The house felt empty without the girls, and he hadn’t enjoyed the fish and chips half as much as Mattie’s cooking. Too greasy. Gave you indigestion. He fumbled through the cupboard for the bicarbonate of soda, but it didn’t help him much. He slept badly, kept waking, thinking he heard the front door. But it was only the wind, which was hurling rain at the windows. Damned weather. Nothing spring-like about it today. On the Saturday morning, Bart went to work without his usual box of sandwiches. He felt outraged that he’d have to send the lad out for something to eat. Waste of money, that was, but he’d run out of bread. He’d have to buy a loaf on his way home, and there wasn’t much butter left, either. He wasn’t used to managing on his own, doing women’s work. In the afternoon, once his half day had ended, he called in at the laundry to pick up his daughters’ wages, only to find they’d taken this week’s money early, pleading a dying relative they needed to visit. ‘They weren’t in this morning,’ the manager said.
