Joyce’s voice was closer now. That jolly song about the old mill stream and Nellie Dean that she would sing inside the Anderson to grate on everybody’s nerves. She must’ve stepped out of the bath. Her hand was buffetting the door, where she’d hung up a towel.

He closed the drawer and shut the lights off at the wall.

‘You out there, mouse?’ she called.

He hurried down the stairs, the softness of the knickers fading on his cheek. The little frill adornments round the legholes – he’d remember them tonight. No need to take what wasn’t his. For now, he’d have to let his thoughts run somewhere else: back to the biscuit crumbs on Mr Kimball’s jacket, the stench of hen muck on his nails, the rim of greenish dirt the old man used to leave inside their bathtub after he’d been soaking in it. Nothing did the job. The strain between his legs was getting worse. He got a saucepan out and warmed some milk up on the range. The cocoa powder spilled when he took off the lid and he was wiping down the counter when he heard Joyce thudding through the hallway. Going where? To help herself to White Horse, if he had to guess. He tried to froth the milk, but he forgot to add a spoon of golden syrup, so he ended up with something watery and foul. It burned his tongue. The pressure in his crotch had eased, though, and he wouldn’t have to worry that the bulge was showing any more. He dumped the panful down the sink. Perhaps a nip of whisky wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.

He found his sister in the parlour. She was standing in the corner by the gramophone and fumbling to make it play. ‘Did this thing break?’ she said, not even turning round. The whisky bottle was already in her hand, the cap still on it.

‘It was working a few nights ago,’ he said.

‘Well, come and have a look at it. Seems bust to me.’ Her hair was damp and wiry from the towelling she’d given it. Her face was pink as bacon. She was in her dressing gown and slippers. ‘I’ve wound it up and wound it up.’

‘I know the feeling,’ he said.

‘Ha ha ha.’

‘I hope you rinsed that tub out.’

‘No, I left it nice and mucky for them. Talcum powder everywhere and loo roll.’

‘What’s got into you tonight?’

She shrugged. ‘I’m happy, I suppose. There’s no one breathing down my neck for once. Apart from you.’ The gramophone was spinning now. ‘Oh good, you fixed it.’

‘Wasn’t broken in the first place. The brake was set to manual. Have you not changed the stylus yet?’

‘I didn’t know I had to.’

‘It’s an old machine, you clod. I showed you this before.’

‘OK. Well, you change it, then. I’m going to make myself a drink.’ She gathered one of Mr Mayhood’s cut-glass tumblers from the sideboard. Glugging out an inch of whisky, she added a few dashes of soda from the siphon. Then she jumped on to the sofa and draped herself in crocheted blankets with her legs sprawled out across the cushions. ‘Come on, hurry up,’ she said. ‘I want my Benny Goodman.’