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about her. Drinking again. (Alison’s husband, Hugo, in a long period of unemployment, once veered on to the edge of alcoholism but fortunately veered off again, and the smell of nail varnish, acetone, gave a warning sign of an agitated, overworked liver, unable to cope with acetaldehyde, the highly toxic product of alcohol metabolism.)
    ‘Could I sit down?’ says Erica. ‘He’s locked me out. Am I speaking oddly? I think I’ve lost a tooth. I’m hurting under my ribs and I feel sick.’
    They stare at her – this drunk, dishevelled, trouble-making woman.
    ‘He,’ says Maureen finally. ‘Who’s he?’
    ‘Derek.’
    ‘You’re going to get into trouble, Erica,’ says Ruthie, though more kindly than Maureen, ‘if you go round saying dreadful things about poor Derek.’
    ‘I wouldn’t have come here if there was anywhere else,’ says Erica.
    ‘You must have friends,’ observes Maureen, as if to say, Don’t count us amongst them if you have.
    ‘No.’ Erica sounds desolate. ‘He has his friends at work. I don’t seem to have any.’
    ‘I wonder why,’ says Maureen under her breath; and then, ‘I’ll get you a taxi home, Erica. You’re in no state to be out.’
    ‘I’m not drunk, if that’s what you think.’
    ‘Who ever is,’ sighs Ruthie, sewing relentlessly on. Four more blouses by one o’clock. Then, thank God, bed.
    Little Poppy has passed out on a pile of orange ostrich feathers. She looks fantastic.
    ‘If Derek does beat you up,’ says Alison, who has seen her father beat her mother on many a Saturday night, ‘why don’t you go to the police?’
    ‘I did once, and they told me to go home and behave myself.’
    ‘Or leave him?’ Alison’s mother left Alison’s father.
    ‘Where would I go? How would I live? The children? I’m not well.’ Erica sways. Alison puts a chair beneath her. Erica sits, legs planted wide apart, head down. A few drops of blood fall on the floor. From Erica’s mouth, or elsewhere? Maureen doesn’t see, doesn’t care. Maureen’s on the phone, calling radio cabs who do not reply.
    ‘I try not to provoke him, but I never know what’s going to set him off,’ mumbles Erica. ‘Tonight it was Tampax. He said only whores wore Tampax. He tore it out and kicked me. Look.’
    Erica pulls up her nightie (Erica’s wearing no knickers) and exposes her private parts in a most shameful, shameless fashion. The inner thighs are blue and mottled, but then, dear God, she’s nearly fifty.
    What does one look like, thigh-wise, nearing fifty? Maureen’s the nearest to knowing, and she’s not saying. As for Ruthie, she hopes she’ll never get there. Fifty!
    ‘The woman’s mad,’ mutters Maureen. ‘Perhaps I’d better call the loony wagon, not a taxi?’
    ‘Thank God Poppy’s asleep.’ Poor Ruthie seems in a state of shock.
    ‘You can come home with me, Erica,’ says Alison. ‘God knows what Hugo will say. He hates matrimonial upsets. He says if you get in between, they both start hitting you.’
    Erica gurgles, a kind of mirthless laugh. From behind her, mysteriously, a child steps out. She is eight, stocky, plain and pale, dressed in boring Ladybird pyjamas.
    ‘Mummy?’
    Erica’s head whips up; the blood on Erica’s lip is wiped away by the back of Erica’s hand. Erica straightens her back. Erica smiles. Erica’s voice is completely normal, ladylike.
    ‘Hallo, darling. How did you get here?’
    ‘I followed you. Daddy was too angry.’
    ‘He’ll be better soon, Libby,’ says Erica brightly. ‘He always is.’
    ‘We’re not going home? Please don’t let’s go home. I don’t want to see Daddy.’
    ‘Bitch,’ mutters Maureen, ‘she’s even turned his own child against him. Poor bloody Derek. There’s nothing at all the matter with her. Look at her now.’
    For Erica is on her feet, smoothing Libby’s hair, murmuring, laughing.
    ‘Poor bloody Erica,’ observes Alison. It is the first time she has ever defied Maureen, let alone