Reece knitted face flannels in sugar-pink and pale pea-green, crooked squares Nan sewed to patchwork quilts, bed-socks of red and yellow that tied with satin bows. Her knitting was always in plain stitch — purl was too hard; Nan always cast on and off — she did it too loose. She sat with the crinkly balls tangling in her lap, one leg tucked under, only stopping when it was time to make the tea.

Reece was a stoic: she did not flinch when the bright rose of St. Anthony’s fire blossomed on her face and they pulled her eye-lashes out and sheets dripping disinfectant were hung about the house.

Sometimes Reece was sick. Then, her needles silent, her hands empty, she lay in bed: her face all ashy, her cheeks gone sunken, the circles beneath her eyes swollen to ugly bladders. One day I watched her retching into the pot: shoulders shaking, brown eyes filled with tears. And I saw her in the bath: so skinny — her bones showing through sallow flesh, and withered breasts with bruised plum nipples, a beard between her legs.

When I was lazy I ordered Reece to fetch things for me, told her she was my slant-eyed Japanese servant. When I was ill she brought me food on a tray, wiped the sweat with a flannel. I liked her to wash my arms and legs with her soft clumsy hands; dry them with pats through the towel.

I thanked her then, but sometimes I was cruel.

There were days when I taunted her, confused her with questions; scolded her when she slept in her singlet and sat on one leg — told her she was dirty, told her she would stop the blood. There were days when I discovered the pot of urine in the wardrobe and ran to tell my mother; days when I reminded her of the rattle in her belly, the smacking sound her mouth made when she ate.

She stumbled blindly away, denying she was crying — locked herself in the bathroom.

And I was pierced with lovely, painful joy.

I crept after her; stooped at the keyhole; examined her shamelessly, like a specimen under glass. I watched, as she fumblingly took off her glasses; watched, as red-eyed and gulping, she washed her poor, crumpled face. And she came out trembling, white-faced under a layer of powder, falsely smiling.

And I turned coward and tried to comfort her and soothe her — scared that Nan might find me out.

Reece remembered her mother. She watched my reaction slyly, as she told me she was in Heaven with the Angels, dropping her voice to the reverential, pious moo she thought she should.

But my great-grandmother, who gave birth gladly to Willie and Dick and Iris, was horrified at Reece’s birth. It was Iris, twenty years older, who looked after her. For a while they were separated by marriage — with widowhood they came together. The relationship that both frustrated and fulfilled my grandmother’s life began.