They would go out to Florida and see Edith, though. He was determined on that.

He remembered Edith as she had been when a girl. She had been exquisite. Not too tall, and she had developed early. She had the same mousy brown hair as George himself, except on her it looked right. It had a slight curl in it that made her look soft somehow. She had porcelain white skin that showed the blue veins perfectly, especially on the swell of her breasts. She had fine grey eyes that were heavy lidded, giving her a sensual look, a tiny rosebud mouth and soft round pink cheeks. His mother had always hated Edith.

Then one day she had gone away. Only George knew that she had run off to Brighton with a salesman, but his mother had guessed as much and beaten her daughter’s whereabouts out of him with a belt. He had told on his sister, poor Edith. The scene when Nancy had turned up at the Shangri-La guest house must have been terrible. As always his mother had had the upper hand. Edith had been pregnant and alone, the salesman abandoning her when she had told him her condition.

How his mother had made her pay! Oh, how. She had taken a delight in reproaching Edith at every opportunity. The mother who swore to everyone that she loved her children!

Edith had lost weight while other pregnant women bloomed. She had looked like a spectre; all the fight and vitality were gradually sucked from her. Then, when she had finally gone into labour, Edith had been left to birth alone in her bedroom with only their mother’s reprimanding voice to help her along. George had sat outside and listened.

‘All children come into the world in pain, Edith, but none as painfully as a bastard child.’

He clenched his teeth. He had only been thirteen then, but had wanted to burst into the room and strike his mother to the ground. The groans and cries of his sister had broken his heart. He sat up all night and into the next day until he heard a soft mewling sound like a kitten and knew that the child had been safely delivered after all that pain.