‘When you get to my age,’ she’d say, soaping her vanilla blancmange of a belly, ‘and you’ve had as many children as I have, you get past modesty and all that sort of nonsense.’ Then, with a conspiratorial little smile, she’d add, ‘I don’t suppose your mother will though, do you?’

Despite this, it was odd seeing her there in the drawing room. I smiled, half in amusement, half pity. Sarah Munro had always been a big woman – I was left in no doubt from where I’d inherited my solid figure – and had not shrunk much in old age. The years had just made everything droop a bit. Her bottom was large and squashy and her back covered by sagging folds of flesh. But she stood good and straight, her soft, steely-grey hair still neatly pinned up. She was a strong woman for seventy-five.

I suppose I’ll be like that one day, I thought, looking down at Granny’s plump, mottled legs.

I clicked the brass door-handle to give her a chance, let her know she wasn’t alone. Granny whipped round, glowering, her long, pink breasts swinging as she moved. I saw she still had her half-moon glasses on the chain round her neck. When she saw me her expression lost some of its defiance.

‘Ah, it’s you.’ Her Edinburgh accent was broader than my father’s, who had long moved south, the tone of her voice surprisingly soft. ‘I suppose you’ve been sent to tame me?’

I, at fourteen, was the only one who could ‘deal with’ Granny Munro. Even her son, doctor or no doctor, could make little headway with her.

‘Mummy’s afraid Mr Hughes’ll see you.’

Granny’s broad, pink face broke into a grin. ‘I’ll bet she is. The sight of me would be enough to give that namby-pamby little preacher a turn.’

Anxiously, I peered back into the hall to see if Mummy was coming, but there was no sign of her.

‘Granny, look, I’ll help you get dressed, shall I? You’ll only get into more trouble if you don’t. Shall we go upstairs, and I’ll bring you some tea up afterwards?’

‘I suppose if I stay here I’ll be shot at dawn. Or it’ll be rat poison in the tea. That’ll be the next thing.’

I gathered up the clothes that she had apparently not just discarded but hurled all round the room: garters and bloomers, the heavy dress and shift and her stiff whale-boned corset. Her stockings had landed on the standard lamp.

‘I’ll check the coast is clear and then we can get back upstairs.’

The doorbell rang as we were crossing the hall. My mother dashed out from the kitchen and made frantic flapping motions at us, her body taut and furious.

‘Oooh,’ Granny said, stopping in full view of the front door and clasping her hand to her chest, ‘I think I can feel a funny turn coming on.’

‘Just get up there,’ Mummy snarled at her, gesturing at Simmons our maid, whose eyes were goggling, to wait before opening the door.