked at home; her mother, with three children and not enough money, had compensated by stopping talking only to breathe.

But tonight her daughter was glad to hear the familiar voice going on and on. Frances was of the generation who had been made to feel it was a matter of shame not to have a date on a Saturday night. For a long time now, she had been grateful that she had the excuse of her mother.

*