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herself further back across the bed, so she could lean against the wall. ‘I’ve never seen any that big.’
    ‘London, mostly.’ Victoria reached to push a drawing pin in more securely. ‘There was a great shop down the road from our last house. And my uncle gives me them sometimes.’
    The showpiece hung at the head of the bed, old and battered and thin along the crease lines. The corners rolled over the drawing pins and the pink and orange background colours were faded and beautiful. The main figure was caught in profile, the colours blocked in varying shades of yellow and brown: it was a man like a side-burned lion, his arms holding drumsticks triumphantly aloft and his knees splayed out behind a drum kit. The circle of the bass drum was filled with a landscape, a crazed country cottage at the side of a winding road headed for the mountains. The drummer’s feet, planted firmly in a two-and-ten position, seemed at first sight to be wearing odd shoes, but closer inspection revealed that the foot on the right was hidden behind a highly decorated snail. Snail and man had matching, heavily ringed eyes.
    ‘That’s my dad.’ Victoria had twisted to follow Helen’s gaze. ‘My uncle did the artwork.’
    Helen read out the words beneath the figure. ‘Isle of Wight Festival, 1970.’ She turned a to speak over her shoulder. ‘We went to the Isle of Wight once. I can’t remember it really, except we had to walk everywhere.’ Her eyes returned to the poster and she started to read the list of names. ‘What sort of festival was it? There was a street parade in Cowes when we were there.’
    Victoria fell back on the bed, holding her stomach as she let out a howl of disbelief.
    ‘A parade in Cowes? This was the Isle of Wight festival! Six hundred thousand people and Jimi Hendrix!’
    Helen’s face was a single hot flush.
    ‘I’ve never heard of it.’ She looked back at the list of names. It was no use; she didn’t know any of them. ‘Was your dad in a band?’
    Victoria pushed herself up again, and ran a finger down the poster.
    ‘Here – Cumulus. My dad was the drummer.’ She put a hand up towards the poster. ‘Well, obviously.’
    ‘Oh.’ Helen did a quick calculation. ‘So were you there too?’
    Victoria nodded. ‘I don’t really remember it. I was only, what, two? Three?.’
    ‘Is he in a band now?’ Helen scanned the walls, trying to find him there.
    ‘My dad? Dunno.’ Victoria stared at the poster. ‘We haven’t seen him for a long time.’ Her face had darkened, as if clouds really were passing over. ‘But my uncle’s usually around in the summer. The artist one.’
    ‘Does he see your dad?’
    ‘Nobody does.’ Victoria stretched to her full length along the bed, keeping her fingers in touch with the wall and reaching for the far end with her toes. ‘The last we heard, he was in South America. He was fighting with the MIR in Chile.’ She turned her head and regarded Helen through half-closed eyes before sending her gaze back to the ceiling and giving a small sigh. Her voice was patient, explaining to an idiot: ‘
Movimiento de Izquierda Revolucionaria
. In English, it’s the Revolutionary Left Movement.’
    ‘Oh.’ Helen paused, not sure if this was a good thing to have your father do or not. ‘My mum left in the spring.’ It was a relief to be able to say it to someone who might understand. She’d been the only one in her class with parents who didn’t live together.
    ‘Oh yeah? Where’d she go?’
    ‘Only to Southport.’ It sounded so commonplace. ‘I don’t see her, though.’
    Victoria said nothing. She was right, Helen thought. It wasn’t much of a story. Trust her mum to leave in the dullest way possible. Her leg gave a twinge from the position it was in and she stole a glance down. Victoria was lying inches from her feet, fencing her in. She tried to shift into a more comfortable place without making too much of it, though Victoria seemed oblivious. On the