I fussed over her like she were made of glass. Patted her damp back, clucking out ‘now now’ and ‘there there’ like they were spells that could make her feel better. I didn’t expect her to cuddle into me. I swear, but when she turned towards me and pressed her face against me it were like a baby looking for the nipple. That’s what I thought, God forgive me. That’s what it reminded me of. And I didn’t know what to do so I just held her and patted her arm and tried to think of her like she were one of the bairns. We were still there when John pushed open the kitchen door. I had to angle my neck to see who it was. He were standing there with nowt on his face but rain. Didn’t look shocked nor taken aback. Never did. Just dealt with things as they happened.

‘Ye’ll be wanting your privacy,’ said John. His cigarette moved as he talked and in the light from the hallway and the mist drifting from his lungs he looked like a half-made thing.

She shifted at the sound of his voice. Sat bolt upright and rubbed her eyes and nose and gave this embarrassed laugh. She made all sorts of fussy little gestures and then took the towel from her lap and started rubbing it herself like she were a sideboard and it were sandpaper.

‘Sorry,’ she muttered. ‘Sorry, just got upset …’

‘It’s nowt, love,’ said John, not moving. ‘This time of year it’s all tears. And you’ve had your sadnesses. Dry your eyes, you don’t want to get your dress wet.’

Cordelia and I shared a laugh at that, looking down at her soaked clothes. I loved him fierce. Still do.

‘Nivver seen you dry,’ said John, and he shrugged himself out of his black donkey jacket. He eased past us both and went to the kitchen sink. Washed his hands with the fat white soap. He liked to be spotless, did John. Scrubbed his fingernails and his wrists like a doctor preparing to do an operation. Then he combed his hair in the mirror by the sink. The ritual was always the same. Brushed the fine strands back across his head to cover the growing bald spot and then inserted a parting on the left. Half a dozen deft strokes left, half a dozen right, and he would declare himself satisfied. Only then would he kiss my cheek and squeeze my shoulder and sit himself down in his chair. His knees squeaked like the springs.

‘How’s the house?’ asked John, as if it were a person. ‘Bet the wind rattles in, eh?’

Cordelia held her hand to her nose. Seemed to be counting her breaths. When she looked at him she was herself again but her eyes still held the sparkle of tears.