‘You’re here on sufferance,’ said Min, watching Dora push her food around her plate one teatime. ‘And eat that bloody food, or you’ll get it for breakfast tomorrow.’

Dora wasn’t much up to eating at the moment. She was still throwing up, and cabbage had always turned her stomach anyway. Mum never gave it to her; instead she’d conjure up some indulgent little treat, just for Dora. But this wasn’t Aunt Min’s way. As promised, the cold cabbage was on the breakfast table waiting for Dora when she came down in the morning. Gagging, Dora had to eat it, or go without. And she couldn’t do that. Dead or alive – probably dead – she still felt pregnant, still felt she had this damned baby to feed.

Her bruises began to fade. Her belly swelled, bigger and bigger. She still half-hoped that her baby might be born unharmed from the beating Frank had inflicted on it, but she didn’t believe that was possible.

Lunchtime, Uncle Joe always came in from the farm work and got bread and cheese and a big mug of tea; they sat in the kitchen and ate together. Joe didn’t bother addressing a civil word to Dora any more; he’d been sussed and he knew it. While this small meal went on, the radio blared out over the sink, and the news, which never interested Dora at all, suddenly held her attention.

‘Richard Cole, who was serving twenty years in Brixton jail for the murder of businessman Anthony Dillon, was attacked in prison and has since died of his injuries . . .’

The news bulletin went on, the governor saying it was unprecedented and would be investigated thoroughly. Aunt Min and Uncle Joe went on eating, not knowing a thing, while Dora sat there, stunned, looking at the plate in front of her. A half-eaten bit of cheese. Some pickle. A hunk of bread.

Dickie was dead.

And then it poured into her mind, scouring it like acid: was this Frank’s doing?

She remembered sitting across from Dickie on her one visit to him when he’d been on remand. Remembered the fear in his face. He can get to me in here, anytime he wants, he’d said. Was Frank’s ego hurt because she’d been carrying Dickie’s child? Yes of course it was. Frank and his tiny cock, he had a complex about the damned thing, and to think of Dickie fathering a child on her was probably too much for his ego to take. And then she’d run out on him, which must have felt like another kick in the teeth. She’d thought that was an end to it, but Frank clearly didn’t.

This was his revenge.

Somehow, shocked and shaking, Dora hauled herself to her feet. ‘I’m . . .’ she started, then she had to run over to the sink and vomit.

She leaned on the sink, feeling like she might pass out. Dickie was dead.

Then Aunt Min said from the table: ‘This good food here’s not going to go to waste, is it? You’ll have it for breakfast, my girl.’