‘Two of mine – they’re upstairs with my husband, Philip – and my brother, Steven, has three boys. He and his wife have gone home to England now to be with them.’

‘By the look of these photos, she dotes on her grandchildren.’

‘She does.’

I said, ‘Okay, and what else can you tell me about your mum, Ruby? I’ve got in mind doing a bit of a feature article about her to try to get the public’s attention, but I’m going to need your help to bring her to life.’

I could have kicked myself for saying that.

I said quickly, ‘I mean, when you think about her, what would you say . . . what kind of person is she?’

Ruby looked a bit confused. ‘Oh, well, she’s Mum, isn’t she? She’s . . . I don’t know! I’ve never thought to describe her. She’s not a flashy kind of person. She’s not at all interested in being the centre of attention. She’d be mortified by the fuss we’re making.’

From memory, Ruby started to cry at this point and that sent the beaming Bangladeshi waiter into a spin. He’d been hovering over her shoulder, waiting for a break in our conversation so he could top up her tea. I signalled for him to come over and start pouring, but his hands were trembling so much he ended up splashing the tea all over the white cloth. He was saying, ‘Oh, madam, I’m so sorry,’ and Ruby was having to say, ‘No, please, it’s fine.’ But at least the commotion was a diversion, and Ruby was soon saying, ‘I’m sorry, I think I’ve startled him with all the waterworks.’

I said, ‘Don’t worry about it. Of course you’re going to be upset,’ and Ruby said, ‘We all miss her so much.’

‘Of course you do. So take your time . . . just when you’re ready. We can take it slow. You said at the press conference that your mum spent some time in Australia when she was growing up? That she met your dad here? Can you tell me about that?’

Ruby took a tissue from where it was tucked under her sleeve, and blew her nose. She nodded. ‘That’s right. She was born in London in 1940 but for most of her childhood, until she was seven, she lived in an orphanage at Newton-le-Willows. And then the nuns who ran the orphanage came and told her that she was going to Australia.’

Ruby opened the folder that was now on her lap, and began sorting through the various bits of paper until she came across what looked like a photocopy of a page from an old newspaper.

‘This is an ad from The Times,’ she said, passing it across the table to me. ‘My daughter, Stella, found it in the London Library. It was a couple of years ago now. She had to do an assignment on her family tree for school. Mum told her, “Don’t do my family tree, Stella, do your grandpa. I don’t know anything about my family tree.” But Stella is the kind of girl who rises to a challenge.