Abby smiled at the memory as Ray stood with a grunt and found the work shirt he’d laid out over the back of the wingback armchair in the corner the night before. He buttoned it quickly against the icy air. The fire downstairs kept the house warm during the evenings, but as well as Abby stoked it, the embers always went out overnight.

‘Jesus,’ he hissed. ‘It’s freezing. My bloody fingers aren’t working.’

‘I can see that.’

She gestured to his chest. He looked down. He’d buttoned his shirt wrong. Muttering a curse, he started over. ‘You’re working tonight, right?’

‘Graveyard shift, so don’t wait up.’

‘Like ships passing in the night then,’ he said.

When he drifted out of the room, a little warmth went with him. She listened to his footfalls down the hallway and out the front door, heard his work truck rattle and moan to life, pull out onto Milt Street and fade into the distance. Then there were just the flame robins chirping outside the window.

Craving coffee, Abby dragged herself up, and half-heartedly made the bed before going downstairs to get the fire started. It took some effort because the only kindling she could find was damp. She fed it for a few minutes, then wandered restlessly around the room waiting for her coffee to brew, the dull rumble of the percolator filling the air.

Two cups later, morning alarms sounded and water pipes rattled as the kids got up, followed quickly by an argument about hot water and allotted bathroom times. Lori emerged first, clomping loudly into the kitchen in her scuffed and mud-stained Doc Martens.

‘Can’t you just put those things on at the front door?’ Abby asked.

‘Not if you don’t want me to be late for the bus. They take like, an hour to lace up.’

Lori shook apple Pop-Tarts from the box, slid them into the toaster and watched them cook.

‘I’d be careful if I were you,’ Abby warned. ‘I think it was Nietzsche who said: if you gaze long enough into a toaster, the toaster gazes back at you.’

‘Ha ha,’ Lori said. She fixed herself a cup of coffee and checked her reflection in the pot, taking a moment to brush down her fringe. Her piercing eyes were surrounded by a layer of heavy black eyeliner.

‘You look nice,’ Abby told her.

‘I’m not going for nice,’ she said.

‘Well, not nice, but cool. Grungy.’

‘Grungy?’

‘Goth? I don’t know. Whatever it is you’re going for, you’re nailing it.’

Lori sipped her coffee, as black as her wardrobe. ‘Erk, Mum, you’re such a dork. Can I go to Finly after school with Carry and Elise? Elise needs something to wear at her brother’s wedding and she wants us to come help. Can I go?’

‘How will you get home?’

‘We’ll be done before the last ferry.’