As Donna sank down into oblivion, her mind flashed up images and memories to compensate for the shock just dealt to her. She saw herself as a child again, her face white and strained as she listened to her mother’s strident voice. Covering her ears with her hands, she froze, waiting for the noise she knew was to come.

The soft thud came through the wall on cue. She knew her mother had fallen against the dressing table. She had to have fallen. Donna’s father wouldn’t hurt her, not deliberately.

The room was cold; the house was always cold. Even in the middle of summer it had a damp, clammy feel to it that was more to do with the occupants than the weather.

She could once more hear her mother’s voice, goading her father on, telling him things about himself best left unsaid. She wished her brother Hamish was still at home, but Donna rarely saw him now he was married.

This was a strange household.

During the day, the almost clinical cleanliness could break a girl’s heart. Anyone entering the house automatically spoke in whispers, as if in the presence of the dead. Donna’s mother was pretty in an austere way, her face a beacon of righteousness. She and her husband were well respected; they ‘kept themselves to themselves’, a favourite saying of theirs, along with, ‘It’s nobody’s business but ours’.

The child waited for her father to go to his room, and sighed heartily as she heard the door shut softly behind him. She took after her father, everyone said so. Self-effacing, self-contained, anything for a quiet life.

Tomorrow, the incident would be over - never, ever to be mentioned.

Especially by a little girl who knew exactly how to be seen and not heard.

Her face was flaming, burning as if the skin would melt off it. Mrs Dowson was looking at her with a pitying expression on her normally dour face.

‘You should have told someone, Donna! Why didn’t you tell your mother?’ Mrs Dowson knew why Donna Fenland had not imparted the news to her mother, but she had to ask the question anyway.

Monica Fenland stood like a hefty wedge between her daughter and the door. Her eyes scrutinised her child, bored into her with a pale grey ferocity. ‘Come on, Donna, answer Mrs Dowson.’

Donna looked up into her mother’s eyes - eyes that were saying, ‘Keep in control, Donna. Don’t show any emotion at all, and talk yourself out of this embarrassing situation.’

‘My mother had already explained it all to me, and I didn’t see the need to bother her with any of it. Today was the only time I have ever felt remotely ill since I . . .’ She paused. ‘Well, since they came.’

Mrs Dowson saw Monica Fenland smile grimly and wondered why the hell she’d bothered.