Nettles and brambles choked the space between the shed and the wall. Covering her mouth and nose against the stink of moist earth and decomposing plants, Connie peered into the gloom and spotted Socks lying on a patch of flattened undergrowth. At first, she thought the cat was dead and the squirming creatures around her body were fat maggots feeding on her flesh, but then she saw a pair of yellow eyes staring back at her. The writhing bodies were kittens. She counted five of them, ravenously pawing at their mother’s flesh, and a sixth, motionless amongst them.

She tiptoed away, leaving Socks to it, hoping Eileen would remember to look out for the kittens. At the side gate, she put her hand on the latch, stopping abruptly as the pain – almost like cramp, but more crippling – returned, stronger this time, lasting longer. Breathing deeply, she waited for it to go.

At the front of the house, she stood beneath the maple tree. She felt an odd sense of finality, a feeling that she might never see these things again. Frowning, she fixed her eyes on the familiarity of the street, touching the bark of the tree, running her fingers along the roughness of the railings.

The cramp came yet again. She must have eaten something that disagreed with her – it was too early for the baby to be due. But the pain grew fiercer and she gripped the railing. Food poisoning, she told herself, as it subsided. Staggering to the steps, she climbed them slowly. Gritting her teeth, she made it into the hall.

Music flooded from Eileen’s flat. Connie couldn’t tell whether she was alone or if Leonard’s friend was still there, although she could make out Ella Fitzgerald and Eileen’s voice singing along. Should she tell her that Socks had had her kittens? Softly she knocked, but nobody heard. From the top of the house came the sound of the piano. Connie gritted her teeth at more pain, seething and hot.

Ella Fitzgerald stopped. Sweat beaded on Connie’s brow. She raised her hand to knock a second time, but her legs were trembling and she felt sick, and when she touched her forehead, it was clammy. Slowly, she allowed herself to drop, sliding down the wall. She was struggling to focus, and somewhere – although she couldn’t work out whether it was real or not – she sensed a presence. A figure gliding down the stairs like a ghost. If only it was her mother come back from the dead, but that was impossible – it couldn’t be her.