The morning light struck my mother’s face starkly, accentuating the lines beneath her foundation and deepening the shadows under her eyes. Her handsome face had sagged of late, and although the flesh was still like tanned leather, it no longer stretched so tautly over her cheekbones. Her grey eyes, though still sharp and clear, were sunk more deeply in her face; the shrewd watchfulness there now half hidden. Her hair, usually bleached blonde, shimmered with touches of grey at her roots and temples. Our indomitable mother was ageing. A small, not unpleasant sadness caught briefly in my throat. But just as I was feeling compassion for the family matriarch, Ruth’s viper tongue lashed out.

‘You’re damn lucky Harry took you back, after your monstrous outburst, as well as having squandered all his money on a luxurious cruise with your sisters . . .’ She twisted the diamond rings on her arthritic fingers.

‘The girls have paid me back, actually, because they had such a good time. They—’

‘. . . not sparing a thought for your poor, abandoned mother.’

She pushed past me into the kitchen, where she took up position at the head of the table, then began, in a monotone, to go down the long, baleful list of my faults. I sat under her level, ice-grey gaze and ruminated on my mother’s character. My conclusion? That Mrs Ruth Ryan does have some good points – if you like flesh-eating bacteria.

‘Considering your many foibles, it’s no wonder Harry strayed. Now you know what it felt like for me.’ She dug her painted nails into my soft warm forearm, as if trying to draw blood. ‘Do you think I wanted to stay with your father?’ She said the word as though it were toxic. ‘After all his humiliating betrayals? I stayed because it was my duty.’

I felt florid – as if my face were too near a heating coil on a stove. ‘Harry didn’t stray. It was all a misunder—’

‘Once a woman walks down the aisle, her fate is sealed.’

‘Women are not envelopes, Mum. We—’

‘Although, of course, I had many admirers. I could have taken my pick of men. Unlike you.’ My mother bared her crocodile smile. ‘A plain jane like you – well, what other man would want you?’

I bit my tongue – the crocodile was obviously on a fishing expedition. My mother’s eyes were always watchful, like a Kakadu salty: feigning sleep, but in reality poised to strike at the first sign of vulnerability.

‘As for the hateful lies you told about me – I’ve decided to forgive you. Because it’s the Christian thing to do.’

When I didn’t rise to the bait, my mother held her mouth pinched up like a rectum. ‘But you’re still out of the will. I’m having it altered when my solicitor’s back from holidays, after the ordeal of Christmas is over. Where is your lippy? You look like death warmed up without it.’