Then Luke put his hand over the spoon. ‘I’ve had enough, Rob,’ he said, ‘thanks.’ He guided Robert’s hand down to the counter before turning to me. ‘I think I should be going.’ He wiped the pink blob from his chin.

‘I’ll ring you tomorrow,’ Robert called after him.

After Luke had closed the back door, we stood in silence for a long time. Robert gazed at the floor. Then he started to pat the top of the destroyed blancmange with his spoon, sending droplets of quivering pudding over the worktop.

I walked across the room, meaning to take the spoon from his hand. But before I could, I saw the ring in his ear. A bright gold loop, right through.

‘Whatever is that?’

‘What?’

I thought I might pull him towards me by his ear, but I stopped just short and flexed my hands. ‘You look like a damn gypsy,’ I said. I knew my voice was too loud.

He touched the gold ring and smiled.

‘Where did you get it?’

‘In the library,’ he said, rolling his eyes.

‘Now is not the time to be clever, Robert.’

He looked straight at me and continued to stroke the bright hoop.

I swallowed. ‘Where did you get the money?’

‘Mum gave it to me.’

‘What?’

He let his spoon drop into the blancmange. ‘Mum gave me the money and I went and had it done today. We both had one. Luke and me.’

I picked up the plate of pink pudding and stood with it in my aching hands, staring at him. This time he did not look back at me. Instead, he ducked as I raised the plate to my shoulder and heaved it at the back door.

We both stood and watched as the blancmange crawled down the paintwork, leaving a long trail of pink slime.

four: Joanna, November, 1985

four

Joanna

November, 1985

I stand behind Rob in the dinner queue. The dinner hall’s damp and greasy; oily smells lurk in corners even in the afternoons, when the serving hatches are locked up. Rob stands with his weight on one leg, arse cheek jutting out towards me. Luke McNeill stands next to him. But his arse cheek doesn’t jut out. Luke’s so skinny he hasn’t got an arse. They’ve both had their ears pierced. Their matching gold rings shine in the food counter lights.

Rob looks over the steaming steel counter to where today’s choices are chalked up. Pizza. Sausage Roll. Chips. Beans. Curry. I can’t stand curry. At primary school a boy called Patrick bent his dark head over his plate of curry trimmed with rice and puked. Since then, the two smells are the same for me.

The dinner lady with square hair and coral lipstick looks at Rob. ‘What’s it to be, handsome?’

He hesitates. He’s still scanning the list.

I pray it won’t be curry.

‘Just a sausage roll.’