There were times when she cried with quiet despair into the musty old cushion that she’d found in a rubbish skip and used as a pillow; times when she ached to run back home to Nan, to a hot bath and a warm bed. Then the sun would come up, lighting the Ship Canal, glinting on the metal struts of giant cranes, polishing the railway sleepers to a glowing silver, and she’d sneak out to buy breakfast for the lads and think: ‘Where would I rather be? Here, with Vinny, having fun, or back home being harangued by Joyce, stood up by Steve, and with nothing more to look forward to than another day of constant criticism? She missed her nan, of course. Harriet had tried ringing home a couple more times but had received the same abrupt response, so gave up. Instead, she wrote a long letter to her grandmother every week. Not that she could ever give any address for a reply, but at least it would put the old woman’s mind at rest. She still felt angry over what had happened to her, over the way Joyce had treated her since Nan had announced the truth about her mother.
