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We both pause, our heads on one side like curious budgerigars, and grin as we wait for the inevitable.
“It’s only me!” shouts Barbara again, and I can just picture her on the doorstep, faffing with her scarf and checking her cameo brooch and sniffing the air like she’s a bloodhound on the track of moral iniquity. “Don’t like to intrude,” she trills, “but I’ll just use my key …”
Martha stares at me. I stare back.
“She’s lying,” says Martha, swigging down the last of the coffee. “She loves intruding. You should get the locks changed.”
She strides off to go and get properly dressed, and I attempt to smooth my crazy curls down into something less likely to make Barbara make the sign of the cross when she sees me.
It’s Sunday. Again. Which means that Martha gets the unrivalled joy of lunch with her grandparents – and I get a few more hours to plan our escape to the West Country.
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