There were no ice-cream shops nearby, we soon discovered. But Mr Knox got hold of a Polly Waffle in a dingy tobacconist’s, and, having never before eaten such a strange concoction of marshmallow, chocolate and sweetened cardboard, I did not return to sentience until the treat was devoured and my fingers licked clean (mittens lost forever somehow in the process, thank god).

We were back in the bookshop. Mother was sipping tea. Mr Knox decanted whisky from a flat bottle with a label into a cut-glass bottle without a label. He said: ‘Put a good spoon of sugar into it, Veda, and a dose of this. Edith, have we biscuits?’

I was forgotten, on the floor, with crayons and colouring books, a copy of The Tawny Scrawny Lion and, the most fabulous book I’d ever seen in my life, Where the Wild Things Are, which Mr Knox had just got in from America and which was selling, he said, ‘like hotcakes, god bless Mr Sendak!’

Mother was nursing her cup like an invalid. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m letting myself get so upset about it all. It’s just another rejection. I know to expect them.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Mr Knox. ‘The whole thing is a bloody boys’ club. I know it. I’ve dealt with them. They think because they’ve been to some crummy Antipodean university, they’re the educated elite. Change your name to something masculine—John Stonnington, Wolfgang Mannheim—and they’ll be begging to publish you.’

Mother snorted. ‘I don’t think anyone would believe a man had written my poems. Too many brooms and cupboards and bits and pieces from jewellery boxes.’

‘I think you give men too much credit,’ said Mr Knox. ‘We’re not that clever, Veda.’

Mrs Knox nodded and passed Mother a Monte Carlo. ‘Absolutely true, darling.’

‘It goes without saying,’ Mr Knox continued, ‘that I will put you in every issue of Strident that goes to press, Veda. Hand on heart. I have all conviction in you, you know that.’ Mrs Knox nodded again. ‘You’re very talented, Veda. Don’t let these form letters get you down.’

‘Still, you’ve got to harden up. Rejection is part of the territory. Start building some armour, a thick skin.’ Mr Knox looked for a moment curiously simian, as though he might beat his chest. ‘A woman’s got to be twice as good as a man to succeed, you know. Twice as strong.’

‘Though it’s precisely Veda’s thin skin,’ corrected Mrs Knox, ‘that makes her the poet she is. You can’t give up your sensitivity either, Veda.’

Mr Knox dipped his Monte Carlo into his tea and sucked it. ‘Well, no. Try for a balance, Veda. Or bypass these little provincial twats and send your work directly overseas.’

‘I wouldn’t have the courage!’ said Mother.

What did she mean, she wouldn’t have the courage? I couldn’t believe how small and forlorn she looked, my relentlessly shapeshifting mother.

‘What have you got to lose?’ said Mr Knox.

‘Nothing to lose!’ chimed Mrs Knox.