But how could anyone ignore the very last letter from their mother? How could anyone fail to be bewitched by the chance to see that sloping handwriting one last time, hear the words spoken in her mum’s own voice? Her eyes fell helplessly down to the paper again and she read on, knowing that to do so would mean there’d be no turning back:

Well, he was handsome and I was young – prettier then, too! – and he was kind and funny and . . . Oh, you know. That old chestnut: I fell for him. Yes, I knew he was married. Does that make me a bad person? Probably, Frank, but it was too late by then. And besides, how can it have been a bad decision, when you were the delightful consequences of our affair?!

He doesn’t know about you, I’m afraid. He already had four children and, when I discovered I was pregnant, I knew he wasn’t about to leave them and his wife for me. It was the end of term and my job at the school had come to an end, so I did a flit before things got even more complicated. I’ve never seen him since.

Sod it, I thought. I can manage alone. I wanted you, see – I wanted you very much. ‘We’ll be all right,’ I said to myself (and you), hitching a ride back to London with my last pay packet rustling in my pocket. I spent the money on the most beautiful white-painted cot for you and a new winter coat for me, and then turned up on your grandma’s doorstep, asking if she’d help me out. And we did manage, didn’t we? We never had much to spare, but you never went without. You certainly never went without my love, Frankie, I hope you always felt it around you, like your very own strong, shining force-field, because I did my best to surround you with it every single day.

Anyway, my darling, his name is Harry Mortimer and he lives just outside York. He may have moved on long ago, he may be dead, he may be onto his seventeenth wife by now, who knows, but if you did have an inkling to meet him, then his address is 12 Penny Street in Bishopthorpe, which is about five miles out of the city. Even if he’s gone, those four kids of his will be grown-up – your sort of age! – so you could meet them. Siblings at last! You always wanted a brother or a sister, didn’t you? I’m sorry I couldn’t give you one myself.