‘Oh. I’m sure it was difficult.’

‘Well yes, it was. They became very reclusive in their grief and we didn’t really know what to say. I used to send Tom over with casseroles but Della Burke and Ruth Cavanagh were sending food too, so it seemed unnecessary. Ruth, in particular, made rather excellent lamb casseroles with vegetables from her own garden. So my paltry efforts were a bit pointless. I was never much of a cook. And … it was easier to give them space, you know?’

I nod, reassuring her that I’m not judging. I’m in no position to judge anyone.

‘Anyway, we’re getting sidetracked. Let’s look at the photos.’

The first image shows what looks like a picnic. I recognize Susie, her blonde hair gleaming in the sun, legs demurely curled under her short, check dress. Beside her is Mary Murphy, with a newborn baby in her arms, and then Robbie. Mary is wearing a long white summer dress and huge sunglasses, while Robbie looks a little overheated in suit trousers and a shirt.

‘Is that Lily in her arms?’ I ask.

‘Exactly.’ Susie checks the date on the back of the photo. ‘June 1982, so she was about four weeks old. That’s Victor O’Brien on the next blanket, with Cora.’

Like Robbie, Victor is wearing a suit, and looks deeply uncomfortable sitting on a rug. Cora’s small, pale face is solemn.

‘Was it a picnic on the green in Rowanbrook?’

‘Yes. Our annual “Summer Fun Day”. We used to do a clean-up in the morning and have a picnic in the afternoon. Now, see that man standing behind everyone? That’s Eddie Hogan.’

He was indeed a bull of a man – his white shirt stretched across broad, muscular shoulders, his hair cropped close to his scalp. His back is to the camera, but his head is turned to look at something, so his face is visible in side-profile. In one fist, he holds a bottle of stout. Nothing about him looks familiar to me.

‘Loved a drink, did Eddie. I remember that.’

‘He’s huge.’

‘Used to be a boxer when he was younger.’ Susie’s curled lip leaves me in no doubt about what she thinks of people who used to be boxers. ‘Worked as a builder on the site in Rowanbrook until they went bust.’

She flips to the next photograph. ‘This one’s taken on the same day and look, you can see Mark!’

My husband, or the thirteen-year-old version of him, is leaning against a tree with a familiar expression on his face – it’s the same one I get from Ben when I try to take his picture.

‘Mark hated us taking his picture. Always so embarrassed about everything at that age.’

‘Who’s that beside him?’ I ask, pointing at a dark-haired girl. She’s grinning at the camera, far less shy about it than Mark.

‘Oh, that’s the girl we were talking about – Zara Hogan. The one who’ – she lowers her voice – ‘slept with Robbie Murphy. Supposedly slept with him, I mean.’