Genevieve went down in the basement with the bag of tramp-clothes and stuffed them in the furnace she kept burning day and night. The salt-and-wind material hissed but fire overcame. Then she went in the bleach-scented kitchen and picked some of her daughter’s sunnies from a fruit-bowl. The sunnies were pink-framed, horned, narrow, like something Joan Crawford might have worn round a pool in better days. Holding them to her chest Genevieve took them back to the lounge where Honey stood all floppy-dismal rolling her toes and passed over the glasses.
“Put these on.”
Without a word Honey put them on and Genevieve smiled.