‘Temptation,’ said Dorothy. ‘I was young once, believe it or not, and I know what men can be like. Even my son. My husband . . . well, he was . . .’ She stopped and eyed Connie. ‘Let’s just say that both his presence and his absence had a bad effect on Johnny. It caused a certain weakness in him. Johnny’s not a bad person, but . . . men and boys, well . . . you and I both understand how it is. It’s the way of the world.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t have to spell it out, do I? I know, dear – about your predicament. You’re pregnant, aren’t you?’

Connie felt herself turn pale. Was it so obvious? And if Dorothy had guessed, had anybody else?

‘I was a midwife,’ she said, reading Connie’s mind, ‘so it’s easy for me to spot. I doubt very much anyone else has seen it.’ She paused before adding, ‘Yet.’

Connie hung her head. The pain was subsiding, but the queasiness had returned.

‘Now listen, dear. Don’t get upset. I know how you feel because . . .’ She hesitated. ‘I’ve seen other girls go through this.’

Connie closed her eyes and let out a long breath. ‘I don’t know what to do.’ There, she had admitted it. The words had come and now the tears came too, streaming down her face.

Dorothy patted her arm. ‘Of course you don’t. Why would you?’

She produced a handkerchief from her sleeve and passed it across. Connie took it and mopped at her face. The handkerchief smelled of eau de cologne.

‘But what have you considered?’

‘I need to tell Johnny,’ said Connie, sniffing. ‘That’s why I want his address.’

There was a silence. On the landing outside she could hear movement, the clunk of Kenneth’s stick on the floorboards. She thought of the tea towel that she must have dropped outside the door. She imagined Kenneth poking it with his stick, hooking it up and wondering how it had got there.

‘And have you thought about what you’ll do if he doesn’t send his address?’ Dorothy spoke slowly, spacing out her words.

Connie scrubbed at her eyes and shook her head. ‘He’ll write. He said he would.’

There was another silence between them. A second bluebottle buzzed through the window, circled the room in a busy, zigzag flight.

‘Nasty things,’ said Dorothy, distracted, ‘spreading germs.’ She picked up a magazine from a pile on the floor and rolled it up.

‘Look,’ she said, half an eye on the fly still, ‘Johnny’s my son and it pains me to say this, but he isn’t the most . . . how shall I put it?’ She stopped and lunged ineffectively at the bluebottle as it passed. ‘He isn’t the most, well, faithful of . . . men.’

Connie felt a growing anger and clamped down her feelings. She clearly knew Johnny better than Dorothy did and she wouldn’t listen to this.