When it was bedtime, I went to kiss Dad goodnight, and I asked him if he really liked his meat burnt. He folded me in his arms.

‘Your mother had a long, lonely day working to keep everything clean for us and putting food on the table, and she’s tired. Besides. . . a charred piece of meat never hurt anyone, but harsh words do.’

When I was younger and we had visitors, my mother would make tea for them with the silver service she’d brought from England. These days, the silver teapot and jugs stood on a shelf in the living room, tarnished and full of bits of paper, pencil stubs, and an old magnifying glass. Next to them was a photo of my mother in England, before she got married. She was in front of a large, ornamental flower bed and wearing a soft print dress. The wind was moulding its fabric to her body. Her hair, long and loose, was flowing in the breeze. She was laughing. This attractive, carefree girl was an entirely different person to the mother I knew.

Arriving home from school at the end of a hot summer’s afternoon, I found Mum laying out biscuits and cake; Jill Thompson was coming for tea. Pigeons crooned in the garden and the air flowing through the open windows smelled of sun-warmed leaves. Mum glanced in the mirror and I saw her poke at her dry, unkempt hair and coarsening skin. She gave a short laugh that sounded like a bark.

‘My word, look what I’ve turned into.’

There was a commanding knock on the door. Jill walked in wearing a blue dress with big pink roses all over it, the fabric straining across her ample stomach and hips.

‘My God, this heat’s killing me,’ was the first thing she said. We kissed hello – her face was moist with sweat – and I went to my room to do some homework. When I returned, they were drinking tea out of chipped, mismatched mugs and Jill was saying that she’d just paid a neighbourly visit to Ginie. The word they found for Ginie was ‘clever’. They didn’t mean it as a compliment.

‘She’s done well for herself,’ said my mother.

‘Oh, Diana, you should have seen her. She’s so full of herself.’ Jill shook her head.

‘And poor Stephen. I mean that tattoo – it’s depraved!’ she scoffed, taking a sip of tea. I could tell she was enjoying herself. Tattoos were enough of a rarity to be both mysterious and scandalous. The many rumours about Ginie had given her a strangely exotic reputation.

‘She was an ex-chorus girl,’ they said.

‘She met Stephen while dancing at a Hungarian strip club.’

‘I wonder why she chose a snake,’ mused my mother. ‘There must be some kind of symbolism behind it?’

‘Oh, doubtless. But I couldn’t very well ask her, could I?’ Jill gave an exaggerated shudder. ‘It’s positively vicious-looking.’