Oh, the letter. Lil felt like he might even see it somehow, sense it, on her. Dora’s address was on the back of it. For a moment she almost, almost, handed it over. But then Lil shook her head. Stared him straight in the eye.

‘I don’t know where she is,’ she said.

57

Dora was feeling lumpish and lumbering with the pregnancy. She didn’t sleep nights because it was too uncomfortable, this weight pressing upon her guts like it did. Her back ached worse than ever. Her appetite was non-existent but still indigestion plagued her. Her breasts were enormous, which was only her body fooling itself, getting ready to feed a baby that was going to show up dead.

Now, all she wanted was for it to be over. She was tired out with it, tormented as she lay sleepless at night in her little room over the pub, plagued by memories of what a fool she’d been, falling for Dickie and letting him put her in this position.

Dickie was dead now. Dead like the baby inside her. Oh, people up here had been kind. The pub landlady, Mrs Wilkes, a widow, had sort of adopted her, even given her this poky little room at the top of the pub. Dora had her cover story all worked out, and everyone had swallowed it. Her husband was abroad, working as an engineer. His name was Stanley. Soon, he was going to come home and then Dora would stop work and move on to wherever his next contract might take him. This time – because of the baby, of course – she hadn’t been able to travel, and she missed him terribly.

Mrs Wilkes understood. She’d lost a daughter, her only child, who’d been blown up and killed during the Blitz. Pretty charming Dora satisfied her now-unchannelled maternal instincts. She sympathized, she knitted bootees and coats and hats for the baby who would never wear them, made sure Dora was comfortable in the little room under the eaves. She was a nice lady. Now, all Dora wanted was to give birth, bury the poor kid somewhere, get all that out of the way, and then she would get out of here, get back down to the Smoke, where she truly belonged. She hoped that Mum would respond soon to her letter, tell her all was forgiven.

But then what? There was the problem of Donny Maguire. He’d scared her half to death, chasing her around town in Harrogate, and then the thing on the train. Terrifying. But sooner or later, he was going to have to calm down and realize that none of what happened to his family was her fault.

The other problem was – of course – Frank.

She didn’t miss that arsehole in the least, but the things that went with Frank had been very nice. The lifestyle, for instance. The five-star hotels, the glamorous restaurants, the shows, she loved all that. And the presents. No one bought her expensive presents any more. Actually, she’d sold or pawned nearly all of Frank’s and Dickie’s gifts to her now, she was as poor as a church mouse and living on a barmaid’s wages. But once she had the baby, once she got back to her normal self, all would come good.