We sit around the kitchen table, and I eat the salmon while they talk.

I’m not even particularly hungry, to be honest, but stuffing my face seems like a good excuse for not speaking, and right now, forming coherent sentences is proving to be way beyond my grasp.

I’m doing my best to keep it together, but the whole thing is just so insane. I thought I would never see Mum again, and now here she is – somehow – sitting centimetres away from me, chatting and laughing and telling me to please, for God’s sake, leave some salmon for everyone else. For the first time since I’ve been back here in the past, the confusion and fear is outweighed by sheer, mind-melting joy.

Mum was – is – an English teacher at the local secondary school. And at times like this, you can really tell. She bombards Daphne with questions about the English course at uni – which writers does she like best, which modules has she enjoyed most – and pretty soon the conversation blossoms to cover not just books but telly and music and whatever else. It’s a bit like watching a dream first date unravel in front of me, because they agree on literally everything: from Charlotte Brontë to Bob Dylan, Alan Partridge to Adrian Mole.

‘We’re doing medieval poetry this term, which is a bit of a slog,’ Daff says, as talk returns to uni. ‘Sir Gawain and the Green Knight; all that sort of stuff. It’s a bit like being bored to death in a language you don’t fully understand.’

Mum laughs. ‘I see the exact same thing with my Year Elevens, groaning their way through Chaucer. You just know you’re putting them off reading for a good ten years. I almost want to slip a Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy into their bags to try and restore their faith. I mean, reading is supposed to be fun, for goodness’ sake.’

Daff nods. ‘I’ve started sneaking Patricia Highsmith books into lectures, just to keep myself awake.’

Mum’s eyes light up at this. ‘Oh God, Patricia Highsmith! She’s brilliant, isn’t she? Mad as anything, but still: brilliant. Have you read Deep Water?’

Daff shakes her head, and Mum leaps up from her seat and darts into the living room, sending her voice back through in her absence. ‘It’s my absolute favourite, this one. There’s a chap whose wife is sleeping around on him, and so he starts … Well, no, I won’t spoil it. You’ll have to read it yourself.’

She comes back in, waggling a tattered copy of Deep Water.

‘Here, Daphne, take it with you now. I insist. Early Christmas present.’

Daff laughs. ‘Are you sure? That’s so nice of you.’

‘Yes, yes! I can buy another copy.’ This is typical my-mum behaviour. Most mothers force clumps of foil-wrapped food on their guests; she forces paperbacks.