I queued up and paid my sixpence for entry, then watched the dog owners strut around the track with their sleek greyhounds on leads. The dogs were muscle and bone, not an ounce of fat on them, with long snouts and watery brown eyes. I remembered Blackie and the thump of her tail when she saw me, her cold wet nose against the palm of my hand.

I took a form guide and scanned the crowd for Dad but only met the eyes of leering young men who sat with their packs of friends, shirtsleeves rolled up, smoking cigarettes and drinking from flasks and bottles they hid beneath their seats. I could see them turn and whisper to each other as I passed. High up in the stands there was a free seat between a group of middle-aged women in housedresses and a family with three small children, and I took it, hoping I would be safe here from unwanted advances.

I was still scanning the crowd for Dad’s distinctive green hat with the hummingbird wing when the starting gun went off and the dogs burst onto the track in a blur of coloured saddlecloths. It was all over quickly, and I kept an eye on the queue to collect winnings. Sure enough, I saw Dad’s hat in the queue, and he was wearing the good suit he was meant to save for church. I stood up and squeezed past the housewives beside me and hurried down the steps for a better view, taking a seat close to the bottom rail, my hat pulled low over my eyes in case he glanced my way.

Even though it was the only time I laid eyes on her, I’ll never forget what she looked like. She was as tall as him, broad-shouldered, wearing cream gloves, a netted pillbox hat, and a navy skirt and double-breasted jacket with gold military-style buttons. She had dyed blonde hair and dark red lips and a beauty spot to the right of her small, upturned nose. She had her arm slotted through Dad’s and was laughing at something he said, showing two rows of teeth so perfect they must have been false.