Passion Flower. Jean Ure

      THE FIRST THING we did was go back to Dad’s place to dump our bags. Very earnestly, with her hand tucked into Dad’s, the Afterthought said, “I’m glad you didn’t have to go and live in a cardboard box. I was really worried about that.”

      Dad said, “Were you, poppet? That’s sweet of you. I bet your mum wasn’t!”

      “I think she was,” I said.

      “She wasn’t!” said the Afterthought. “She didn’t care!”

      I said, “She did! But she thought you’d be all right, because she said you always landed on your feet.”

      “Oh, did she?” said Dad. “And I suppose she thinks that you don’t have to work, to land on your feet. I suppose she thinks it just happens?”

      I didn’t know what to say to that.

      “Why are we talking about Mum?” shrilled the Afterthought.

      “Good question,” said Dad. “Your mum’s gone off to Spain to enjoy herself, we’ll enjoy ourselves in Brighton. Let’s get shot of these bags, then we can go out and paint the town!”

      Dad was living in a tiny little narrow street near to the station. The houses were little and narrow, too. All tastefully painted in pinks and lemons and greens, with their doors opening right on to the pavement.

      “Oh! They’re so sweet,” crooned the Afterthought. “Like little dolls’ houses!”

      “Better than a cardboard box, eh?” said Dad.

      Better than the house we had at home! Our house at home was on an estate that belonged to the Council, and wasn’t very nice. I mean, it was actually quite ugly. Mum had always hated it. Dad’s house was palest pink with red shutters at the windows and a red front door. Really pretty!