‘—and golden syrup and lemon.’ Sara finished her sister’s sentence with a smile. ‘Move up a bit.’ She poked her in the ribs. ‘I’m falling out of bed.’

Shannon obliged by shifting closer to the wall. As Sara settled herself into a more comfortable position, her leg brushed against a cold, damp patch on the sheet. Instinctively, she jerked away, but she didn’t cry out or ask questions or tease. She knew exactly what it meant.

Shannon caught the movement. Her eyes filled with shadows and she burrowed her face in her pillow, cheeks aflame.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Sara, pressing a cool palm to her sister’s burning skin. ‘We’ll put on a wash before Pamela notices.’

Downstairs, the bundle of laundry stuffed under her arm, Sara tiptoed into the utility room while Shannon approached the sitting room with the air of someone about to enter the lion’s den. Sara had instructed her sister to distract their mother by asking if they could make pancakes, even though they both knew what the answer would be.

‘Your father said no breakfast this morning,’ said Mrs Carter, eyes downward, examining her knitting. No holes were permitted in blankets for premature babies in case their tiny fingers and toes became entangled and she was meticulous about this detail. Sara often thought their mother cared more about other people’s children than her own.

While Shannon pleaded unsuccessfully with Mrs Carter to change her mind, Sara loaded up the washing machine and foraged in the kitchen for something to eat.

She had learned, over time, to be careful about what she took, because her mother kept an inventory of food. Pamela Carter used a ruler to measure the length of each loaf of bread from the village bakery and knew if her daughters had cut off a slice. She regularly weighed the expensive ham from her once-a-week trip to the deli and kept a tally of eggs and cheese. The amount of milk in the plastic bottle in the fridge was carefully measured with a black marker pen.

But Sara, ever sharp, had noticed that while her mother counted the biscuits in the tin, she did not detect the pilfering of an occasional unopened packet. Imperfect fruit and vegetables were always discarded in the rubbish bin, and because Mrs Carter was inclined to avoid the messier side of life, she never noticed when Sara retrieved them.

The sisters were greedy. That’s what their mother told them. That’s why she had to keep such a close eye on what they ate. But Sara found it difficult to understand how it was possible to be greedy and so hollow with hunger at the same time.

‘Morning, Pamela,’ said Sara, poking her head around the sitting room door, arms hidden behind her back. Mrs Carter had insisted the girls address her by her first name since they were old enough to talk.