But, of course, I hadn’t taken them to school, so I didn’t have them now. Luckily (perhaps), she said, ‘It’s okay, there’s no chance.’

Encouraging, but I thought of Tracey, and how she’d apparently known.

Still, there was no point fighting it. The revolution had been fought, and won, or lost, depending on your view.

We walked home in dusky light. Vicky had spearmint leaves and said, ‘There were always fewer of these.’

‘Where?’

‘Don’s mixed lollies. Always more jubes, and cheap shit, and less spearmint leaves and milk bottles.’

‘And teeth?’

‘Exactly. Teeth.’

As we commiserated the last of the lino, a gold chain on a hairy chest.

‘They used to have them at school,’ she said.

‘Teeth?’

‘Spearmint leaves.’

‘They never did.’

‘I remember the smell of them when you went in, at recess, in winter. It’s strange, but I only ever remember it being winter.’

‘With their five cent mugs of soup,’ I said.

‘That’s right.’

As we celebrated the moment: every girl and boy with his or her mug, lined up in the rain waiting for cheap soup.

‘And the smell of pasties, and you, with yer half pie and chocolate doughnut.’

‘Courtesy Mum’s penny jar.’

‘And, best of all, the baker, in the morning.’

We were there, standing in our jarmies in the middle of the road as the baker opened the back door of his van and golden light flooded Lanark Avenue; fresh bread, rolls, finger buns—the lot. Us, breathing it, the day, too; ready to be buttered, cut, and wrapped in greaseproof paper.

Although it was only a short walk home, we made it last. Every rose, and mock orange, the smell of Pop’s feet when he cut his nails, dog shit when you stepped in it, vomit, which never really washed out of sheets, piss, too, on the pants in the bag.

We passed Peter in his shed, testing wine. He didn’t see us. It didn’t matter.

‘What’s tomorrow?’ Vicky asked.

‘Economics.’

‘Better let you go learn.’

I waited. There was no kiss, just a squeezed hand.

As I approached the door I heard a gravelly voice. ‘… on a coat hook … and he was only a few inches above the ground.’ I stopped and listened, but there were no more words.

I went in and Mum and Pop were sitting at the table. No one had put on a light, and I couldn’t make out who was sitting with them. Then everyone turned. Anne had been crying, and Gary’s face was set hard. He looked back at the table, at a smoke, burning in the ash tray.

‘You better have a seat,’ Mum said.

And I knew. Straight away.