She hadn't intended to let Winnie pay – she meant to pay herself and let the taxi go before going into the house – but Winnie was watching at the window and ran out of the house when she saw the taxi pull up. She shoved a tenner in the driver's window. "Take it off that," she said.

"Hiya," said Maureen, trying to sound cheerful.

Winnie looked terribly hung over. She put her hand to Maureen's face. "Hello, honey," she said, looking as if she might cry.

Maureen followed her into the house. Winnie and George were of a generation who believed in the value and longevity of man-made fabrics. The house was furnished with brown and yellow carpets, and curtains and furnishings that had survived from the seventies.

George was asleep on the settee in the dark living room; the silent television flickered in the corner. George drank as much and as often as Winnie but he was a dear, melancholic drunk whose greatest handicaps were falling asleep at odd moments and a propensity to recite sentimental poetry about Ireland.

Maureen could feel the heat from the cooker before she got through the kitchen door. "I've been baking all day," said Winnie. With a great flourish she opened the oven and pulled out a loaf tin. She cut a thick slice of hot gingerbread, buttered it and gave it to Maureen along with a cup of coffee.

The gingerbread tasted exactly the same as McCall's, a famous bakery in Rutherglen – they always overdid the cinnamon. But it was a kind lie, designed to make Maureen feel cared for. "Thanks, Mum," she said. "It's lovely."

Winnie sat next to her, clutching an opaque mug with a dark glaze on the inside. Maureen tried surreptitiously sniffing the air to work out what Winnie was drinking. It wasn't coffee, anyway. Winnie wasn't exhaling after each sip so it wasn't a spirit. It might be wine. Her tongue wasn't red. White wine. She had drunk just enough to get morose but not enough to be aggressive. About two cups. Maureen guessed that she had at least half an hour before Winnie started to get difficult.

Winnie sat next to her at the table and offered Maureen her old room back. "You could stay for as long as you want," she said.

When Maureen said she'd be fine at Benny's house, Winnie asked her if he was in the phone book. "Yeah," she said, before she had time to think about it. She was cursing her own stupidity as Winnie tried to give her some money. "I'm fine, Mum, really, I don't need anything."

"I've got some cheese in the fridge, I got it from the wholesalers, it's from the Orkneys."

"I don't want any cheese, Mum, thanks."

"I'll cut you a block to take home." She stood up and opened the fridge door, heaving the six-pound block of orange Cheddar onto the work top.

"I don't want any cheese, Mum, thanks."

Winnie ignored her, opened the cutlery drawer, pulled out a long bread knife, and began slicing a one-pound lump from the block. She paused, slumping over the cheese.

"Are you all right, Mum?"

"I worry about you," said Winnie, turning back to Maureen. She was on the verge of tears. "I worry about you so much."

"But you shouldn't, Mum."

"But you're a… I never know… if only you couldn't…" She abandoned the giant brick of cheese and sat back down at the table, lifting her cup and drinking out of it. "I think I've got flu," she whispered, crying thin tears.

"You should go to the doctor's, then."

Winnie looked helpless. "I'm a bit depressed," she said pointedly.

Maureen sighed. "Mum," she said, "I can't comfort you just now."

"I don't want you to comfort me," Winnie said, crying fluently "I just want to make sure you're all right."

"I am all right."

"I worry so much," she whimpered.

"You shouldn't."

She sat bolt upright, suddenly in control. "Maureen, I'm your mother."

"I know who you are," said Maureen, trying to cheer herself up. The wine must be kicking in: her moods were changing rapidly. Maybe more than two cups, maybe three.

"I just want to know," Winnie said softly. "Did you do it?"

"Did I do what, Mother?"

Winnie bowed her head. "Did you kill that man?" she muttered, and bit her lip.

Maureen pulled away, exasperated by Winnie's capacity for melodrama. "Oh, Mum, for God's sake, you know fine well I didn't."

Winnie was offended. "I don't know fine well…" She turned away as if she'd been slapped.

"Yes, you do," said Maureen. "You know I didn't kill him. You're so camp, I swear, you're like a bad female impersonator."

"I don't know you didn't do it," said Winnie solemnly. "You've often done things I didn't think you were capable of." She stood up and walked over to the sink, taking her cup with her, standing with her back to Maureen as she rearranged the glasses on the draining board.

"Like what?"

"You know…" And she whispered something under her breath, something that ended with "Mickey." Maureen hadn't heard her say the name since the hospital. She could feel herself shrinking in the chair.

"Don't worry," Winnie said, lifting her mug. "I'll stand by you, whatever you've done." She finished off her wine.

It was a low blow, hinting at the abuse. It was the meanest thing she could have brought up. "You drink too much, Mum," said Maureen, returning the compliment. "You wouldn't be on the verge of hysteria all the time if you drank less."

Winnie turned and looked at her, furious at the mention of her drinking. "How dare you?" she said, tight-lipped. "I paid for your taxi."

"I didn't want you to."

"But you let me."

Maureen pulled ten quid out of her wage packet and slapped it on the table. "There's a tenner, Mammy. That's us even."

Winnie screamed at her, "I don't want money!"

Maureen rolled her eyes just as George appeared at the kitchen door. "Oh," he said quietly, "I didn't hear you come in."

"Hello, George," said Maureen.

"Hello, pal," said George, and frowned. "Heard about yesterday. Nae luck."

He didn't talk about it much but Maureen suspected that George's early life hadn't been a bundle of laughs either. He had a charming talent for minimizing grief and, living with Winnie, he often had cause to use it.

"Aye," said Maureen, suddenly tired. "It wasn't good."

He patted the back of her head gently and turned to Winnie. "Any bread, doll? The seagulls are at the window again."

Winnie gave him some from the tin and he wandered off, ripping up the slices into uneven lumps, leaving a trail of crumbs through the hall. She came back to the table and shoved the tenner at Maureen. "Take the money back," she said. "I was just feeling a bit uptight. I'm sorry for shouting at you."

"Well, you shouldn't try to pay for things if you don't really want to."

Winnie sat down at the table. "I know. I just… I get nervous… and now this."

"Don't worry, Mum, the police'll find them soon."

She looked at Maureen and brightened. "Do you think so?"

Maureen nodded. "I know they will."

Winnie sat up and looked at the huge block of cheese sitting on the work top. "What the hell am I going to do with that much cheese?"

Maureen looked over at it and giggled. "Mum, why in God's name did ye buy that?"

Winnie shrugged, confused by her own behavior. "It seemed like a good idea at the time. We were using it as a garden ornament until we ate enough off it to get it through the door."

They sat together and laughed at the industrial lump of cheese. Maureen looked at her mum. Winnie was happy to laugh at herself, neither sad nor angry, demanding nothing: this was old Winnie, Winnie from before the drinking got really bad. And then she stopped laughing and looked at her empty cup and old Winnie was gone. She lifted her hand and brushed back Maureen's hair, but she was pressing too firmly against Maureen's head and some caught on her engagement ring. She tugged it hard. Maureen tried hard not to react in case Winnie thought she was rebuffing the kindly gesture.