Freddie tutted when I described Ben's injuries, but when I got to the part about Theo calling me a fat old cow before fleeing behind the shed, he began to shake with laughter.

'It's not funny!' I raged indignantly. 'How can you laugh, Freddie Wilde?'

He wound his arm around my waist and leaned his head against mine, still chuckling weakly. 'Oh, my darling. You aren't fat, you aren't old, and you certainly aren't a cow. It really isn't amusing at all and I will have a very stern word with him. It's just that I remember calling my mother precisely the same thing. The exact same words. I was seven years old and I was furious! It was the most cutting insult I could muster. Then I ran like hell, straight into the arms of my father who'd just strolled in from work. I got the slipper.'

'Well deserved,' I pronounced sourly. 'Horrid little boy.'

As he followed me downstairs, I persuaded myself that my Freddie was all right; just stressed and sleep-deprived. God knows, we both were. Raising three young children was a challenge at the best of times but Scott's return had stretched us to our limits. Life goes on: washing to fold, mouths to feed, assignments to mark. The kitchen was chaotic and my pot plants wilting for lack of water. With a sigh, I began to empty the dishwasher.

Freddie helped. He'd stopped laughing. I knew he was about to say something I wouldn't like. I knew it from the pattern of his breathing-a series of deep inhalations, as though he was rehearsing lines. I knew every inch of him, every nuance of his body and breath. I think I knew him better than I knew myself.

'Spit it out,' I ordered.

He lifted those elegant shoulders. 'Look, Hannah, I think we may have to let this thing with Scott unfold. We can kick and scream, or we can help the children through it. Do we have a choice?'

I knew we hadn't, and the knowledge left me tight-lipped.

'What would Zoe want us to do in this situation?' asked Freddie.

'She'd want revenge.'

'Really? Was she so unforgiving? Look at it like this.' He ticked the numbers off on his hand. 'One-Scott's back in our lives, whether we like it or not.'

'More's the pity.'

'Two-you and I are not getting any younger.'

'Speak for yourself!'

'I am speaking for myself. I'm a real old codger. You're a young codger. The world's changing so fast that we can't keep up. We don't speak the same language. We don't know about apps and iTunes.'

'I'm hip! I have a Facebook profile.'

'Which Scarlet set up for you. You have never posted anything, ever. You don't know how. And you have a grand total of three Facebook friends.'

'Hmph. So what's your point?'

'We can't give them parenting. We can only give them grandparenting.'

'It's all I have to offer,' I muttered, and tipped the cutlery haphazardly into its drawer.

'We're not doing badly-don't be cross, Hannah-we're doing very well. You are doing a simply marvellous job and everyone admires you. But the fact of the matter is that we need all the help we can get.'

I clattered plates into a pile, one by one. 'Not from Joseph . . . bloody . . . Scott, we don't.' Slamming the dishwasher shut, I stood with my eyes closed. I was jangling.

Freddie's voice; Freddie's beloved calm: 'You may be right. You generally are.' He sat down at the table and bent his head over the paper. I turned the radio on and tried to distract myself with the evening's news while I chopped vegetables.

'Gerry Mac's gone, I see,' murmured Freddie, who derived a smug satisfaction from reading the obituaries. 'Says here he was a captain of industry and a respected philanthropist.' He laughed shortly. 'Bloody fraud. He's a grubby little oik of a schoolboy at heart, just like me. Inky fingers and socks at half-mast.'

A sigh of wind flicked spots of rain against the window. 'It's getting dark,' I said. 'Could you pop out and see Theo now?'

Frederick looked up from his paper. 'Mm? Theo?'

'Yes, please. It's raining and the wind's getting up. I'd really like him back inside soon, before he catches his death.'

'What's he doing outside?'

'He ran behind the shed after our battle.'

Freddie looked mystified. 'Battle?'

'I told you,' I whispered. 'Don't you remember?'

My poor Freddie. I could see it all in his face. Incomprehension as he struggled to drag the memory out of hiding; terror at the appalling blank space where it should have been.

'He called me a fat old cow,' I prompted. 'You must remember that!'

'Ah, yes.' Freddie sounded doubtful. 'Of course. Ha! Fat cow, eh? Little so-and-so.' He got up. 'Where is he?'

'Behind the shed.'

'Where? Oh, right. Well, if I'm not back by tomorrow, send out a search party.'

I watched through the window as his spare figure crossed the lawn; then I shook myself, and began to rinse some rice.

Zoe smiled affectionately down at me from her photo on the shelf. She looked mellow this evening. I longed to talk to her-I needed to talk to her. She so adored her father. She would have understood. She would have cared. She would have grieved with me, stood beside me as we faced what was coming.

But Zoe was gone forever. I worked and worried alone. And if I shed a few tears, there was nobody there to witness them.

Twenty-two.

Scarlet The next time we met up with Dad, the sun was bright and piercing. We strolled through York, slip-sliding on frozen patches of pavement. Ben swung on Dad's hand as though he'd known him for years-which he had, in a way. Mr Hardy tagged along behind.

I barely spoke. It was hard, really hard-but I did it. Poor Dad made a mammoth effort to chat about school, about my week, about the violin, but I gave him one-word answers. I could see he was puzzled, and I felt so sorry for him, but I was determined not to be disloyal to Mum again. She had to come first.

There was a fair on in the town centre. Ben pestered until Dad let him ride on the merry-go-round. My silly little brother sat grinning like a Cheshire cat on a big white horse, waving every time he came around and making us wave back at him. As soon as he got off, he chucked up all down his front. Dad bought him a new T-shirt and cleaned him up in the public toilets.

