‘Are you having some?’ she asked him now, lifting up her glass. ‘It’s proper stuff. No bite to it at all.’

‘I’ll take a sip of yours.’

‘You bloody won’t.’

He drew the arm across and set the needle to the record. Summery piano chords, the jounce of clarinets, a skip-along old tune. It put his teeth on edge, but Joyce’s feet began to dance below the blankets, left to right. Her fingers jumped against the glass in rhythm. After only a few minutes, it was over. She called, ‘Put the other side on.’

‘I’m not standing here all night, flipping your records. You can find another skivvy.’

‘But you love it.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘You do. Remember that machine Aunt Helen had? You’d stand there all day with your head shoved in the speaker, putting on the lot she owned – and all she had was Florrie Forde. Anything mechanical, you wanted to be in charge of it.’

He’d forgotten about that. The warble of that woman’s crooning and the rasp of the applause on the recordings. ‘All right. Just this once. Have you got any ciggies on you?’

‘No. I left them in my room.’ She ruffled the ends of her hair. ‘Aren’t you going to smoke in here and keep me company?’

‘I’ve better things to do.’

‘Ah, so that’s the way it is. Too busy for your own big sister. Shame.’

She had a pained expression that he’d seen before so often; it was three parts forgery to one part truth, but still. ‘You’re being soft,’ he said. And then she drained the whisky in a few short gulps and poured another. ‘Take it easy with that. We’ve an early start tomorrow. Mixer’s coming.’ Her second measure was at least a double and she even spared the soda.

Gawping at the oak beams overhead, she asked him, ‘What’ve you been telling Kimball, by the way? He seems to think that I’m unhappy. Not adjusting very well – who put that in his head?’

‘You think I’d grass you up? No chance.’

‘Well, someone’s given him the daft idea.’

‘Maybe it’s because you had a face on like a wet weekend. He isn’t blind, you know.’

She slugged her whisky. ‘He was on at me again about my lovelife.’

‘Me and all.’

‘He asked me, Don’t you want to find yourself a husband and have kids one day? I mean, what sort of question’s that? The cheek of it.’

‘Well, don’t you?’

‘Yeah, but I’ve got ages for all that. You’d think I was fifty-eight, the way he was going on.’

‘I suppose he’s got to ask that sort of stuff. I hate it, too.’

‘Only ’cause you can’t say who you’ve really got the hots for.’

‘Shut up, Joy.’

‘If only Kimball knew how dopey your face goes at supper when she’s next to you.’

‘I mean it, Joy. Get lost. It isn’t funny.’

‘No, you’re right, it’s not.’ She took in a big mouthful and it stung her throat. Wincing at him, coughing, she said, ‘Anyway, in case you’re wondering, I’ve got my eye on someone, too. This fella I bump into now and then. Works down the post office. He might be married, I don’t know. He’s very shy in speaking to me, that’s for sure. But he’s all right to look at. And there could be something in it, once I get him talking.’