But there was always hope. I would learn, and she would learn, too. Yes, I was afraid of what might happen when she was bigger and stronger. But who knew what the future might hold? Maybe she would learn to control herself, not to go on the attack when things took a turn she didn’t like.

The brain was plastic – that was one thing I had learned: that was the word that neuroscientists used. Which conjured up images of carrier bags and dolls’ heads, but didn’t mean that at all. It meant it could change: rewire itself, make new connections. Not just in childhood, but at any age.

‘We should do something,’ I said. ‘To say how sorry we are. We could send them a sympathy card, at least. From you and me. I could hold you up and you could put it in the postbox for me.’

Daisy didn’t respond. She didn’t seem to be listening. But she didn’t pull away, either.

And suddenly I thought that if I could have this – this closeness, this comfort – this was more than enough. It was everything.

‘I love you,’ I murmured. ‘I’ll always love you, Daisy. I’m lucky to have you. And I’ll always take care of you.’

And then, to my complete astonishment, she swivelled round, and in one swift movement, clasped both of her hands around my neck and hugged me back.

Twenty-Two

Ellie

Ten years later

In the months before Ava’s wedding I’d been trying to straighten myself out. No more drinking. No more smoking weed. No more hooking up with boys on the night bus. I was renting a spare room off Peter Carman, our old neighbour, and that made it easier. Peter liked an orderly life, and had made it quite clear he wasn’t about to tolerate a wayward lodger throwing up in his flowerbed, however willing he was to give me a chance to get back on my feet.

And it was a chance. I knew that. It was a place to live in London that I couldn’t possibly have afforded otherwise. I had a part-time job in a vegan café, I’d enrolled on a couple of A levels at the local community college and I had the illusion of independence. I was a twenty-one-year-old school dropout, trying to give myself and adult life another chance. Mum was relieved and I was hopeful, and probably Mark didn’t really care what I was doing as long as Mum wasn’t upset about it. I knew I wasn’t really standing on my own two feet, but at least I wasn’t lying in the gutter.

But then it started coming back.

I’d managed to get myself hooked on smoking and had quit, after a couple of failed attempts, soon after I moved in with Peter. And then my sense of smell had come back and I’d realised that it had gone without me even realising I’d lost it: I could smell burning, or bacon frying, or lavender, like memories come back to life.