Both pictures must have once been part of larger photographs. Marnie remembered the original of the toddler image. In it, her father had been standing beside her, holding an ice cream, which the two of them were sharing. Her mother had cut Marnie’s face from the picture with a pair of nail scissors to make it fit inside the locket. She’d screwed up the rest of the photograph and put it in the bin.

Alice said, ‘You were a gorgeous toddler, Marnie. And you’re a pretty girl now. But you need to look after yourself.’ She had combed Marnie’s hair with her fingers, but didn’t get far because of the knots. ‘I expect your mummy used to do your hair for you, did she?’

Marnie nodded.

‘How did she do it? Did she plait it? Did she put it up in a bun?’

Marnie shrugged.

‘Go on, tell me!’ Alice tickled Marnie in the ribs. ‘Tell me about your mummy! What was her hair like?’

Marnie considered this and, to her horror, found that she couldn’t remember. It had only been a few months since Denise had died but already she was forgetting her. She couldn’t even remember what colour Denise’s hair had been, or how it had been styled. Tears had rushed to her eyes; it was as if she was losing Denise, letting go of her. Alice saw that Marnie was upset and she put her arms round her.

‘Oh, sweetheart,’ she said, ‘I’m so sorry. Please don’t cry! You’ve had a horrible time and it’s no wonder everything’s muddled now. It will get better, I promise! Let’s do something together now, something nice. Let’s do your hair.’

Alice took Marnie to the shower block and they both stripped to their underwear and went into the shower together. Alice put a blob of shampoo into Marnie’s hair and lathered it, then she rinsed it, conditioned it and rinsed again. She showed Marnie how to use bodywash and special cream for the delicate skin on her face. Everything smelled wonderful; like fruit and flowers. The pair of them giggled, throwing suds at one another, skidding on the tiled floor. Once they were rinsed, they wrapped themselves in towels and came back to the caravan. Marnie sat cross-legged on the grass in the sunshine while Alice kneeled behind her, combing her hair straight, teasing out the knots and cutting away sections that had become matted, taking care not to pull.

Marnie picked at the clover in the grass. She had already decided if she found one with four leaves, she’d give it to Alice. She could feel the warmth of Alice’s body behind her, Alice’s breath on her cheek. Nobody had touched her so gently and tenderly since her mother’s death.