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head just like on the TV.’
    ‘Yes, The Bill , I’ve seen it.’
    ‘Really? I didn’t have you down as a Bill fan.’
    ‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Martin.’
    At that moment the sun skulks off and a gust of wind blows up the railway track, wrapping itself around us as if to emphasise this enigmatic point I am making to my brother. He watches me pull
my woolly sleeves down over my hands to try and keep warm. As if it weren’t his fault we were out here in the cold. As if I wouldn’t rather be inside in the warm with my family,
breathing in the comforting smell of baking biscuits instead of a great hulk of a man who has spent the night in the cells.
    ‘I’ve heard that cardigans are back in fashion,’ he switches the focus, deftly, onto me. ‘Were you aware of that, Victoria? Isn’t it lucky you hung onto that one
from the Wham! years?’
    ‘At least I don’t have a beard.’
    ‘Give it time, Vicky-Love. Give it time.’
    If I had itching powder on me, now would be the time to throw it in his cantankerous, eczematous, beardy face. But I don’t. Instead, I turn on my heel and leave him to it. I need some of
those biscuits. Even if Jeremy’s slimy fingers have been all over them.
    Thoughts for the Day: Why don’t we own a house that requires an alarm? Will we ever?
     
    January 10th 1978
    Martin has a girlfriend. Yuck. She is called Heidi like on that programme where the actors’ lips move in different time to the words they are saying. It’s called
‘dubbing’ Martin told me. Know-it-all. He said Heidi was a book as well – as if I cared. I’d rather watch the telly.
    Martin’s girlfriend, Heidi, has big bosoms. Bigger than any grown up I know and she’s only 14. Martin has taken her to the cinema tonight to see Star Wars . Again. I think
Heidi would rather see Watership Down . I would. But Martin always gets his own way.
    Heidi came for tea first. Mum gave us fish fingers (burnt), mash (lumpy) and peas (hard). Heidi ate it all up without complaining. She likes her food Dad said when they’d gone to the
cinema and we were watching Tomorrow’s World (Dad is interested in technology, especially when it is Judith Hann talking about it).
    Mum went to put the kettle on. Dad said Heidi must like Martin. He sounded surprised. She’ll soon learn I said. I have inside knowledge. If anyone knows, it is me. I know what it is
like to be alone with Martin. He sits on your head and blows off. He is a disgusting pig.
    When I am 14 and have a boyfriend and hopefully big bosoms, my boyfriend will take me to the roller disco and spin me around like he’s Robin Cousins or John Travolta. My friends will be
amazed. They will be jealous of me, Vicky. Ha-ha!

Chapter Seven: Friday January 4th
    Olivia sits amidst an array of shoeboxes and tissue paper, her leg up on a foot-stool, like Cinderella, waiting to try on the glass slipper. Only this is not your fairy tale
ending. She is adamant she won’t have a T-bar as recommended by the haughty young assistant called Melanie.
    ‘She’s got narrow heels and the bar will stop the shoe slipping,’ Melanie states firmly.
    ‘No,’ Olivia states, even more firmly. She quite clearly isn’t having any of it; her cheeks are flushed and she is tossing her hair like a diva. She’ll be demanding her
own stylist and a basket of exotic fruit next. ‘I want those shiny ones, Mummy. Femi’s got shiny ones like that. Her mummy let her. I hope you’re going to let me.’
    I look at Imo for help, but Imo is busy sucking her big toe as thankfully shoes are still a way off for her. Why did I think it would be a good idea coming to Dulwich to buy the wretched shoes?
I should’ve stayed in Penge and gone to Shoe Zone.
    Deep breath. Count to ten.
    This is one of those situations when I should put my foot down. (My own feet haven’t seen new shoes in a very long time.) Martin would laugh if he saw me floundering like this, a grown
woman being manipulated by a