The woman left and a younger, thinner, fair-haired version replaced her. They could be mother and daughter, a family team. The new woman welcomed them and surveyed Connie, nodding as if in approval.

She explained what would happen: medication, not too unpleasant tasting; a few hours to let the magic do its work; followed by a quick, painless procedure. Bleeding, not too much, a tad more than her usual period, perhaps a little clotting. She addressed Dorothy as much as Connie. Maybe she thought Dorothy was her mother.

Connie sensed her control sliding away. She dragged it back again, asking questions: How long would it take? How much would it hurt? Could she see the place where it would happen?

The woman answered patiently, quietly, until the last question, when her smile faded. Connie felt as if the walls were closing in on her. The cloying scent of the lilies mixed with something else – furniture polish, and another chemical smell. She glanced at Dorothy, who wore even more make-up than usual: a brighter lipstick, a heavier application of rouge, a dark green eyeshadow. It was as if they were going on an outing. Maybe it was to cover up the truth of what they were doing: Dorothy, Connie had concluded, was not a transparent person.

The woman cleared her throat. ‘I don’t recommend you have too many . . .’ She hesitated, searching for the right word. ‘Details, for the moment.’

‘Why not?’ asked Connie.

‘We prefer to ease our –’ she hesitated again – ‘ladies into the right frame of mind. I suggest you go home, take the medicine with you, have a little think, talk it over with a person you trust. And then, when you’re ready, settle yourself comfortably and take the medication along with a nice cup of tea. A little extra sugar will sweeten the bitter taste.’

It sounded almost as though she was discussing a treat. ‘I’d like to know everything now,’ Connie insisted. ‘There’s no point taking the medication home if I decide not to use it.’

The woman shifted her weight, smoothed her hair with one hand and glanced at the door. ‘I wouldn’t recommend . . .’

‘Oh, but I want to,’ Connie interrupted. ‘I want to be prepared.’

A second of quiet, a slight nod from Dorothy, and in that instant Connie realised the two women knew each other. Her heartbeat quickened. Who else had Dorothy brought to this place? What about the other girl, the one Dorothy said had been mooning over Johnny? No. Connie swept the possibility away. Dorothy had been a midwife once. That must be the connection.

‘All right,’ said the woman, sighing heavily. She led the way to the rear of the house.

Connie hardly expected to see a room similar to a doctor’s surgery: a narrow bed with clean, white sheets; a sparkling sink; sets of shining metal instruments; the smell of disinfectant. Still, she was taken aback when she stepped into an untidy kitchen.