Something inside me falls away. “My parents used to live in Riley Road? Are you sure?”

“Yes. They lived a few houses down from us. I remember our mums sitting on the canvas swing chair in our garden, drinking tea. They used to know each other from school.”

I stare at her, open-mouthed. This can’t be true. Why would my parents lie about where they used to live? They wouldn’t, surely.

And yet they lied about not knowing the Dawsons.

“But they’ve always told me that before I was born, they lived in Bishop Street.”

Catherine smiles. “That’s a whole lot nicer than Riley Road, isn’t it? I can see why they might have wanted to edit things a little.”

“But they’re not like that!”

As soon as the words are out, I realize how hollow they sound.

It all begins to fall into place. I used to think that uncomfortable feeling I had in the presence of Alice’s mum was because she was so depressed, but it must have been more than that. She didn’t like me because she didn’t like my mother. And then her daughter died and I was the one with her when it happened. No wonder we weren’t invited to Alice’s wake.

“And she never told you what it was that made them fall out?”

Catherine screws up her face and looks into the middle distance. “I have a vague memory of hearing Mum talk about it once with the woman next door. Something about your mum being jealous, I think, but I can’t remember any of the details.”

I’m aware that I’m frowning. It’s the notion of my mother being jealous of Sheena Dawson. It doesn’t seem possible, and yet, how well do any of us really know our parents, the people they were before they had us? I think of my own jealousy and how it used to rage inside me. An unstoppable force. Things I try not to dwell on start pricking away at the back of my mind. Seeing Alice dance with Dave Farley after he’d humiliated me in front of everyone. The torrent of anger that erupted out of me as soon as the two of us were alone.

“I was only nine,” Catherine says. “To be honest, I didn’t take much notice of Mum’s friends. I was too busy playing with the other kids on the estate.”

Catherine’s face clouds over and she stares out of the window. “All that had to stop when Alice was born,” she says. “I mean, I didn’t mind looking after her. Of course I didn’t. I loved having a baby sister, but well, Mum was so depressed, she could hardly look after herself, let alone a baby, and Dad was always so busy in the shop.”

“So was it postnatal depression?” I ask her.