Without thinking, Connie stepped forward. She regretted her decision immediately. The flat was even hotter than theirs, with clutter everywhere: baskets of clothes, an ironing board, piles of magazines and papers; while photos of Johnny adorned the mantelpiece, the sideboard, the table and the walls. Connie’s stomach churned at the smell, a mix of starch, Windolene and sweet perfume. A bunch of keys attached to a giant ring lay beside the wireless on the sideboard. A prison warder’s keys, Connie thought as she imagined them hanging at Dorothy’s waist.

Heaving a basket from the settee, Dorothy gestured for Connie to take its place before sitting in the armchair opposite.

‘So,’ she said, folding her spindly arms, ‘tell me more.’

‘Well,’ said Connie quickly, ‘Johnny promised to write to me and I promised to write back, only I haven’t heard from him and . . . well, I’m interested in art and travelling and I’m hoping to visit Paris at some point . . . in the future . . . when my father . . .’

She fell silent. A fat bluebottle buzzed in through the open window. Connie watched its jerky, panicked flight and sudden halt as it landed on a strip of flypaper hanging from the ceiling which was already speckled with dark, dead insects.

Dorothy watched too. And then she sighed. ‘I think you need to forget about him.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean Johnny hasn’t contacted me – his own mother – so what makes you believe he’s going to contact you?’

‘Because . . .’

Connie stopped and looked away. Why hadn’t Johnny contacted either of them?

‘The thing is,’ Dorothy said, without taking her eyes from the fly, ‘young people think they invented it all, that no one else has ever been there or done that before.’

Connie was taken aback. This had nothing to do with her request. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

Dorothy shifted her gaze from the flypaper and fixed her eyes on Connie again. ‘No,’ she said quietly, ‘I don’t suppose you do.’

And then quite abruptly, her manner changed. She became brisk, attentive. ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘I know what’s been going on, so there’s no need to make excuses about art and whatnot.’

Connie waited, uncertain. Had Johnny told his mother about the two of them? As far as she knew, he had kept their relationship a secret, just as Connie had.

‘I’ve known for a long time,’ Dorothy continued. She held up one hand, palm facing outwards. ‘And before you ask, no he didn’t tell me. Johnny has never confided in me much.’

Connie detected a catch in her voice. When Johnny had spoken about his mother, it had always been with resentment, even contempt. He was misunderstood, he claimed, born into the wrong life. Now she wondered if Dorothy had felt hurt by her son’s attitude. Connie glanced at the photos around the room. Whatever Johnny said, these pictures showed devotion.