I went to the toilet at the same time, and when I came out Dad and Ben were waiting for me. Ben was holding Dad's hand and twittering away.

'You're not in jail after all,' he was saying.

Dad caught my eye, and smiled. He had a lovely smile. 'Not anymore.'

'Can we call you on the phone?' Ben had only just learned to use a telephone, and he was obsessed. He wanted to do it all the time.

'Um, I don't think your granny would like that,' said Dad nervously.

'She wouldn't mind.'

Dad was obviously trying to think up excuses. 'I live on the moors, so my phone doesn't work very well.'

'Well . . . can we have your number anyway?'

Dad gave in. He reached into his pocket and scribbled a number on a serviette. 'Scarlet can look after this,' he said, handing it to me. 'But you'd better not phone me. You could try sending a text, and I'll get it in the end.'

I shoved the bit of paper into my pocket, hoping Ben would forget we had it.

We bought baked potatoes from a stall and ate them sitting on a bench, watching the world go by. The potatoes were steaming, and the smell of melted cheese mingled with the winter air. There were no leaves on the trees. When I looked up, I saw pale blue sky through a mass of twigs and branches. Pigeons flew down to share our lunch, strutting with straight legs like clowns on a catwalk, flaunting their tail feathers and making gentle cooing noises. I love pigeons.

That night, the singing man visited. He stood close to my bed, growling secrets into my ear. I couldn't see him but I knew he was going to kill me. I wanted to scream but the only sound I could make was that little-bird squeak. I woke up gasping, staring around the dark room. The telephone rang, and I jumped up and ran down to the kitchen. The floor felt icy cold on my feet as I dashed across and snatched at the phone.

'Hello?' I panted.

'Scarlet.' Mum's voice. It was a very bad line though, crackling and fading in and out. I knew we wouldn't be able to talk for long.

'Mum!' I cried, overjoyed. 'Are you coming home?'

'You have to listen to me.' She sounded angry. I missed her next words. I just heard don't ever forget that.

'Are you happy?' I asked.

'Happy?' She laughed bitterly. 'I'm so homesick, Scarlet. I just want to come home to you, and-' Then the man's singing started up, echoing down the line, drowning out her voice.

'Mum!' I screamed. 'What? I can't hear you.'

I knew I was losing her. This was my last chance.

'I love you,' I yelled. Tears were running down my face. 'Can you hear me? I love you.'

'. . . can't forgive.'

Then a terrible noise came down the receiver; a roaring, blaring blast of sound. The line went dead.

My alarm clock was going off. Hannah was in my room, drawing the curtains. She used to have smile lines around her eyes, but lately they'd been more like worry lines. There was a new crease on her forehead. It was vertical.

'What's the matter?' she asked, when she looked into my face. 'You're not crying? You are crying!'

'I had a bad dream.'

The vertical line got deeper. 'What was it about?'

'Can't remember.'

She sat down on the bed and tousled my hair. 'What sort of thing? Tell me all about it. Then you'll feel better.'

'Violin lessons,' I said.

Mr Hardy took me out to a cafe after school on the Wednesday. He'd phoned and arranged it with Gramps. We reached Micklegate just as a last ray of sunshine was touching the upstairs windows, golden flashes on wobbly old glass. Rush-hour traffic had already begun to build up, and all those exhaust pipes made clouds in the cold air. I hate to think what York's rush hour does to the environment.

'Another lovely winter's day,' said Mr Hardy, holding open the cafe door.

I was pretty sure he hadn't brought me here to talk about the weather. Still, I was happy enough to be bought hot chocolate with marshmallows and sit in the window. There was a big group of mothers in the cafe, with their toddlers in highchairs and babies in buggies. Most of them wore puffer jackets and looked as though they went skiing a lot.

'My mum used to bring us into a place like this,' I said. 'She was forever having coffee with her friends. She used to say caffeine was her fix.'

Mr Hardy smiled as he stirred sugar into his mochaccino. 'I can relate to that.'

I looked out of the window. Shadows were creeping along the cobbled street outside. Since Dad had reappeared, I couldn't seem to talk about Mum without tears coming into my eyes and my face going puffy. I was always teetering on the edge of crying or shouting.

'So,' began Mr Hardy. 'How do you feel about seeing your dad?'

Two slim women in smart suits and little trench coats came striding past. They looked stylish and professional. One of them had short hair, bright green earrings and a long neck. For a second-just a crazy flash of a second-I thought she might be Mum. Then she turned her head to look in through our window, and I saw she was nothing like Mum. She wasn't even pretty, when you saw her face full on.

'Scarlet?' said Mr Hardy.

'Fine,' I said.

'Um, any chance of a bit more detail?'

'It's hurting too many people,' I said. 'And it has to stop.'

'Tell me who it's hurting.'

'Hannah. Gramps.'

'Mm-hm.' He sat back in his chair, stirring his coffee again. That had to be the best-stirred mochaccino in Yorkshire. 'And who else?'

'Mum,' I blurted miserably. 'It's hurting Mum.'

He didn't look at all surprised. In fact, I could have sworn I saw him nod to himself. 'Tell me about how it's hurting your mum.'

'She's so sad! I can feel her . . . she's lonely. She's homesick. How can we like him again after what he did to her? How can we?'

The mothers at the next table were glancing at us. I dropped my voice. 'I can't make a friend of my dad. None of us can.'

'It isn't your choice, Scarlet.'

I shook my head. 'Yes it is. I know it is, Mr Hardy, and so do you. I understood what you said about the judge making the decision, but in the end it's my choice. I can choose whether to talk to Dad, whether to be his friend, whether to make it work. The boys will do what I tell them. So in the end it's all down to me.'