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life back.
    ‘Poor old Jeremy,’ Steve says as an afterthought as he goes out the bedroom door, leaving me stranded in the middle of the bed until eventually I manage to get some control over my
thoughts and turn them back towards my nephew, innocently sleeping on the zed-bed downstairs.
    Yes, poor old Jeremy. I shouldn’t be wallowing in self-pity right now. I should be concentrating on him. He’ll be mortified. His dad, a criminal. Happy New Year, son.

Chapter Six: Tuesday January 1st
    ‘Wow, cool!’ exclaims Jeremy, eyes bright with excitement. ‘Can we go and see him, Auntie Vicky? It’s like The Bill . Is he banged up in a
cell?’
    This is the most animated I have ever seen Jeremy so I should be thankful for small mercies. He has appeared in the kitchen, where I have been force-feeding Imo baby porridge. I have had to
explain the absence of his father. I thought about lying but Steve wouldn’t go a bundle on that.
    ‘It’s not “cool”, Jeremy. It was a very foolish thing to do.’
    ‘But it was our house. He only wanted to get some stuff but Mum’s like changed the locks. That’s what you said.’
    ‘Your mum changed those locks for a reason and your father should have respected that and gone down the proper channels.’
    ‘You sound like one of those police officers off The Bill . How did you learn that, Auntie Vicky?’
    I’ve obviously been watching far too much TV since Jeremy’s arrival.
    ‘I have no idea.’
    I am being a good mother and aunt. I have gathered the four children together (i.e. dragged them away from CBeebies), and we are busy at the kitchen table making biscuits. Even
Imo is on the table in her car bucket, kicking her feet in encouragement. The table and the children are covered in flour but they are smiling and so am I.
    Then the door goes and in walks a bedraggled Martin accompanied by a slightly crumpled curate.
    ‘Morning all,’ says Martin, bending his knees like Dixon of Dock Green. This goes right over the kids’ heads but annoys me right off that he can be so blasé about the
havoc he’s caused.
    ‘Right, I’ll put these in the oven while you lot go and get cleaned up. And don’t touch anything with your sticky hands.’
    ‘I’ll wash the bowl,’ volunteers Olivia, rushing to the sink before I can get rid of her and find out exactly what’s been going on.
    ‘Steve, do you think you could supervise while I have a little chat with Martin?’
    Steve expresses concern at the prospect of me having a little chat with Martin. ‘Are you sure you want to do that now?’
    ‘Yes. Definitely now,’ I squeeze Steve’s arm in a display of marital harmony and support (must encourage Steve back to the gym; church doesn’t tone the biceps the way a
tap wrench once did). ‘Then I’ll make you some breakfast. You must be famished.’ I drag Martin out the back door into the garden before Steve can intervene.
    It is freezing outside so I button up my cardy. ‘Don’t even think about mentioning the stepping stones or gnomes. Tell me what you’ve done, Martin.’
    He looms over me in his Martin-way but I will not be made to feel small. His little sister. ‘It would never have happened if you hadn’t forced me to go round to retrieve my
EpiPen,’ he whines, colour returning to his cheeks from the cold. There is an arrogant jut to his chin that lurks somewhere under his increasingly skanky beard.
    ‘So it’s my fault, is it? Ha! I should’ve known.’
    ‘I didn’t say that. Only I wouldn’t have been at my house otherwise, would I?’
    ‘Do you seriously expect me to believe that you went round to retrieve your EpiPen just because I put you on peanut duty?’
    Martin kicks at a bit of gravel on the patio, probably imagining it to be my head. ‘I was going to pick up a few more things. For Jeremy. He’s got Nintendo Withdrawal Syndrome. You
wouldn’t appreciate that, having girls... ’ He tails off, not sure how to get out of this.
    I turn away from