George looked into her face and saw the gleam in her eyes. She was using her past now, the past she would not have mentioned to a soul, to try and undermine him, intimidate him. From religious grandmother, the epitome of decency, she was reverting to the days of her whoring to bring him low. He knew her so well. How sanctimonious she could be. He remembered her berating Edith when she had fallen pregnant that time; remembered the false impression of genteel poverty she liked to give to the neighbours. Remembered how she had told all and sundry of Edith’s fall from grace. Now her real life could be used to hurt one of her children, to wound, and she used it without a qualm. He felt an urge to strike her.

Nancy watched her son’s face and guessed what he was thinking. The old malice was back in her now.

‘Someone once said to me: “Nancy, you’re sitting on a gold mine.” How right they were. And do you know who said it? Your father’s brother. I ran off with him. Your father hadn’t died, Georgie. I dumped him.’

‘You said he was dead! I believed . . .’

Nancy laughed again. ‘He is dead now. He died about ten years ago. The police traced me and told me. He died in a bedsit in South London. He’d been dead ten days before they found him. Cheeky buggers wanted me to pay for the funeral! I told them where they could get off and all. He was useless, Georgie, bloody useless. Couldn’t even die properly. Alone to the last.’

He felt himself rise from the floor, aware that his legs had gone dead at some point from kneeling - and then he slapped her. He knew he had slapped her because he heard the crack as his open palm met her baggy flesh, felt the force of her head snapping back and heard her scream of outrage.

Lily, outside the door, was hopping from one foot to the other in agitation.

‘You evil slut! You dirty filthy slut!’ George had balls of spittle at the corner of his lips. ‘My father was alive. He could have saved me from you. Could have saved all of us from your men friends and your evil ways. You let men touch me for money . . . Touch me and use me!’

His mind was like a burst sore, all his hatred spilling out. He was dangerously close to tears and swallowed them back.

‘You fucking filthy whore! You stinking tart!’

All his life she had taken pleasure in hurting him, while she gave pleasure to others for a price. He felt bile rising in his throat, burning him. He pursed his lips together to stop it spewing out on to the woman sitting in front of him with the old mocking grin.

‘None of my children ever had any gumption. You were all like him, weak and sickly. I hated you all.’