‘God, you’re deluded,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘You see, Mother, I know everything about you. I know what happened, what you did. And I also know what you didn’t do. You don’t seem to realize that for all these years you’ve been my obsession, my specialist subject.’

Acidic bile rises up my throat. I try to swallow it down but it burns and I start to cough. Barbara gets up and goes to the sink. She pours a glass of water then comes over and holds it to my mouth. As she comes closer I can smell her perfume. Must de Cartier: a cloying, musky scent. My mother had bought bottles of it back in the eighties in an attempt to be more like Barbara.

‘So you see,’ continues Julia, who had paused in her ranting while I drank the water, ‘I have no interest in what you have to say. Instead I want you to listen.’

My body is in so much pain I can barely breathe, let alone make sense of what is happening, but I nod my head and Julia seems to take this as a sign of acquiescence.

‘I assume that as a good parent you would want to know that your child is safe, wouldn’t you?’ she says, leaning back in her chair.

I look at her warily. I don’t know where she is going with this.

‘Wouldn’t you?’ she yells.

‘Yes,’ I whisper. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘Like your precious Elspeth,’ she says. ‘I mean, she was always safe, wasn’t she?’

She smirks and looks across to Barbara, who has now poured herself a glass of brandy.

‘Leave Elspeth out of this,’ I say, wincing as the tendons in my arms pull against whatever it is she has tied my hands with. ‘This has nothing to do with her.’

‘Oh, I think you’ll find it does,’ she says, turning back to me. ‘I think you’ll find it has everything to do with her. Because, you see, Mother, you are the common factor here. Two daughters. Both neglected. One sent away to be abused and bullied, the other drowned in your charge.’

‘Stop,’ I cry, pulling myself forward in the chair. ‘Stop it now.’

‘Why? The truth too painful for you, is it? Go on then, show me how good a mother you were. Tell me the name of the first place I was sent to.’

My brain is closing down, the room is hot and everything is out of focus. Why won’t she just stop?

‘That’s right, you don’t know,’ she says. ‘Well, I’ll tell you. It was the Elmfield Children’s Centre in Southampton. I spent ten years there, until it closed down and I was moved on.’

She continues talking but I can hardly take in what she is saying.