drink, Mrs Fortescue?’ In the dim light she focussed with difficulty, on the bottle. ‘I never touch the stuff, dear …’ Bending his face down past hers, to adjust a wine bottle, he caught the liquor on her breath, and understood the vagueness of her good nature.
‘Well all right, dear,’ she went on, ‘just a little one to keep you company. You’re like your Dad, you know that?’
‘Is that so?’ He came out of the shop with the bottle under his arm, shutting the door behind him and locking it. The stairs glimmered dark. ‘Many’s the time he’s offered me a nip on a cold night, though not when your mother could see.’ She added a short triumphant titter, resting her weight on the stair-rail as if testing it.
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