Jack begins to read. It is one of her old books, retrieved from the bookcase in the dining room a few days before – Tom’s choice. She has only vague recollections of the story but, as Jack reads on, more escape from the confines of her memory. She rests her temple against the smooth wood of the stair pillar, closing her eyes. The gentle timbre of Jack’s voice erases the unpleasant events of the day, until at last she feels the tension leach from her muscles and her eyelids grow heavy.

‘That’s enough for tonight, little one.’

Her eyes flare open. She hears the book clap shut. Tom’s water glass clinks against his alarm clock as space is made on the bedside table. She is quick to her feet and deftly descends, silent as a mouse, as Jack says his goodnights and turns out the lamp. She dives into the sitting room, her father’s chair welcoming her into its sagging embrace as she snatches up her knitting from the bag beside it. She sits, the needles poised in her hands, listening as the stairs declare Jack’s approach. She is breathless as she waits, a delicious tremor of trepidation stirring deep inside. She hears him pause beyond the door. When he walks on past, she is crushed with disappointment.

But then she remembers the unemptied tub and, sure enough, she hears the faint swoosh of water sluicing down the kitchen drain, and the dull ring of cast iron. She tries to be patient, sliding her needles through loops of wool, endeavouring to keep an even strain, but they soon fall idle as she tries to predict how much longer he will be.

She hears his muffled footsteps on the hall runner. Her needles burst into action, their click-clickety-click forming a Morse code: come join me, come join me …

He clears his throat to catch her attention. She looks up, contriving surprise. He stands in the doorway, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbow, his hair nearly dry.

‘I’ve emptied the tub and hung it back up.’

‘Thank you.’

He shifts his weight. ‘Well, I’ll head on out now … See you in the morning.’

‘You don’t have to.’ The words spring from her without warning. Like fingers clawing at his shoulder, they stop him mid-turn. ‘You’re very welcome to join me.’

He does not respond to her offer immediately. She feels a humiliating crawl of colour up her cheeks, but then his expression becomes so wistful, her embarrassment seeps away and unexpected tenderness takes its place.

‘I’d best …’ he gestures vaguely outwards, ‘I’ll go back to the tack room … I have plenty to be getting on with, like.’

‘Do you?’

His eyes spark with amusement. ‘Do you not believe me?’

‘I just thought … well, now Nora’s gone, there’s no need for such careful pretence …’

‘It’s not pretence. I am working on something.’

‘You are?’

‘Aye.’