Initially, Terry had been in a good mood earlier because of the phone call he’d received, but then memories of last Christmas, which he’d spent with Luke, had come back to haunt him and he’d broken down. Anne had held him in her arms until his tears subsided. Determined now to try and be as upbeat as he possibly could, Terry grinned at his wife as she brought the potatoes and parsnips in.

‘Do us a favour, love, go and tell Sally that dinner’s ready, will ya?’

Terry had been upstairs to see his daughter twice in the last three hours and, seeing as he was having no joy enticing her out of her bedroom, he hoped Anne might have more luck.

Anne walked up the stairs and as she opened Sally’s bedroom door, let out the most awful blood-curdling scream.

‘Whatever’s wrong?’ Terry said, running up the stairs.

In such awful shock that she couldn’t even speak, Anne pointed towards the wooden beams in the ceiling.

‘No, please God, no!’ Terry yelled. He ran into his own bedroom and grabbed his hunting knife. ‘Wake up, sweetheart. Please wake up for your dad’, he sobbed, as he loosened the towelling dressing gown belt from around Sally’s neck. Receiving no response, Terry checked for a pulse. There was none. His beautiful daughter was already dead.

Back in Rainham, Joyce was a different person from the woman who had been in drunken hysterics the day before. She was cool, calm, and collected and so far had been the hostess of all hostesses.

‘Let me pour you another glass of wine, Jenny,’ Joyce uttered to Polly’s borderline alcoholic mother. She topped Jenny’s drink up and smiled. ‘Who’s ready for dessert yet?’

‘Sit down Mum, for Christ’s sake. You’ll wear the bloody carpet out in a minute,’ Raymond joked.

‘You know me, like to keep myself busy,’ Joyce said jovially.

Since her late twenties Jenny had struggled to control her drinking, and she had a terrible habit of saying the wrong thing once inebriated. She smiled at Joycie. ‘So, do you miss Stanley, or not? Polly said he left you for another woman and, to be honest, I was shocked. I mean, he’s no oil painting, is he?’

‘Mum!’ Polly exclaimed, horrified.

Joyce laughed. ‘No, he isn’t and no, I don’t miss the old goat at all. The only thing I do miss about him is the lifts. I have to get cabs and bleedin’ buses everywhere now.’

Raymond winked at his mother. Joey had rung him late last night and told him what an awful state Joyce had gotten herself into and Raymond had been fully expecting a repeat performance today. Instead, his mum had been the complete opposite and had done him proud.