I followed the crowd of children, watching elastic lips move as they lip-read each other’s words. We were ushered in to sit before a small stage in the main hall, row after row, until the teachers came in and sat round the edge, smiling crazily. The headmistress stood and began to speak, and another teacher beside her signed. They talked of timetables and lessons, of changes to PE, of the rules about uniform. The headmistress smiled and pointed to me, welcoming me to the school and every face turned. I touched my scar tissue and they turned away. Later I was taken to my dormitory and I found my cases already on my bed. They gave me sheets of paper with the timetable, with meal times, rules about leaving the school during term time (so much time) and left me to unpack. I sat on the bed and realised that I wouldn’t be alone again. I wouldn’t even sleep alone.

My legs hurt so I lay down on the bed, feet dangling over the end. I thought of Hyacinth. I wanted her to come through the door, majestic in her girth, huge hips swinging, gold tooth glinting, singing ‘Mary Bring the Cattle Home Across the Sands of Dee’ even if I couldn’t hear her. I thought of Harry and began to cry. And that was how they found me hours later. I was fussed over, told that every child was homesick at first. I didn’t know how to tell them I was people-sick.

Sonja once found a picture taken during my first term at school. All of us lined up on benches, squinting, white shirts dazzling in unexpected sun. I was standing in the middle of the back row, towering above everyone, shoulders hunched. I felt the elbow of a boy - Andrew Mortimer - hit my back as he ran from left to right to appear at both ends of the photograph. I don’t remember the names of any of the other children; strange I should remember his. I do remember Miss Cottee, a plump, small woman, who smelled of talc and always wore a high-necked blouse with a brooch dead centre on the collar. She was the one who found me crying on my bed. The one who thought I was crying for a home. She took me down to dinner and sat next to me as I tried to eat. I caught her looking at my scars and she looked away, embarrassed. Miss Cottee taught RE.

Sonja looked at the picture and laughed: I was so thin, so gangly, clean-shaven, so aloof. She said she thought I was looking over everyone’s heads, as if I was above them. Which, in a way, I was. She said I seemed to be searching for something. Which, in a way, I was. I was watching the school gates, searching for my father. Something I often did then.

I go back downstairs to the kitchen and see my mother leaning against the cooker, spitting, lime juice flying, telling me not to marry Sonja. Had she been right? It occurs to me: perhaps it was Sonja who left me heartless? As I pour another drink I remember my mother so clearly, how she was that night, how she was dressed, that she was drunk. I can see the ghosts that move in darkened windows, just as her ghost moved, following her clattering around the kitchen. I see her dancing in her sleeveless dress, black Sobranie burning; I see her face when she asked me what they did with all the bags of the children who didn’t make it to the shelter; I see her looking up and smiling lazily, a quince bush waving in the wind behind her; I see her looking up from a hand of cards, bottle of The Macallan at her elbow, grinning at Ellen; I see her smiling and saying, Oh, well spotted, pumpkin.’ The ghosts begin to blur, fading one into another.