‘Now I want you two to sit quietly while I talk to Auntie Betty,’ she said. ‘Because I haven’t seen her for years.’

Betty and Dee sat on the corridor seats, side by side, thighs pressed against each other.

‘Tell me about the bastard.’

Betty swallowed, memories close to the surface once more. Her eyes filled with tears and her hand trembled. She hadn’t thought about that other moment, not since she’d been in England. Locked away in the dungeon of her mind. She couldn’t tell that to Dee. Perhaps she had more in common with her father than she wished to acknowledge.

‘You don’t have to, of course,’ Dee went on. ‘But you know, a problem shared and all that.’ She groped for Betty’s hand, squeezed it again.

‘Did you sleep with him?’ she said. ‘Give yourself to him, as Sister Monica would have said?’ She took a breath, pinched her mouth, fumbled with an imaginary crucifix. ‘Well, girls, if a man tries it on, think of St Maria Goretti. Pray to her…’

Betty laughed.

‘You were always brilliant at taking her off,’ she said.

‘That’s why she loathed me,’ Dee said. She grew serious. ‘And the pig got what he wanted and now he’s dumped you?’

Betty groped in her bag and pulled out a handkerchief. She blew her nose, dabbed at her eyes. Kev had married Dee, done the decent thing, stuck by her.

‘It didn’t feel like that, Dee,’ Betty said. ‘It really didn’t. Something suddenly happened and he—’ She broke off, added, ‘He went all funny, turned. Said it wouldn’t work.’

‘Is he married?’

‘No.’

‘Sure?’

‘No.’ Added, ‘I’m pretty confident he isn’t.’ She shifted, looked at Dee, eye to eye. ‘And now I’ve got to face my father and I’m not sure I’ve got the stomach.’

‘Don’t tell him,’ Dee said.

‘I don’t plan to tell him,’ Betty said. ‘It’s not that.’ She fiddled with the handkerchief, twisting the corner, spinning it between her thumb and finger. ‘We had a row and I stomped off. He’ll expect me to grovel but I’m damned if I will.’

‘What was it about?’

‘Oh, Dee.’ She sniffed hard, stifling tears. ‘I wish I could tell you.’ Her voice quavered. ‘I can’t. I…’ She leaned and grabbed Dee’s hands, turning them over, looking at the palms. ‘I don’t have the words.’ How would Dee understand? She’d only ever known Hatfield.

She let go of Dee’s hands, fingered the hem of her skirt. ‘To be honest, I can’t take much more of him. We’ve never got on, but what can I do? I can’t move out. I can’t afford it on my wages. They wouldn’t even cover some sordid bedsit in Westbourne Grove.’

Dee was silent for a moment. ‘Are you serious?’ she said.

‘About what?’