“I’ve got to go, Gran. I want to get home for the tennis.”

“You could watch it here, love,” Bessie Evans said. “Save your legs.”

“Your telly’s always on the blink,” Rachel said, smiling to soften it. “And I promised I’d do lunch for the boys. They’ll starve without me.”

“Them two should look after theirselves,” Bessie sniffed. “They’re old enough now. You’re too kind, Rache.”

Rachel got up and went to the front-room window. She pulled back the net curtain and squinted out. The sunlight flared off the glass, making the park and the canal beyond seem almost white.

“What’s so important about a tennis match anyway?” Bessie muttered, levering herself out of her armchai...

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