“I can’t kiss a woman who’s crying,” he said. “I’ve never done that.”

“Honestly, I’ll stop if you kiss me. Please, Philip.”

He released me. “No. I want to make you happy, and—”

I put my arms around his neck. “Who cares about being bloody happy.”

“Oh, Yvette,” he said. “If you aren’t happy, then neither am I.”

At that moment the front door opened. We both leaped to our feet. I scurried out to the lavatory, buried my face in a towel. My insides convulsed with suppressed sobs. When I was able, I turned on the cold tap and rinsed my face, panting, each breath shaken by the pulse beating in my throat. I dried my face and looked in the mirror. My hair was on end as if I’d been electrified. I tidied it but couldn’t do anything about my red eyes.

I could hear them talking in the kitchen. “I’ve bought a lardy cake, dear. Where’s Yvette? Oh—have you finished?”

“Pretty much, Ma. She’s in the whatnot.”

“Shall I heat this a little?”

“Mmm, yes, do.”

Their voices, back and forth, mother and son. He would fly free and live his life but he and his Ma would always be the same, whenever they met. Peaceful. Wanting to be happy.

—

I came out and ate the lardy cake and drank a cup of tea. Lardy cake is a fatty dough studded with dry currants and crystals of sugar, the outside caramelized almost black. Only when you’ve tried and failed to light a fire with damp coal in an English coastal town in February—only then, do you appreciate the insulating power of lardy cake. It’s also good to eat, I found, straight after you’ve cried your eyes out.

I couldn’t hide from Bridie. “What’s upset you?” she exclaimed. “Not Philip!”

“No, no, he’s been very kind—”

“Yvette’s rather fed up,” said Philip. “I’m afraid I’ve been reminding her of sunshine, and lots of other things she misses.”

Bridie glanced down. “That poor pretty hankie,” she said next, as I wiped my eyes. “How many tears have you shed into it?”

I spread it out. It wasn’t actually a hankie, it was an old scarf my mother had given me, a Hermès. It had the daftest picture on it, a train and a cow and a farmer’s wife. Maman had said, Now take care of it, Yvette, and what had I done? Taken it out on the boat and Peter, bless him, had ruined it with cigarette burns. “Look.” I spread it out so she could see the little holes. “Look how spoiled and charred it is. It’s good for nothing but crying into.”