Philip had put up walls to stop the words his parents wanted to say from reaching him, words like: we miss you; we love you; what did we do wrong? And walls, she knew, kept words in that he did not want to reach them, like: this is what happened; this is what we did; this is what I know; this is the secret we keep . . . She avoided talking about it and thinking about it most of the time: this was her act of self-preservation. Not that she would swap lives with Philip, no matter how well off he was. He was married to the lipless Nanette, who liked to follow whatever sentence was spoken to her with the words ‘Oh dear . . .’, leaving you wondering whether what you thought was good news was, in fact, just ‘news’, or whether she might have misheard. Nanette also knew more about being lactose-intolerant than anyone else on the planet and liked nothing more than to talk about it. It was in fact Nanette’s second-favourite response to most things.

‘I have a headache.’

‘You’re probably lactose-intolerant.’

‘I can’t sleep.’

‘Lactose-intolerant.’

‘I’ve lost my car keys.’

‘Lactose-intolerant.’

‘Global warming, eh?’

‘Lactose-intolerant . . .’

‘Yes,’ her mum now said, drawing her from her thoughts, ‘Philip sent Dad this voucher. I’m holding it now. Oh, wait a minute, I’ll just fetch my glasses.’

‘No, Mum, I tell you what . . .’ but it was too late. She was gone again . . . Bess leant forward and banged her head on the tabletop.

Eventually she managed to get off the phone and at last grabbed the neat bundle of envelopes Jim had handed her from on top of the microwave. Six. She counted. That wasn’t bad for someone as old as her, remembering being a kid, when popularity was directly proportionate to the number of birthday cards you received. This in part was the reason her parents always had and still insisted on sending her a card each.