He stood back to let her go in but, as she passed him, her arm brushed against his chest and for a few seconds she didn’t move: they were touching, and she could almost imagine falling against him. But then the tip of his finger ran along her back and she pushed past him and into the safety of the room, her back on fire.

‘I’ll be seeing you, Miss Frost,’ he said.

‘Will you?’ she said.

‘At the Midsummer dance,’ he said, ‘I already invited you.’ There was the hint of a question in his voice and that gave her great satisfaction. He did not know she would go to the blessed dance. That was the key.

She wanted to shout back that she had no intention of going but he had gone and she was left slumped on her bed, her heart beating far too fast.

7.

Midsummer’s Night

‘You look smart, Arthur.’

He glanced at his mother, reddened and took refuge in his bread and jam. Mother leaned back in her chair with a teacup in her hand, peering at him across the table. Her hair was in rollers ready for the night. Though she still had her ‘face’ on as she called it, she was in slippers and housecoat and she looked settled for the evening. It made him feel restless. He was wearing a tight-fitting shirt that dug into his neck and had combed his hair up into a quiff. He expected another comment on his hairstyle but none came. Through the open window he heard the seagulls calling. A male voice rang up from the street.

‘That’s Peter,’ he said, scraping his own chair back. He was hitching a ride on Peter’s bike to the Midsummer dance. He was only going because Verity would be there.

‘Don’t speak with your mouth full.’

He swallowed the bread and washed it down with a slurp of tea.

‘Have a nice evening, Mother.’

She was sitting with her teacup poised in the air. Something wasn’t right about her but he didn’t know what it was except that the lines under her eyes looked deeper, there were streaks of grey in her once black hair, and she was always tired. In the background of all their interactions was the unspoken assumption that she was seriously ill. She gave him a thin smile but seemed to be gazing into a space beyond him.

‘Yes,’ she said, as if she hadn’t heard him.

Peter rang his bike bell. Arthur bent to kiss her cheek and she grasped his hand.

‘You’re a good boy, Arthur,’ she said, her powdery face near his cheek, her hand digging into his. ‘You look after me.’

He hesitated in the kitchen doorway with a question about how she was but he could feel the summer air wafting up from the street and wanted to be gone.