“Remember those times when she’d suddenly get out of bed and spend like a week cooking up a storm, making far too much food for Sunday school or organizing a million pamphlets; she’d stay up most of the night.”

“Because she wanted to be on God’s good side,” I say flatly. “She was obsessed with helping the church; it was the only time she showed any sign of life.”

“What about that time we went to Nelson?”

The long-forgotten memory of our family trip to the top of the South Island when I was eight years old flashes through my head like a series of movie clips: fish and chips on the wharf, swimming in the shallow breakers (I was too scared to go in over my head), playing at the local playground, having a ride on a miniature train. How could I have forgotten it? Our one and only family holiday.

“Mum planned everything, and for some reason, Dad just sat back and let her – which, now I think about it, was about the craziest part of the whole experience,” says Will. “Remember how Mum never stopped? She was always moving; pacing about on the beach watching us swim, telling us to put on more sunscreen, to walk faster or wait for the others to catch up. And she talked! She talked non-stop. I remember one night at dinner being mesmerized watching her chat away. I wondered if her body had been taken over by some alien being.”

I recall that moment, too. I didn’t want to swallow my food because for some reason, I decided the second I swallowed, Mum would clam up again.

“You think that was a manic episode?”

Will nods. “Yeah, I do.”

“But she went to the doctor. Why didn’t they diagnose it? Put her on something. Dad was always sending her there to try to ‘sort herself out’, as he called it.”

“Yeah, she saw the military doctor, who also happened to be one of Dad’s Friday night drinking buddies. I imagine Mum wasn’t exactly comfortable discussing her problems with Dr Wilkins.”

I freeze at the mention of those dreaded Friday nights. Dad would make me pour whisky and serve sandwiches and sausage rolls. He must have seen the way the other men leered at me – Dr Wilkins being by far the worst offender.

“Trish,” calls Tilly, and I blink rapidly, searching the dragon for my niece.

She’s waving at me from a small window where the dragon’s eye should be. Welcoming the distraction, I race over and peer into the hole Tilly is crouched inside.

“Wow, that’s a very small space. How did you get in?”

Tilly points to an opening behind her. “I don’t think you’d fit, Auntie.”

I laugh and relax my clenched jaw. “Do we get to see the otters next?”

Tilly nods. “Right after the penguins.”