Her parents, Jeannie and Eddie, stood side by side in their pyjamas, her mum looking simultaneously happy and emotional and her dad with the cord of his red and black tartan dressing gown tied tight across his burgeoning tum, the harmonica raised to his lips in readiness. The instrument had been a gift to him from his own dad, who had apparently fought in World War II with his trusty instrument secreted in a pocket, whipped out as and when required to lift the spirits of his comrades. Bessie hoped her Grandad Arty had been better at playing than her dad or it might have had quite the opposite effect on his poor comrades in dire need of a boost.

Bessie conducted with her index finger, trying not to let her grin slip into laughter as her dad did his best to get the tune of ‘Happy Birthday’ right and her mum, bless her, sang along in an earnest attempt to keep up with whatever he was now playing. As if this wasn’t bad enough, her brother decided to bang his disapproval on his bedroom floor, the thuds coming through the ceiling. After an excruciating thirty seconds, it was over.

‘Happy birthday, Bessie.’

‘Yaaaaaaaay! Happy birthday to me!’ she roared in return.

Her mum took a step forward and wrapped her in her usual brief awkward hug – a throwback, her dad had explained, from her own childhood, where hugs were in very short supply. Bessie loved that she tried and gripped her tightly in return, whereupon her mum did what she always did and patted her on the head and tousled her hair. Her dad pulled her into a close hold and kissed her on the forehead while her mum scurried off to grab four plates from the shelf in the kitchen cupboard, Bessie and her dad following on behind.

‘Sixteen, baby girl. It doesn’t seem possible,’ her mum said.

‘Do you feel sixteen?’ her dad asked, as he always did.

Bessie touched her head with both hands and then her chest and finally her forearms. ‘Do you know, I do!’ She and her dad laughed.

‘Mind you, it wasn’t exactly the happiest day for me,’ her mum interjected. ‘I mean, of course it was – I got you!’ she corrected, giggling, as she went to the fridge to grab the milk and eggs for pancakes, the only breakfast available on birthdays in this house. Every other day Bessie ate cereal and watched with a look of disgust as her parents tucked into toast and marmalade with chunks of orange peel in it. What was it about old people that made them like the bit of the fruit that in every other orangey scenario was thrown away! She shuddered at the very thought.