Claire’s mouth twitched, as if to say, maybe you do. Or was Joan imagining that? Normally she could tell when someone was being funny with her. The kids had made a joke of it years ago, how Mum always thought you were being funny with her, or the woman in the shop was, or so-and-so’s friend. But with Claire she had not been able to decide. When would they finally be old enough to see them at last – to see what you’d made – to know them as strangers and think to yourself, yes, we’ve things in common, or no, we’ve nothing at all? When would she know if she liked her daughter?

Henry was asking everyone and no one if they wanted coffee.

‘No. Actually.’ Claire paused, and Mark touched her arm. It seemed like a supportive gesture, though later Joan would wonder. ‘I’d like to clear my old stuff out of my room. Have you got some bin bags, please?’

Claire’s old room was Tessa’s room now. They had shared when they were little, then Tessa had moved down to Neal’s room when Neal left. When Claire left too, Tessa had wanted to move back, so they’d put all Claire’s stuff into the cupboard: the room had a deep cupboard that went right back into the eaves. Claire had made a den of this for her and Tess when they were younger. She’d run fairy lights into it and put blankets on the floor. It was an eighth room, really, if you didn’t mind crouching all the time. She’d even put a sign on the door, Room Eight, in wobbly script. Occasionally, she’d slept in there all night, careless of the silverfish, the cold.

Claire and Mark spent hours going through the cupboard. Claire stayed upstairs the whole time, sorting through her stuff, while Mark carried the bin bags down and loaded them into his car.

‘We can take those,’ Joan said, and Henry agreed: he said, ‘You can leave the rubbish,’ but Mark politely insisted that they would be driving past the tip either way. He had already carried a couple of transparent crates upstairs, which Claire would presumably fill with things she wanted to keep, if she wanted to keep anything at all. Joan watched the procession of black bin bags, the rising pile in the car’s dropped backseat, and despaired. How could she want so little? Disposing of the Barbies and the ancient birthday cards was one thing, but what about her notes from university, her artwork from GCSE?