She shook her head. Not possible. He didn’t, couldn’t know. Nobody knew but Connie, and apart from her it was only Johnny who should know. Soon he would send a letter with his address and she would write back and explain what had happened. She could even turn up in Paris and surprise him. He had said she should come. Her heart danced. Imagine that. Imagine his face. What if she could find the money to pay for a ticket to Paris?

The idea gave Connie energy. She sat at the dressing table and examined her face. It had more colour than before. The rest had done her good. She brushed her hair. When she was little, her mother had teased out the tangles with a comb. Now Connie saw her mother’s face in the mirror instead of her own, and there, further away, she imagined another girl with the darkest of hair, and another and another. A whole thread of generations stretching through the years.

Later, she fried lamb chops and boiled potatoes for tea and sat with her father at the kitchen table. Mealtimes were pleasant but quiet. Her mother had been the joyful one, filling the flat with her voice and her laughter.

While Connie dished up, her father sat at the table reading a letter from his sister. Maud lived in Whitby after marrying a policeman from Yorkshire down in London for a visit. The two of them had opened a sweet shop. The policeman had died of coronary disease, but Maud had stayed and Connie and her parents had visited every summer.

‘Maud wants us to come.’

Connie stopped her thoughts. ‘When?’

‘In August – usual time.’ He looked at her over the top of his glasses. ‘What do you think?’

They hadn’t been to Whitby since Connie’s mother had died. One summer had gone already and now another one loomed.

‘I don’t know.’ She sat down. ‘Would you like to?’

He sighed and took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes. ‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

He hesitated. ‘The shop.’

There was a silence. They both knew that wasn’t the real reason. ‘We closed it when we went before,’ Connie reminded him gently.

‘I know, but business . . .’

‘I can stay behind. I can deal with it.’

He shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Why not? I’m seventeen. I know exactly what to do. You need a holiday. Think of Aunt Maud and all that home cooking.’

He smiled at her fondly and picked up his knife and fork. ‘Your cooking is perfect, Connie.’

Not true. The potatoes were over-boiled and the chops tough. She attempted dishes, but she didn’t have the knack, not like her mother, or Aunt Maud.

She tried again. ‘What about the sea air? You need a holiday, Dad. You need to get away from the city.’

He smiled again, his determination weakening. ‘You, my dear, get more and more like your mother every day.’