Redmond Felix Dartin, my father, said ‘we need to talk’ whenever he had something horrible to tell me or to ask me.
As far as I was concerned, ‘we need to talk’ equalled ‘you’re not going to like what I have to say’.
I followed him into the kitchen with a sinking heart. Part of me wanted to stay in the draughty hallway with the street cats, but I went without a word. I was preparing myself in case he planned to deliver any bad news about those same cats. If he intended to shepherd them back onto the street once they were warmed and fed, then I had a good mind to go with them. Well, as long as Katkin would come with me.
Then I started to worry about where Katkin had got to, but as we pushed through to the toasty warmth of the kitchen, I could see her curled in front of the Aga, right nea
