Her father found it impossible to speak Harry’s name nowadays. But at least he didn’t go on about what a lousy bastard he was, as he often did. At least he didn’t try to lecture her again about how she had made the right decision. Val thought that perhaps this was because he had suddenly felt sorry for Harry – such a great big man who was once so confident, so full of life and spirit and sheer, joyous generosity – reduced to someone so unsavoury, a sweaty fatty in a crumpled suit, his bloodshot eyes watery with tears. Val had carried one of the kitchen chairs out into the yard. She sat beside the geranium tubs, her fingers worrying the flowers’ soft leaves, releasing the pungent scent. In their loft her father’s pigeons cooed, settling for the night even as the warmth of the day still hung around the yard, trapped within the crumbling redbrick walls. She smoked steadily, concentrating on inhaling and exhaling, not wanting to think. She had made the right decision; she hadn’t needed her father to tell her this even if he had been so inclined.
