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“Papa seemed to soften her sharp edges. When he didn’t return after the war, Mother’s ferocity took root. She allowed her world to close in, and now struggles with company, mine being no exception.”

The priest frowned. “But you, Ella, you’re so…” He breathed heavily through his nose, as if trying to puff out the right words to describe her, “...upbeat,” he eventually offered.

Ella laughed. “I won’t lie. It’s a struggle, but I try to hang onto my positivity and sanity as best I can.”

“I don’t mean to pry, but is there no one else to support you?”

Ella shook her head. “I’m all she has left. Just me and her faith.”

“What more could she possibly want?” The priest’s smile stretched to his eyes, and he reached out and touched her forearm.

She glanced at his hand as he held it there, his heat emanating through her skin, into her flesh; somehow warming through to her bones.

Sylvia’s voice shrieked, “Eleanor! What’s keeping you?”

“Right, we’d better…”

“Yes.”

The look between them lingered longer than it should have.

“Coming, Mother!” Ella pitched her voice to carry into the drawing room. “Father Harries has taken ill. St. Mary’s have sent us Father Higgins instead.” With a small smile, Ella motioned for the priest to enter the room.

“Tea, Father?”

1963

PIGTAILS AND LIPS

Pick of the Popsscratched out of the paint-splattered speaker of the transistor, and the three of us went about our usual business in the studio.

Mum called it her studio, but it was just a stone outbuilding which she’d transformed into a cosy home away from the place we couldn’t really call home. Knitted blankets and scattered cushions dressed the two sagging armchairs, and Mum’s colourful canvases brightened the dank walls. On colder days, she served us hot blackcurrant cordial and home-baked biscuits as we listened to the latest songs playing on the radio. The studio smelt mossy and damp, but also like sweet tobacco and oil paints, and we always felt safe tucked away in there because the dragon never left its own cave to enter ours.

The song spun from Gerry and the Pacemakers into the current number one.

“Crank it up, Bernie,” said Mum. Bernard dropped his colouring pencil and dashed to the red radio on the window ledge. He twisted the knob as far as it would go, blasting the opening bars ofFrom Me to Youfrom the tinny little speaker.

Beatlemania had swept the country, and our tiny corner of it was no exception.

Mum bopped her hips and thrust her hands down to me, where I sat atop a huge, knitted floor cushion with a book perched on my knees. I shot her a sullen look of protest, but still, I let her pull me to my feet.

“C’mon, Georgie. You’ll trip over that bottom lip if you’re not careful.”

I half-smiled despite myself and shuffled my feet as Mum waved mine and Bernard’s arms in time to the beat. Pyg jumped around us, her tail swooshing like a bushy black metronome. Bernard sang the lyrics word-perfectly, accompanied by the occasional excited bark from Pyg. I mumbled along, self-conscious, but I felt my bad mood lifting as we all collapsed onto the floor cushions, laughing and breathless.

A light knock at the door snatched our attention.

“That’ll be Father Higgins.” Mum stood, smoothing her skirt, and reaching up to tidy her hair as she moved to the radio and clicked it off. “Come on in, Father,” she said to the door.

The priest ducked under the low doorway and unfolded himself into the room, his presence filling more than just the space he occupied. Pyg bowled over to him, circling his legs, and he bent to ruffle her floppy ears.

“So, how is everyone doing?” he asked as he eased himself down into the armchair.

I shrugged and sank back onto my cushion. I eyed them over the top of my book, somewhat irked that Bernard had rushed to the priest’s side and Pyg was curled at his feet.

“Father, do you like The Beatles? They’re at number one in the pop charts.”

“Bernie, dear, give Father Higgins a moment to settle in. The poor chap has had quite the afternoon of it, no doubt. Can I make you some tea, Father?” Mum smiled and pulled Bernard to her hip, stroking down his blonde hair where it stubbornly sat up at the crown.