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she’d rather not know. So she helped him.

      ‘Morning, Dad,’ she said brightly. ‘Did you see the card upstairs from Auntie Sal? That was nice of her, wasn’t it? Shame she can’t come and see us, though.’

      ‘I did, lass,’ he said. ‘And don’t you worry. I haven’t forgot. Happy birthday, love,’ he added, giving her a cuddle.

      She decided she believed him anyway. ‘Well, what with yesterday and all that, I thought you might have. I wouldn’t blame you if you did,’ she added, even though she would – deep down, she would. ‘Anyway, we still off to the pictures, then?’

      It was only then that she realised her dad had something for her behind his back, but there was something in his expression that signalled not all was well. He handed her an envelope with her name on, and a large paper bag. ‘I can’t do it, love,’ he said, his face a picture of guilt and misery. ‘I completely forgot the brewery were due this afternoon. Completely forgot. Well, till your mam reminded me. But we’ll do it another day,’ he promised, gesturing towards the bag now in her hand. ‘Go on, take a look, lass. I think you’ll like what we’ve got you, at least.’

      Kathleen thanked her dad through gritted teeth. Trust Irene to mess things up on her birthday. Not that she’d expected any less, because Irene was a cow, but couldn’t her dad, just for once, find the guts to go against her? To tell her that no matter what, he was going to do something with his own daughter, and she could piss off and see the brewery men without him?

      But expecting that was like expecting it to snow in July. It wasn’t going to happen, and that was that. She opened the bag, already knowing that the present was going to be a record, and it was. And the one she most wanted. She felt a rush of affection for her dad then, for going into Smith’s and getting it. For caring enough to know exactly what to choose. It was ‘I Got You Babe’ by Sonny and Cher, Kathleen’s current favourite song – and everyone else’s pretty much, because it was currently number one, and might even have been sold out before he got there.

      ‘Oh, thanks so much, Dad,’ she said, reaching up to kiss his cheek. ‘I’ll go give it a play soon as I’ve finished down here.’

      John smiled at her, clearly pleased to have chosen so well. ‘Wait till your mam’s come downstairs, eh? Only I didn’t tell her I’d bought it, and what with Darren losing all his money this week, she’ll be in a right mood if she thinks I’ve been splashing out on you.’

      Kathleen’s cheerful mood dissolved as quickly as beer foam into a bar towel. ‘She’s not my mam!’ she reminded him. ‘And, Dad, it’s my frigging birthday! What does she expect?’

      ‘Come on, Kathleen,’ he urged. ‘You know how things are. Don’t make trouble. And don’t let her hear you saying she’s not your mam, either. She tries her best for us, love, you know that. You might not always realise, but she does.’

      Kathleen bit her lip to prevent the words she wanted to say from spilling out, because all she’d get was the usual gentle lecture – which was still a lecture – about how she was too young to understand the complexities of life and how, once she was older, she’d understand it better, and so on and so on and bloody so on. But how complicated could it be? Irene wore the trousers. Irene bossed her dad around. Her dad let her. That was all there was to know about it.

      And, as a consequence, she not only wasn’t going to the pictures, she wasn’t even going to be allowed to enjoy her birthday present – hell, she didn’t even have her own record player to play it on, so had to ‘borrow’ Monica’s, like that was in any way fair! All that, and he still called the cow her ‘mam’. That woman who she’d heard so many times point out to people that no, Monica and Darren were hers, but she wasn’t – she was ‘John’s girl’.

      She opened the envelope. ‘Oh, don’t worry, Dad, you’re safe,’ she said, unable to suppress the sarcasm. ‘I won’t be finished in here till after then anyway, will I?’

      In answer, he gently patted her, then headed off to the cellar to sort out the barrels. He was already out of sight when she realised what he’d put in the card. ‘Happy birthday’, yes, above the usual couple of lines of printed verse, but underneath he’d written ‘Lots of love from Dad’.

      ‘What about this?’ she called after him, holding the card up. ‘Am I allowed to put it up, or is this a secret too?’

      He popped his head back round the door. ‘What, love?’

      ‘Is this card a secret, too?’

      He looked confused, and she immediately regretted what she’d said. However much he infuriated her, he was still her dad and she loved him.

      ‘Doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘Go on. You’re fine. The card’s lovely. I’ll pop it up with Aunt Sally’s once I’m done here.’

      But all she could think of was how there was anything else to understand in the fact that her ‘mam’ hadn’t even signed her birthday card. How many brain cells did you need to understand that?

      She grabbed the duster again and started attacking the final pump. Happy Birthday to me, she thought grimly.

Chapter 3

      ‘Haven’t you done in that bathroom yet?’ Irene was shouting. Kathleen sighed and gave a very satisfying two fingers to the closed door.

      ‘I won’t be a minute, Mam,’ she called back. The word ‘mam’, as always, stuck in her throat.

      ‘I don’t know why you bother, girl,’ Irene shouted back waspishly. ‘No amount of bleeding make-up could make that gormless face look any better. Now hurry up, I’m going to pee myself out here.’

      Kathleen smiled at her reflection in the mildewing cabinet mirror. The old cow could just bloody well pee herself then. She grabbed an elastic band from the side of the sink and carefully smoothed her shoulder-length hair back into a high ponytail, then eased the hair out at the top so she could make it all bouffant, like all the pop stars like Lulu and Dusty Springfield did. She took her time. She didn’t care about her stepmother’s bladder, because it wasn’t her fault she had to use the bathroom first, was it? It was Mary’s.

      Well, not so much her fault, because she couldn’t help being ill, could she? Kathleen understood that. But it was absence of Mary that had put Kathleen behind. She’d sent her husband round with a note for Irene first thing that morning, to let her know that she wouldn’t be able to do her shift on the bar. And, of course, Irene couldn’t possibly be expected to do it – at lunchtime? On a Wednesday? So, of course, it fell to Kathleen, on top of all the skivvying she’d still have to spend the afternoon doing – cleaning the flat, doing the washing, shopping for food and then cooking it, so her poor worn-out step-siblings would have a meal on the table for when they got home from their much harder jobs.

      The only solace, and one she clung to, was that while she was upstairs and Irene and her dad were busy downstairs, she could borrow Monica’s record player and play her few records, while fantasising about all the pop stars who might whisk her away to a more exciting life than the one she had now.

      Her dad was, as usual, down in the pub’s cellar at this time, so with Darren and Monica both at work, it just left the two of them in the flat. On a normal day, Kathleen would keep herself out of Irene’s way, but, still seething about her stepmother’s hand in last weekend’s non-birthday, today she felt a powerful urge to dawdle as long as she could, just for the sheer pleasure of winding Irene up.

      ‘Nearly done!’ she called, gaily, as she sat on the closed toilet seat and adjusted the straps on her slingbacks. ‘I’m just finishing off my hair.’

      But she couldn’t stay in there for ever. One last check – she liked herself better in a ponytail – and she unlocked the door. The grin soon disappeared.

      ‘Horrible

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