Mario shut the front door with a little more force than she thought seemed necessary.

‘Well, Chuts, just you and me then.’ She looked down at the dog and was sure she saw him sigh.

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER FIVE

August 20th 1984

Bessie stood at the end of the road, trying to plan what and how she would tell her parents about her dire performance. It sounded so alien in her head she couldn’t even practise it. Fierce nerves raged inside her; she felt sick and her legs, plasters and all, were like jelly. The situation wasn’t helped by the fact that Philip had done very well in his O levels only the year before, gaining a clutch of A grades and a very impressive forty-seven in the year ranking.

Three hundred and sixty-one.

Three hundred and sixty-bloody-one!

She walked past Gary Bradshaw’s house, where his bike now lay abandoned on the front path, and heard his dad yelling, ‘Bloody brilliant! Moira! Moira! He’s only gone and done it! Wahey! That’s my boy!’

The sound of Mr Bradshaw’s celebrations only added to the sinking, hollow feeling in her stomach. She thought she might actually throw up.

Drawing close to home, she caught sight of the very large home-made banner strung across the front door:

CONGRATULAYTIONS!

It was a funny thing, but pre-exam results, she would have asserted with self-assurance that this was not how you spelled CONGRATULATIONS, but now? With her confidence tank entirely drained, she wasn’t sure she was right and would not say a word for fear of being wrong.

The banner was edged with crudely drawn hearts and flowers – no doubt the handiwork of Judith, Mrs Hicks’s young granddaughter, who liked to hang around. The sight of it made her heart and spirits sink even further, if that was possible – with absolutely nothing to be congratulated on, and suddenly aware of just how many people she had let down. She wanted to tear it down and rip it into a million pieces.

Before she had the chance to fish for her key in the front pocket of her dungarees, the door was flung open and the smiling, expectant faces of her parents greeted her. Her dad had the harmonica in his hand.

Oh, please God, no!

Her prayer fell on deaf ears as her dad brought the instrument to his lips and began to toot out an almost passable version of Cliff Richard’s Eurovision-winning ditty while her mum did her best to sing along, including a false start.

‘Con . . . congratulations, and celebrations . . . doo-doo doo!’ Stepping from foot to foot, her mum waved her hands in a crappy dance.

Bessie looked down and shook her head as her tears broke their banks.