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the back of my throat and it doesn’t want to be there any more. I sit straight up and the rest of me doesn’t like that at all. I feel for the edge of the bed in the dark, lean over the side and let it go.
    That’s better, except for everything else. I lie back again. I don’t care. I don’t want to know.

 
    FRANCINE
    What on earth? I’m halfway into my nightdress when I hear it. Oh no. I step out onto the landing, dreading what I know I’m going to find. I’ve heard Father retch into the night pot often enough, but that was not Father. He does not tend to yell obscenities before he vomits, and he’s also just appeared from his own room. We glance at each other with feeble resolution before I open the spare room door.
    I feel for the light cord and pull but the stupid thing doesn’t go on — of course. Electricity’s more trouble than it’s worth here too. Urgh, I might not be able to see what’s happened, but I can smell it clear enough. I grope about for the little oil lamp on top of the chest of drawers. And knock down my pencil box, which I’d left there earlier. ‘Are you all right?’ I croak into nowhere and there’s an affirmative grunt in reply. I’ve got the lamp glowing now and peer through the gloom at him. He doesn’t look too well to me; he is a study of grey. I turn back to Father, who’s swaying slightly in the doorway, full as a boot after those fixing malts; despite the intent look on his face, he’ll be no use. ‘Go to bed, Father, I’ll deal with it,’ I say, sounding very grown up, feeling hopelessly daunted.
    â€˜You’re a good girl, Francy,’ he says, lilting thickly. If I weren’t such a good girl I’d curse him for this. So much for philanthropy. What was he thinking? He shuffles back to his room, hand raised in benediction.
    What to do? I don’t want to, but I’ll have to call Polly up. I have no idea where to begin. ‘Polly!’ I call down the stairs, and somehow that shakes my brain into action: I go back to my room for my basin and the cloth I was just about to wash my face with. It occurs to me that our guest might appreciate it more, sans rosewater.
    When I return across the landing Polly’s already hauling herself and a mop and bucket up the stairs; evidently she heard it too. As I now realise she would have, her room being directly below at the back of the house. ‘Poor lad,’ she says as she reaches the top, and even manages to make that sound like it’s my fault.
    I ignore her; she can deal with the vomit on the floor. I put the basin and cloth on the bedside table and take the lamp from the drawers and put it there too so I can see him better. I soak the cloth and wring it, then hover over him, hesitating. I’ve never washed someone’s face before.
    Polly slaps the mop onto the floorboards over the other side of the bed and he opens his eyes and blinks straight into mine. Green glinting amber. It’s only then that I recognise him. The miner from the street. It shocks me more than anything else that’s happened on this very strange day. His face is fierce, not smiling now, not smudged with coal; his eyes impale me as he takes the cloth that’s dangling in my hand. He wipes his mouth and gives it back to me, then lies back again, turning away from the light. The embarrassment I felt before is nothing compared to this moment. I am suspended in it.
    Polly gathers up the bucket and mop and says: ‘I’ll get a cloth to finish off.’
    â€˜No. I’ll wipe it,’ I say. ‘You can go. Thank you.’
    I sound mean, with the meanness of incompetence, and it sticks in my throat.
    â€˜Suit yourself,’ she says and I don’t hear her leave.
    I sit down on the packing cases. I won’t get a cloth right away. I am having a higher thought: shame.
    And I remember his name now, Father told me during