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I’m leaving him.’
    The hostess sank back against the spindles of her chair. Hadn’t she entertained the same idea only hours ago? Wasn’t this wizened woman one of the very people in whose tragic
footsteps Lily was following? Oh, she’d never been hit, but Lily Hardcastle felt just as squashed and hopeless as Dot plainly was. ‘Where will you go?’
    ‘To our Frank.’
    ‘Your Frank?’ Dot had Lily at it now, repeating, repeating.
    ‘He’s got a little general store up Bromley Cross,’ said Dot, her spine straightening with pride. ‘Saved up, he did, then got a mortgage on the house at the back of the
shop. I’ll be selling all sorts, Lily, selling all sorts.’
    ‘Well, I am pleased for you, love.’
    Dot took a great gulp of tea. ‘There’s a bit more to it, Lily, a bit more to it.’ She sucked thoughtfully on her dentures, ran a hand over thinning hair.
    Lily set herself in waiting mode once more, watching as Dot drained her cup right down to the dregs. She glanced at the cheap clock on the mantel, hoped it wasn’t running slow again.
    ‘You know my Frank, Lily. Aye, you know him.’
    ‘Course I do.’
    ‘He’s forty-two soon. Forty-two, Lily, and still a little lad to me. Shy, he is. I thought he’d never marry. Time and again I’ve told meself he’d always be a
bachelor.’
    ‘Aye, he’s shy all right,’ answered Lily encouragingly.
    Dot shivered. ‘Courting, Lily. Been courting about six month.’
    ‘Right.’
    ‘Lily?’
    ‘What, love?’
    ‘It’s one of the Higginses.’
    It was Lily’s turn to gulp in mouthfuls of air. ‘But they’re only young, them Higginses, Dot . . .’
    ‘I know.’
    ‘And they’re . . . Catholics.’
    ‘I know.’
    ‘And he’s . . .’ Lily jerked a thumb in the direction of Dot’s house, ‘he’s . . .’
    ‘He’s a swine.’ Dot completed Lily’s sentence for her. ‘He hates Catholics, especially the Higgins lot. Remember that time he threw stones at the statues during the
walks? Then when Peter and Paul’s church were set afire – that were him, Lily. So, I’ve had to tell you, because you live next door to him. When I go, there’ll be murder.
There will, there’ll be murder.’
    ‘God help us,’ gasped Lily.
    Dot’s hand crept across the table and grasped one of Lily’s. ‘Frank’s for turning,’ she whispered.
    ‘No!’ In the silence that followed, a dropping pin would have achieved the same impact as a bomb. Turning was unheard of in these parts. Turning was a form of brainwashing, weeks on
end of sitting with a priest while you learned a load of rules and promised to bring your kids up as Catholics.
    ‘See, when Ernest hears, Lily . . . When Ernest hears . . .’
    Lily agreed, though she tried to look on the brighter side. ‘There’s not much he can do, Dot, not with his leg.’
    ‘I don’t trust him,’ declared Dot. She looked her neighbour straight in the eyes. ‘You must have heard it all, Lily.’
    ‘Aye, I have, love.’
    ‘He battered my boys, too, long before you moved in. Years I’ve had. Years and years.’
    ‘I know.’
    ‘So I’m going. Aye, I’m going, lass.’
    Lily gripped Dot’s hand tightly, noticing that it was drier, harder even than her own. ‘You can trust me, you know that. Anything I can do, just tell me.’
    ‘I will.’ Dot’s eyelids blinked rapidly, a few reluctant tears squeezed out by the movement. ‘When I’ve gone, I’ll write to you.’
    Lily shivered involuntarily. ‘Hey – I’ve just thought – what about that lot across the road? How will they take it?’
    Dot smiled through her sadness. ‘They’re thrilled to bits, Lily. They know their Rachel will be looked after and they’re not bothered about the age difference, specially seeing
as how he’s turning. Aye, he’s all right because he’s turning.’
    When Dorothy Barnes had returned to her own house, a place she was about to leave after going on forty-five years, Lily breathed freely at last. The