His mother used to go to the cinema. They were showing the Clark Gable flick at the Regal, the sort of thing she would have loved. But she never seemed to go any more. There was something ailing with her but he couldn’t bear to find out.

As he was leaving, she said, ‘You enjoy yourself then.’

‘What did the doctor say, Mother?’ It came out tersely. He resented being pressured into asking and was guilty for it too.

She brightened. ‘Just a little trouble with my insides,’ she said, but he saw her thin hands were fluttering.

‘Will you be all right?’

His mother tried to smile at him but it was a mere flicker. He knew the answer before she said it. Cancer. She didn’t tell him where or how bad, which told him there was no hope. He leaned down to kiss her cold cheek and found it damp.

‘I’ll look after you,’ he said, and he wanted to. But his head was screaming with the injustice of it. She had to get better so he could leave. He could feel the tentacles of her need suffocating him.

Out on the quay, it was dark. Rain drove into his face as he tied his packages onto the basket with rope. Down the street, a little crowd was cramped together under the protection of the awning from French’s fish and chips, their coats pulled close around them, bathed in the amber glow.

It wasn’t long past five. If he was quick with his deliveries he could see Verity at the dance. He could ask her to marry him. The sickness in the flat made him want even more to flee to her. He couldn’t wait any more.

4.

Northerly gale of exceptional severity

‘Pete, buddy. Have mine,’ Jack said, beaming, handing Peter a drink. And he put his hand on her brother’s back and led him to the bar. Verity stood, hovering, watching them, when Jack looked over his shoulder and winked at her. There was a movement at her arm and she whisked round to find… nothing. Muriel had gone. Verity had momentarily forgotten that Muriel had even been there.

Abandoned, she found a chair and took small sips of her whisky and watched the dancers. She wondered what they were talking about. Peter must be livid that Jack had brought her here. Or, more likely, he was livid with her. She looked over to the bar but could no longer see them. She began to feel stupid, sitting on her own. As they were still not at the bar, she might as well get a drink.

She was standing, sipping her whisky sour though each sip made her gag, when Peter came striding up to her. He looked furious. Had Jack gone off with Muriel? He wouldn’t do that to her, surely? Not after all he’d said. No, that was impossible.