‘Come now, Julia,’ says Barbara, putting her hand on Julia’s arm. ‘Don’t upset yourself. You’ll be ill.’

Julia looks at her and smiles. It is a warm, genuine smile.

‘Freya was the only person who cared,’ she says. ‘Do you know that? You call her all these names, accuse her of being this bitch, and yet where were you when I was being called a freak and a weirdo, when I was being attacked by the other kids? You weren’t there but Freya was.’

‘What?’ I say, looking at Barbara, whose face is flushed with alcohol. ‘You visited her? After everything you said to me about keeping quiet for the sake of your reputation. You kept in touch with the baby I was forced to give away.’

‘She was my granddaughter,’ says Barbara. ‘She is my granddaughter. She was part of Ben. How could I just walk away?’

‘How did you know where she was?’

‘I spoke to Social Services,’ she says, her eyes pooling with tears. ‘I was in the special care baby unit, looking at her in that tiny incubator, when they arrived to take her. I was devastated. She looked so vulnerable, so tiny, though the doctors said she was ready to go.’

She stops then and rubs Julia’s hand. I’ve never seen Barbara look so tender.

‘I begged Harry to keep her but he said we had to let her go, that it was for the best. That it would be cruel for you to have to see us bring your baby up. That was Harry all over, always thinking about you and your wellbeing. Anyway, the director of Lewes Social Services was an old family friend. He pulled some strings, made sure I was kept informed of where the baby ended up. I gave them my other name just in case it got back to anyone.’

‘So you’ve known her since she was a baby?’ I say, guilt and envy needling my stomach.

‘Unfortunately, no,’ says Barbara, glancing at Julia. ‘I first made contact when she was ten years old. 1998 had been a tough year. I’d had a breast cancer scare, Harry and I were going through a bad patch. Benjamin had moved to the US and barely visited us. I felt utterly alone. I’d go and sit in the playhouse for hours on end, thinking about what had happened and how it had destroyed my poor Ben.’

‘I saw the playhouse,’ I say. ‘You left it unchanged all these years.’

‘After what happened I couldn’t bring myself to go near it,’ says Barbara, her face stricken. ‘I locked the door and let the whole thing gather dust. But then, I suppose part of me derived some comfort from knowing Ben’s things were there just as they had been. It felt like a little part of him had remained here at Ketton House.’