‘Everyone calls me Teacher,’ she laughed. ‘Even my husband.’

The first sight of my sister.

She looks like a jumbo peach. Round glasses perched on a snub nose. Perfect almond upturned eyes. Tiny little ears that grow away from her face like flowers in search of light. Peach kurti, blue wide-legged jeans, peach plastic hoop earrings, peach slippers. Hair – limp and brown and long.

She is heavier than me. Plump everywhere – shoulders, breasts, hips, thighs, bum.

‘Hi Grace.’

She smiles. Two rows of tiny, jagged, widely spaced teeth.

‘Hi.’

‘Come and meet my babies.’ She slides off the bed and takes my hand. Laces her fingers through mine. Gives them a squeeze.

There are rows of stuffed animals of varying size, colour and condition, perched on the shelves of my sister’s room. A frame sits on the bedside table with a photograph of my mother and Lucia. Ma is skinny, unrecognisable. She’s looking down at Lucia at her hip, who’s fat and bright-eyed, clutching on to a yellow teddy bear in a red-and-black vest. The same bear lies in a heap on the bed, looking somewhat diminished by the years.

‘That’s Baloo, the first of the birthday toys. Your mother used to bring one every year. Sorry, they’re a bit dirty. Lucy gets agitated if we even talk of washing them.’

Lucia is introducing me to each of her babies. Many named from The Jungle Book, her favourite story. The newer ones have nonsense names like Pootchie and Booboo.

‘You know your mother used to come every week? She always took Lucy to see a film, whatever was playing. Hardly any English films in those days, but it didn’t matter. Birthdays were extra-special. She’d stay overnight and organise a party for all the children. Cake, balloons, mutton biryani, colouring books and crayons for everyone. We all looked forward to your mother’s visits. She always brought her lovely homemade bread.’

Now Lucia is dragging out all her clothes and laying them on the bed. Smocks. A dozen of them – floral, baggy, shapeless things. We’ll have to get rid of those. Nighties, salwar kameezes, jeans, T-shirts. One ridiculous frothy pink frock. A couple of bejewelled ghagras for the annual Diwali and Christmas dance shows. Underwear – granny-style vests and knickers, pointy cotton bras. Petticoats. A pink terry-towelling bathrobe that I remember my mother wearing for many years. Sensible, sturdy Teva sandals for her flat, splayed feet. Rubber chappals and a pair of pink-and-silver Nikes.

‘It’s all a little old-fashioned,’ Teacher says, glancing at me apologetically.

‘Doesn’t matter, we’ll pack it all.’

‘Where’s Mummy?’ Lucia asks, suddenly, blinking.

‘Lucy, we already talked about this. This is your sister Grace. You’re going to go live with her. Mummy’s not here any more. Mummy’s gone to God.’

‘But I love Mummy.’

‘But Grace is here for you now. She’s going to take care of you like Mummy did.’

‘No,’ Lucia says, shouting louder and louder. ‘No, no, no, go away. I want Mummy.’