It took Anna what seemed a ridiculously long time to phrase this simple note. It was so odd to think of Olivia as a real person now, to use ordinary words. That evening she started up Kate’s Metro and drove to Moseley to deliver the letter, leaving it until it was almost dark because she didn’t want to be seen, to start anything then.

The house was set back from the road, one in the row of looming Victorian mansions of that area, a jumble of gables and turrets which blocked out the light with its sheer size and its screen of mature trees. Creeping up the short drive under the arch of branches, she felt foolish and very nervous.

A tinny sound of music came from inside. Heart pounding, she pushed the paper through the metal letterbox, jumping as it snapped, and fled back to the car.

Her reply pattered on the mat with Tuesday morning’s circulars and a seed catalogue. Anna took it into the kitchen, still dressed in her baggy T-shirt from bed. She looked at the ornate handwriting.

My dear Anna,

I should so love you to come. Any time is convenient for me. I’m always here.

Warmest regards,

Olivia Kemp.

She went that afternoon. It was a fine day, with a waning feel to the light, and piles of cloud kept blotting out the sun. She drove through the slow-moving traffic in Moseley Village, its pavements crowded with shoppers.

After parking the Metro round the corner from Olivia’s, outside a boarded-up house, she sat for a few moments with the engine off, the windows open. From somewhere further along the road came a heavy beat of music, turned up loud. She thought of Olivia as Kate had last seen her, in the doorway of a flat only a street away from here, dressed in bright blue, alone with her child. The child – Anna had barely given him a thought – would now be nineteen. Not much older than she was when her mother came home tight-faced from work one day, going to her room in the pretence of getting changed, then crying and crying. 1962.

She was very nervous at the thought of meeting Olivia. Her uncertainty was made worse by not knowing how to approach her and by the baggage of conflicting emotions she was bringing to this encounter. There were those she felt obliged to carry with her on Kate’s behalf: anger and bitter woundedness, a spirit of confrontation. Yet the warmth of Olivia’s reply had taken her by surprise. Her own feelings were of apprehension, but also curiosity and sympathy. She wanted at least to try and get on with Olivia, to attempt to understand.

She stepped out of the car into the sleepy warmth of the street. In the gutter lay a crumpled Union Jack, a remnant of the Royal Wedding.

The house was on the corner of the two roads, and horse chestnut trees grew inside the front wall on both sides, casting the place into shadow and seclusion. It was a brick building with gables and a square fairy-tale turret at one corner. In the bright afternoon the windows looked dark and dusty.