I could hear cups and spoons clattering in the kitchen and George asking very loudly what tea was good, better or best. The in-between snatches of Dom and Wolfie’s voices were indiscernible, but I wished more than anything I was in there with them, instead of sitting to awkward attention, separated from my sister by just a small mountain of laundry. Against the cheery background of George’s voice, our silence was heavy and self-conscious, and I tried desperately to think of something to say. My eyes fell on Lou’s plastered leg, which was resting on a couple of cushions, sticking out in front of her like a big white boom gate. I imagined putting my ticket in and waiting.

‘Does it hurt?’ I gestured at the boom gate. It wasn’t ideal but the relief of getting words out of my mouth was immediate, if not very long-lasting.

‘Not really. Not as much as this one.’ She indicated her other leg, which was wrapped in bandages from ankle to knee. The bare toes sticking out of the end were very faintly stained with the rusty sheen of what looked like old blood.

‘Oh, right. Yeah, OK, shit. Sorry.’

The mountain rustled beside me, and a blue and white tea towel with Greetings from Eastbourne fell on to my lap. I realised Lou had pulled something out of the pile and had started folding. It made me think of the load of washing I’d put on the previous day, which was still sitting in Dom’s machine. Shit. Sorry, Dom, sorry, ball boys. Not you, Mickey. Even though my strongest instinct was to burrow my head into that big old mound of laundry and head for China, I picked up the crumpled tea towel and brought two corners together. And then two more. The relief was immediate and slightly longer-lasting.

Neither of us spoke again, but now we folded. We created our own separate little towers of washing, mine slightly smaller as I spent extra time carefully avoiding anything that looked like underwear. At one point, Lou’s pile overbalanced when she shifted slightly on the sofa. I wanted to reach over and help, but somehow it felt too soon. Or maybe too late.

With every T-shirt, towel, pillowcase or sock removed from the diminishing mountain, our view of each other got clearer. We were down to the last couple of pairs of jeans and a school uniform (Wolfie’s, of course, but there was a weird moment when I’d automatically assumed it was Lou’s) by the time the others came back into the room.

George was in the lead carrying a pint of milk and providing the heralding trumpets (‘Tea, tea, we’ve made tea!’), Wolfie balanced a tray with five mugs, some teaspoons and the sugar, and Dom carried a teapot. While I was very glad to see them, I wasn’t so sure my theory on the infinite power of a good brew was going to stand up in this situation.

For the next half-hour, we drank tea and made small talk. Some of us made less than others, and in fact I said very little, but George kicked things off with a scarily accurate summary of my life for Lou’s benefit.