‘Good.’ They chink their mugs together, and Vee turns to the papers. One has a front-page image of the protest, the other a smiling Miss World, with only the briefest mention of the protest in the text. ‘Look at that. And we were part of it.’ The feeling she had yesterday, whatever it was, has stayed in her, moving from her gut to her backbone, making her straighter, stronger.

Vee reads the story, which includes the result, as they didn’t see the end of the show. ‘At least they let a black woman win it,’ she says.

‘There is so much wrong with that statement that I don’t know where to start.’ Leonie play-punches Vee’s arm; bacon falls from her sandwich. Vee shakes her head, laughs at herself. She must get better at thinking before she speaks.

‘Let me have a go. At all the things that are wrong.’

Leonie sits back in her chair, crosses her arms. ‘I’m listening. Redeem yourself, my child.’

‘OK.’ Vee thinks back over what she said, ‘No one should be letting a woman do anything because it takes away her power—’

Leonie nods. ‘Or?’

‘Or implies she doesn’t have any.’

‘Good. And?’

‘And she didn’t win because she was black, or she shouldn’t have done, because skin colour shouldn’t matter, just like sex shouldn’t.’

‘Gender.’

‘Sorry. Gender.’

‘And do you think it’s OK for you to say skin colour shouldn’t matter?’

‘Well’ – surely this is obvious – ‘I would never say it should matter. Because that would be racist.’

‘I mean,’ Leonie says, ‘do you think it’s OK for you to make those judgements? You’re white. There are things you can’t comment on. Like, if I hit you I’m not entitled to say how much it hurts.’

Vee loves these conversations. She has the same feeling she used to when she was a little girl, watching her dad work, him explaining how he was dovetailing a joint. Later, at college, in her first darkroom sessions, she was bursting with that same sparkling sense of understanding how something works. And knowing that all she needs to do is pay attention to be able to do it too.

Leonie tops up their mugs. Her teapot has a knitted cosy. Vee can’t imagine that she knitted it herself. It’s the sort of thing that her uptight sister Ursula might do, from what Vee has heard about her. ‘You said “at least” they let a black woman win. “At least” suggests we’re happy with a minimum. And, winning a beauty contest is not good, because—’

Vee laughs, slaps her hand on the table as though she is throwing down a winning hand of poker, played for spent matches with her dad. ‘Patriarchal notions of beauty!’

‘Exactly, sister. We’re getting there.’

‘Thanks, Leonie. I still feel stupid a lot of the time.’