I’m not entirely sure where Custard got to that night, but she did not go home and she did not go to Dick the Dustman’s flat either. In fact, she never went there again. By the morning, Janet was frantic with worry and having quizzed KM and myself about her daughter’s whereabouts, and visibly disappointed in our lack of knowledge, she left our kitchen a whirlwind of pain and grey to the gills. A big, fat penny had dropped.
A few hours later, apparently none the worse for wear, Custard rolled up neither smiling nor proud of her absence but steely and determined.
“Wish me luck,” she said as she went in. She was still wearing her halter neck top and her hair shot off in all angles from where she’d slept.
At about lunch time Janet appeared in our kitchen again. She didn’t have a bag of tins as…
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