The knob crashed into the side of the freezer with a loud metallic clang, and a shower of dead frond from the out-of-reach, moribund fern on top fell down like rain. Clare automatically turned round with a reprimand on her lips, momentarily forgetting that Richie was already there in the kitchen, foraging in the fridge for something to prevent him starving to death until supper time. Her hand froze on the tap and the water ran over the top of the kettle she was filling as the flung-back door was followed by the eruption into the room of Amy, shaking, her face a queer, greenish-white colour, her eyes enormous. She leaned against the wall, speechless. Clare found herself by her side without knowing how she’d got there, but before she could ask her what was wrong, Amy began sobbing helplessly. ‘It’s Daddy, it’s Daddy ...’ ‘Amy, whatever’s the matter? Quick, catch her, Richie, she’s going to fall!’ ‘The bridge,’ Amy managed, and swayed gracefully into her brother’s arms.
