They were early and had the dining room to themselves. ‘Anything you want, Lizzie,’ she said when the waiter brought the menu. ‘I’m paying. I won’t tell your father how much we spent.’ That afternoon, her father had left the house just after lunch with the excuse of an appointment at his club. Lizzie knew he’d made it up – he never went to his club on a Saturday. It had fallen to her mother to supervise the packing and transport to Customhouse Quay. Packing had been stressful, her mother wanting her to take warm, practical clothes and sensible shoes; Lizzie arguing for the skirts and dresses she liked best. The arguments, however, hid the real friction: the reason she was going. Lizzie suspected her mother might have been close to tears; she’d never seen her like that before, which had made her feel even worse. ‘I’m sorry Daddy’s not here with us,’ she continued. ‘He wanted to come, but he was just too upset. He’d have ruined the dinner for you, he said.’ Lizzie felt wretched – her father was so ashamed of her, he hadn’t been able to face this final meal together.
