Let’s get this straight – I don’t want to be a woman. I’ve never thought I was born in the wrong body. I’m not tormented by it. It’s more like the feeling when you want a scone with jam and cream and you look in the fridge and there’s no cream. You hanker after it and settle for a scone and jam but it niggles and takes the enjoyment out of eating. Because it’s better with cream.

Being in the house without Enid is better when I’m wearing her frock.

This one is hers, the one I’ve got on. It’s purple and very tight on me; I struggled to fasten the zip. Enid was slim, with the appetite of a sparrow. She deplored greed. Enid was a model of restraint and I always admired that in her.

The doorbell rings and I stand motionless. I’ve got half a mind not to answer it, but I haven’t spoken to anyone for two days, so I pull on my plaid dressing gown over the frock to answer the door.

Mercia’s standing on the doorstep wearing a transparent rain hat over her fair hair and lobster oven gloves. She’s carrying a lasagne in a Pyrex dish and she’s startled to see me in my dressing gown.

‘Ooo! Did I disturb you?’ she asked, full of concern.

‘No. Come in,’ I tell her.

‘It’s still hot, but if you’re not going to eat it now you might want to pop it in the microwave for a couple of minutes. I’ll take it through to the kitchen.’

She comes back still wearing her oven gloves. She smacks them together and barks like a seal, which makes me laugh.

‘Tea?’ I ask her.

‘Lovely!’

Under my robe, the frock tickled my shins as I walked to the kitchen. I feel daring and uneasy. Enid would have something to say about me entertaining a woman in my dressing gown, never mind what was underneath.

I carry the two mugs into the sitting room and I fling open the curtains. The window’s freckled with rain. There’s a fine layer of dust on the windowsill, as fine as face powder.

Mercia’s sitting down and I notice she’s wearing lipstick, pink and pearly.

Enid stopped wearing make-up at around the time that her hair started to go grey. She said she felt a fool in it, at her age. ‘I look like a pantomime dame,’ she said crossly, looking at herself in the magnifying mirror. ‘I’m not trying to attract a man, after all. It’s different for Mercia.’