Ingrid came in with Mark’s drink and set it carefully down on the occasional table next to him.

‘It’s all right,’ she said to Mark, and rested a hand on his shoulder. Gradually he quietened. ‘Jenny isn’t like Paula. I knew that the minute I set eyes on her. She’s angry now, but she’ll see reason and she’ll be willing to listen. She won’t punish you. Thank goodness, I think she’ll be capable of forgiveness.’

Mark straightened up and faced Mum again.

‘I’m so sorry, Jenny,’ he said, and looked at her like a kicked puppy pleading for affection.

‘That’s the way,’ Ingrid said, sitting down again. ‘By and by you should have a little bit to eat, Mark. You’ll feel better.’

Mum said, ‘I think the girls and I should go.’ She glared at Mark. ‘We can talk about all this another time. When I’ve had a chance to digest it.’

She didn’t get out of her chair, though. She looked exhausted. The fight seemed to have gone out of her the minute Mark started crying.

‘Don’t go,’ Mark said. ‘Please. I know it was unforgivable of me. It was just… it was all so wonderful. At first I didn’t want to put you off. And then I didn’t want to wreck it.’ He glanced at his mother – a wary look, as if he was scared to be angry with her. ‘I just never found the right time. But I had no idea my mother was going to spring this on us today.’

‘It’s not her fault,’ Mum said.

She had begun to soften. It was obvious. That was the thing about her; she never stayed angry for long. I’d seen it with Sean, again and again. I’d even seen her do it with me and Ellie. If someone confessed and apologised, she always, always gave them the benefit of the doubt.

‘I’ve made summer pudding,’ Ingrid said. ‘You can’t all go without at least trying it.’

I think Ingrid knew we wouldn’t go, in the end. And we didn’t.

Ellie looked very pale, and only managed a bite or two of the summer pudding, which neither of us had ever tried before. It was a strange creation – a dome of wet purple bread, soaked with juice and filled with glistening blackberries and blueberries. When Ingrid brought it in, Ellie looked as queasy as if she was being offered brains or tripe.

If she’d actually been sick, that might have got us out of there. But she wasn’t. She sat in silence as Ingrid served up and asked Mark about his work trip and his journey, and Mark gave a long, boring answer that I didn’t pay any attention to.

Ellie picked at her pudding and the rest of us tucked in, and the conversation shifted into small talk: roadworks and potholes and taxi firms, and the ongoing problems over spaces in the car park by Ingrid’s flat. It might have been almost comical if the atmosphere in the room hadn’t stayed deadly serious.