He walked from the bus stop to Stebondale Street, his footsteps growing slower as he climbed the last gentle rise. The street seemed meaner, dingier, than he remembered, and he felt a sudden uneasiness as his house came in sight. Would he find that things at home had changed, too? Going round the back, he entered the cluttered yard, then pushed open the kitchen door and peeked in. Familiar aromas assaulted him—cabbage and bacon and baking bread—and at the cooker, his mother stood with her back turned to him, her pink apron tied neatly at her waist. Pausing for a moment in her stirring, she tilted her head in that listening way he knew so well. “Lewis?” She turned, her thin face alight, and in a moment he was enveloped in a floury hug. “Let me look at you,” she exclaimed, holding him at arm’s length. “Oh, my, your brothers will hardly recognize you, you’ve grown so.”
At the sight of his startled face, she laughed. “I wanted it to be a surprise. Tommy and Edward have both managed a day’s leave for Christmas. They’ll be here tonight.”
Cath came in then, high heels clattering on the floorboards, and gave him a lipsticked smack on the cheek. Lewis stared at her in consternation. “What’s the film-star getup for?”
Cath tossed her head, but the motion didn’t disturb herhair’s smooth waves. “I’m a grown woman now, Lewis Finch, and you should treat me with some respect. I’m meeting someone, if you must know.”
“Not if your da sees you like that,” his mum said. “Lewis is right, Cathleen. Wipe that muck from your face before your father gets home—”
“But, Mummy, you know how long I had to queue to get this lipstick—”
“You should have known better, then, shouldn’t you, missy? And you’ll stay at home tonight with your brothers. I’ll not hear another word.”
“You should talk, anyway,” Cath said, abandoning the argument and pulling a face at Lewis. “Acting the toff like that.”
“What do you mean, toff?” he retorted, incensed.
“Just look at you.” She nodded at his pullover and trousers, castoffs of William’s, the trousers still a bit long. “And listen to you. You sound like that reader on the BBC, what’s his name, the one who talks like he has a pencil stuck up his nose.”
“I do not—”
“You do so, Lewis Finch, and don’t think I’m impressed one bit.”
“And what makes you think I care?” He stuck his tongue out.
Reaching out, Cath grabbed his earlobe between her thumb and forefinger and twisted.
