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practised harmonising. There was comfort in cherished songs.
    The next Sunday, Nell’s mother stopped her as she was going out the front door.
    ‘It’s February! You’ll catch your death going out like that.’
    Nell said she was fine and, anyway, she was just going round the corner to see Carol.
    ‘But sandals?’ It’s freezing out. And that jumper’s hanging off you.’
    ‘That’s the style.’
    ‘I don’t care if it’s the style. What’s the point of a jumper if it doesn’t keep the cold out?’
    Nell sighed, shoved her hands in her pockets and looked down at the floor. Her mother reached forward, took hold of the jumper and hauled it up over Nell’s shoulder.
    Nell pulled it back down again. ‘It’s meant to be off the shoulder.’
    ‘You can see your bra strap. It’s almost indecent. And sandals at this time of year? Your feet will get filthy and you’ve painted your toenails. Only sluts and hussies do that.’
    Nell sighed again. She jiggled her knee impatiently, desperate to get away. There were important goings on in her life to be discussed. Things she couldn’t possibly tell her mother. The two stared at one another. There was no understanding between them. They didn’t speak much.
    The kitchen smelled of cooking fat and the sausages the family had just eaten. And bleach. It always smelled of bleach. Mrs McClusky went through two bottles a week. She waged a daily war on filth and germs. The room was as it had been all Nell’s life. Never in this house (except for the television a couple of years ago) was anything new added or anything old thrown out. Every evening, within minutes of the meal being finished, the dishes were cleared, washed, dried and put away, the draining board vigorously wiped, dishtowels neatly folded and hung up on the rail beside the sink. ‘There,’ Mrs McClusky would say, ‘I can relax now.’ She was a violent vacuumer, fierce duster and energetic wiper. Her life revolved round things she understood: the cake shop, gossip and cleaning. Her daughter was a mystery.
    Everything about Nell – the girl’s clothes, musical taste and strange notions – took Nancy by surprise. Last night at supper, over fried egg and chips, Nell had said, ‘We never talk when we eat.’
    Her father had pointed at his mouth, busy with a couple of yolk-dunked chips, and said, ‘Eating’s too important to bother with talking. Besides, it’s rude to talk with your mouth full.’
    Nancy had helped herself to a slice of bread, and said, ‘What would you like to talk about, dear?’
    ‘We could discuss philosophy,’ said Nell. ‘Like Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre.’
    ‘Who?’ asked Nancy. ‘Do they live around here? They sound French.’
    ‘They are French,’ said Nell. ‘They are philosophers and writers.’ She imagined them drinking wine, eating fabulous food and intently discussing art and life. She didn’t suppose they ate fried egg and chips very often. She didn’t imagine they ever said anything ordinary like we need more toothpaste, or is there anything good on telly tonight?
    Nancy and Stewart looked at one another and raised their eyebrows and Nancy said, ‘Pass the tomato sauce.’
    In fact, Nell’s very existence baffled Nancy. How did she get here? How did she happen? It was a surprise. It certainly wasn’t planned. Mrs Lowrie, two doors down, was to blame.
    In 1941, Stewart McClusky was working as a coalman. War was raging in Europe, but he was too old to fight. Instead, he joined the Home Guard. Nancy did her bit: she grew vegetables in the back garden and worked with the Women’s Voluntary Service, gathering books, cakes and other goodies to send to troops overseas. In the evenings, she knitted socks, also to be sent to overseas, while listening to the wireless. The pair had been married for fifteen years by then and hadn’t produced a child, They’d finally given up trying, which was a bitter disappointment to Stewart and a bit of a relief to his