Marilyn’s mother is cooking again. Always in the kitchen. “You’re late for your dinner,” she says, without looking up from the frying pan. Which is swimming in fat. Disgusting. The table’s laid for four, with the cloth and everything. “Hello Mrs Bolton,” says the girl. “Sheila!” says the mother. Now at least I know her name. “I’ve brought Sheila back – for lunch,” I say. Not with much confidence. Marilyn’s mother looks down at the four chops in the pan. One for me, one for her, one for the brat, one for the dad. “Lunch.” She sounds despairing. “Really, it’s no bother, I’ll go home,” says Sheila, catching the way things are going. “No, don’t worry. You set another place at the table, Marilyn. Dinner’s nearly ready. There’s plenty.”
