‘Oh, it’s nothing. Just your Grandma’s christening gown.’

‘Really?’ I was genuinely surprised; I hadn’t even known she possessed such things. ‘God, I can’t practise on that.’

‘Why not?’ She shook it out and held it up. Dots of dust swam in the light. It was so small; smaller than any of my own baby clothes, or the baby clothes I’d seen my mother make. ‘It’s the same kind of material. There’s enough.’

‘Doesn’t it mean something to you? You’ve kept it this long.’

‘No, not really. Not that much.’

I didn’t believe her. The gown meant something, even if it wasn’t obvious. Her offer was a trick, and either way she’d win: if I practised on the gown, and went through with it all on my own, she could console herself with her sacrifice; and if I couldn’t bring myself to ruin the gown, then she could sew my dress herself. She knew I’d done nothing since she left the room. She knew I was frightened to proceed.

‘If you don’t want it,’ I said, trying to come sideways at the problem, ‘you could give it to me.’ I reached for the gown, but she lifted it away.

‘I didn’t say I didn’t want it. I said you could use it.’ Now her tone was curdling from indulgence to irritation; I heard the note of warning, and I ignored it.

‘What’s the difference?’ I asked.

‘There is a difference. There’s a big difference. This was your Grandma’s, and I’ve had it a long time.’

‘Exactly, so why do you want me to spoil it?’

‘I don’t want you to spoil your dress!’

She was flushed and angry. I looked down at my hands, obscurely angry myself, and ashamed. We stood there in silence for a minute. The prospect of refusing everything she offered, everything, for the rest of our lives, rose in front of me like the ghost of someone I hadn’t even known was dead; the vision was far more frightening than the anger I felt. I said, in a sick and cowardly voice, ‘I don’t have anything of Grandma’s. Can I see?’