‘Sara’s green-grey eyes looked very solemn and quite soft as she answered.

‘“She is a doll I haven’t got yet,” she said. “She is a doll papa is going to buy for me. We are going out together to find her. I have called her Emily. She is going to be my friend when papa is gone. I want her to talk to about him.”

‘Miss Minchin’s large, fishy smile became very flattering indeed.’

Mother’s voice changed to the high-pitched one she used when she was excited, like when she’d come back with Clarabelle. ‘“What an original child!” she said. “What a darling little creature!”’

Clarabelle giggled then yawned – a huge, long yawn.

I heard Mother’s chair scrape, the fridge open, liquid being poured into a glass. Glug, glug, glug.

‘Drink your milk then you’re going back to bed for a sleep.’

‘I don’t want to,’ Clarabelle said, her voice small and whiny, ‘I want to go outside and play.’

‘You can’t. I’ve already told you this,’ Mother’s voice was steely.

‘Why? I want to go play. I always go play.’

‘Clarabelle. Look at me. Look. At. Me.’

Clarabelle sniffed.

‘You can’t go outside because it’s dangerous.’

‘Mummy never says it’s dangerous,’ Clarabelle said quietly.

‘Well … Mummy isn’t well, remember? That’s why you live here now. I’m your new mummy. I’m your mother and you must listen to Mother.’

There was silence. I heard the grind of object against object and guessed it was Mother sliding the glass of milk across the table.

‘Now drink this and then go upstairs. Hurry up now, or there’ll be no more stories.’

‘If I wear a hat, can I?’ Clarabelle persisted.

In my head alarm bells belted out a manic tune. I cringed. This could only lead to disaster. Clarabelle didn’t know it yet, but Mother did not like resistance of any kind. Mother always, always got her way.

A horrid beat of silence followed.

‘Fine,’ Mother said.

I jerked in surprise.

The chair scraped; she was getting up. ‘If you want to go outside, go outside. Here, I’ll unlock the back door for you.’

‘Yes!’ Clarabelle squealed. Her chair scratched at the floor. She too was on her feet. I heard her skipping, skipping towards the back door.

The key crunched in the lock, but the door did not open.

‘You may go outside as long as you’re prepared to feel the most pain in the world,’ Mother added solemnly.

The skipping stopped. ‘What do you mean?’ Innocence. Confusion.

‘If you go outside you will get hurt very, very badly. The light will hurt you.’

‘But it never hurt me before …’ Doubt crept into her voice. Fear simmered there too.