He was probably right. But her father’s hearing was acute, as sharp as his eyesight or his sense of smell. He was a light sleeper, too, would have heard them. She led the way up the stairs to his bedroom in the front of the house, opened the door, turned on the light. His bed was made, the candlewick bedspread unruffled, a pair of shoes tucked beneath the bedroom chair, their polished heels just visible.

She looked at John. He isn’t here. She backed out, opened the door to the small room above the hall. They used it as a box room to store her father’s DIY tools. It had been cleared. A treadle sewing machine was under the window, a dressmaker’s dummy in the corner.

Her old bedroom was in the back. She flicked on the light. Her bed behind the door had a new pink ruched eiderdown on top of the blankets. There was a kidney-shaped dressing table with chintz drapes under the window where her desk used to be, and on its glass top a vanity set and perfume bottle with a pink atomiser. The wardrobe hadn’t changed, filled the alcove as it had before. Betty went over, flung it open. It was full of women’s clothes, dresses and skirts and blouses smelling of cheap perfume and Daz and Mrs H.

The tutu dress had gone, the last memento of her, erased. The hurt burned, white hot.

She could hear John opening the bathroom door, the lavatory door, closing them, click.

‘Let’s go downstairs,’ he said. ‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.’

‘She’s moved in,’ Betty said. ‘Mrs H has moved in.’ She didn’t know why she was shocked. Anyone could see that’s what the woman had angled for from the day she arrived. It was more than shock. It was a slash, a cut so deep it could never heal. Her father loved that woman more than her.

‘Then they’ll be out somewhere,’ John said. She wanted to scream Weren’t you listening? ‘Let’s just check the other rooms, and we’ll go.’ His step was lighter. He was uncomfortable here, she could tell.

The sitting room was as dark and empty as the other rooms. There was only one room left, the dining room at the back of the house with French windows leading to the garden. They always ate in the dining room, her father one end of the table, she the other, with her back to the outdoors. It was where she sat when he reprimanded her too. Had he ever praised her? Had he ever said, You’ve done well, Betty, I’m proud of you? John opened the door, felt for the switch, turned on the light. The room had a pungent smell she couldn’t identify.