‘And did you do as I asked?’ Even though she couldn’t see her mother’s face, Katie knew it wore that look which always made her feel bad and guilty. How could she do anything to displease Mother, whose life was made up of Grief and Suffering? Vera’s voice was smooth and well spoken, the Birmingham accent almost completely schooled out of her long ago, in a private establishment in Edgbaston. However much she had been reduced to living in poverty, Vera O’Neill made it clear with every ounce of her that this was not where she had started off in life, nor did she belong here.

‘Yes,’ Katie said again. She stood with her hands clasped in front of her, feet neatly together, as Mother – woe betide her if she ever called her Mom – liked her to do. Vera was like a puppet master: she liked to be in control.

‘Good girl. I hope you made yourself quite plain. And you keep away from Emma Brown at school. I don’t want you associating with people like that.’

‘But,’ Katie dared protest, ‘isn’t Mrs Brown just a bit poorly, a bit like Uncle Patrick is a bit poorly sometimes? Won’t she get better?’ And she’s my friend, she wanted to cry.

Her mother seemed to swell in the gloom so that Katie would have taken a step backwards, had she dared. Vera O’Neill leaned forward.

‘Now listen to me,’ she hissed. ‘You do not speak about your uncle and that Mrs Brown in the same breath, d’you hear? You’re talking about your father’s brother – it’s not the same thing at all! Uncle Patrick has a troubled nature, it’s true, but he’s of sound mind and don’t you ever, ever tell anyone otherwise. He’s never been sent to the asylum, has he?’ She sat back again, steely and imposing. ‘Anyone who gets sent to the asylum is a different kettle of fish altogether, and they don’t come out again in a hurry. We don’t want anything else to do with people like that, do you understand?’

Katie nodded. Their superiority over everyone around had been drummed into her.

‘Good.’ Her mother’s tone lightened for a moment. ‘Now, you said you’ve found a new friend at school to play with – is it Lily?’

‘Lily Davies. She’s . . .’ She’s all right, Katie wanted to say. Not as much fun as Em, though. Sometimes she thought her mother didn’t really want her to have friends at all – she wanted her all to herself, at her beck and call. ‘Yes, she’s nice.’

‘And she sounds as if she comes from a good family – for round here anyway. There, so that’s all settled. I know it seems harsh, dear, but it does count, who you associate with. It forms your character. We shan’t be here forever – as soon as we can, we’ll move somewhere much better. You’ll thank me in the end, I promise you.’

Katie nodded, trying to swallow down her tears. She couldn’t keep from her mind the mucky state of the Browns’ house, and of Em herself. And the wretched sight of Em’s face when Katie had handed over the cruel verdict: ‘Mom says she doesn’t want me having anything to do with you . . . She says it ain’t right (why had she said “ain’t”, if not to defy her mother!) the way she’s gone and left you. She says your mom’s not right in the head . . . that I’m not to be friends with you.’