When Dad finally heaves the stew into the oven, there are bits of potato peel and onion skin on the floor, dribbles of gravy down the cupboards, splashes of fat on the wall. The sink is stained with blood and dirt.

Dad wipes his brow with his forearm. ‘Dumplings,’ he says, emptying the fruit bowl all over the table. He waves the plastic dish in the air. ‘This will do. Now. Flour.’

He instructs me in a loud voice. ‘Use your fingers to bring it together,’ he says, rolling a ball of dough around the fruit bowl.

‘How do you know all this?’

Holding a dumpling in the air, he frowns. ‘It was the only thing,’ he says, ‘the only thing my dad taught me. He used to make it whenever Mum was out of the house.’ He drops the dumpling into the bowl and wipes his hands down his T-shirt. Grey lumps of dough stick to the terry-towelling. His bare legs are streaked with flour dust where the pinny doesn’t reach. His T-shirt is splattered with blood.

Dad puts Tomorrow’s World on and we sit in silence while the presenters argue about whether nuclear fuel is safe or not.

He stares at the television screen, hardly blinking. Occasionally he rubs at the flour streaks on his knees and sighs.

I sit there and watch him watching the television.

When Dad finally says that the stew’s ready, it’s nine thirty. The whole house smells unfamiliar, and I know Mum won’t come back tonight.

five

August, 1985

‘We’re going on an outing.’

The morning after the Irish stew, Dad’s sitting on the edge of my bed. His grey-blond hair looks like a frayed brillo pad. His eyes are red. He’s wearing his only suit.

I sit up. ‘Is Mum coming?’

He rubs at a shaving nick on his throat. ‘Get your best togs on.’ Whistling ‘Heartbreak Hotel’, he pats the bottom of the duvet and leaves the room.

A road sign reads ‘Heathrow’.

‘Is it a day trip to Ibiza?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Are these shoes OK?’

I wriggle my feet in the footwell. Without glancing at my new cerise pink kitten heels, Dad says, ‘They’re fine, love.’ When we reach the multi-storey car park, I wind down my window so I can hear everything echoing. Brakes screeching round corners then screeching again. Doors slamming four times. Shouts going on forever.

Dad parks the car.

‘A day trip to Oxford?’ I ask.

He pulls the handbrake up, turns to me. ‘Somewhere in Oxford you haven’t been before,’ he says.

The streets smell of old fat and melted ice cream.

‘Are you getting on all right with Shane?’

Dad’s hand is hot between my bare shoulder blades as he guides me down the High Street. I’m wearing a jade green strappy top with a peek-a-boo eyelet in the front.

‘Because he needs looking after, you know?’

I don’t say anything about anything.

The shops thin out. A sign in a doorway says, ‘Queen’s College. Visitors welcome.’ Behind it there’s a patch of bright green grass.