Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. At times I swear I’ve never met a more jaded fifteen-year-old, and your lie about being sixteen didn’t get by me for one second, believe it. Not the explosive vigour of the north-born, but that which would quietly meet physical hardships and bear them triumphantly. It’s no good flying out at that, Vee; I didn’t arrange it. Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict. These things did not harmonize with his conception of the forthcoming (if unavoidable) interview.
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