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by Mrs Lewis, who also did his washing, ironing and
cleaning. Why would he want to leave again? He mustn’t leave again, because that would be the death of his mother.
    And there was just one small, annoying fly buzzing in the ointment.
    He’d gone rather dewy-eyed and thoughtful all over again. The last time he’d been in such a state, he’d upped and married Ellen Lucas, a pretty enough urchin who used to work
in a large florist shop in the city. They’d lived in one of Norma’s houses, rent-free, of course, and the girl had died. Norma had comforted her son and persuaded him to come home.
‘I’ll live in the annexe,’ she had promised. It was a vow she was determined to keep – up to a point. Anything that made him remain at home was worth the effort.
    She ate a third orange cream. The letter remained where she’d left it, under the desk blotter in his study. Polly Kennedy this time, and Frank had written her a love letter. Polly had been
a close friend of the dead wife, and Frank seemed to have turned to her. He hadn’t meant to creep up on her while she’d been naked; he’d been quiet so that Cal wouldn’t hear
him, since he’d brought the lad a surprise.
The music was loud, so I didn’t hear you rising like Venus from the water . . .
    ‘Yes, he’s gone dewy once more,’ she whispered. Frank was no use when in love. He focused fully on the object of desire and did less well in exams and the like. When
they’d lived near Scotland Road back in the bad old days, he’d always hung round with Ellen, Polly and . . . Greg? ‘You didn’t die early enough, Charlie,’ Norma told
her deceased husband. ‘If you’d gone a couple of years before you did, I could have got him away from that motley crowd.’
    The life insurance money had bought the first fifteen houses. She now owned dozens, and Frank was in charge. Well, if he’d had nothing to do, he would have moped or gone back into office
work in Liverpool. Offices were full of young women. ‘Polly bloody Kennedy,’ Norma cursed quietly. Still, she wouldn’t leave her brother, would she? The whole area was due for
demolition, and— And Frank might want to rescue his damsel in distress. If he’d made up his mind, there’d be no stopping him, blind idiot that he was.
    Girls were supposed to be silly in love, but Frank did a fair job of acting the fool when it came to young women. In the letter, he said he wanted her. That could mean just sex, of course. If
the girl gave him what he craved, he might calm down a bit and settle for physical love. Because if Norma Charleson’s memory served her right, the brother was in a wheelchair and Greg
Wotsisname had deserted the sister. Well, if Polly Kennedy stayed with her brother and served up lunch and sex for Frank, things might work out very well for a while.
    Yet she knew her son only too well. He was an all-or-nothing type, in at the deep end or stay out of the water. It would be easy enough for him to find somewhere for himself, the girl and her
brother. Frank would allow no obstacle to barricade his route once his mind was set. Panic and heartburn combined to bubble in her throat. She shouldn’t eat chocolate; the doc had warned her
about chocolate. He said if she carried on like this, she’d be resorting to insulin injections, because diet alone wouldn’t be enough, and she wasn’t any good at dieting.
    A polite knock at the door was followed by Christine Lewis’s head bobbing into the room. ‘Can I get you anything before I leave, Mrs Charleson? My daughter’s taking me out for
a meal. I did tell you last week, if you remember.’
    ‘What are we having?’ Norma asked.
    The rest of Christine entered the room. She smiled nervously; Mrs Charleson’s mood had been changeable of late. ‘I’ve made you a nice chicken salad and a trifle. Elaine’s
treating me for my birthday.’
    ‘Oh, I see. Have you done Frank’s clothes for tomorrow?’
    ‘Yes, Mrs Charleson.’
    ‘And