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‘Baileys? Course, darling. You used to love it.’

‘I know.’

I used to have one with her in the evening, when the pair of us had read ourselves silly, full length, a sofa apiece in the sitting room. Then Dad and Tim would join us, coming in shattered from a day in the fields, flicking on the telly. We'd shift up and they'd flop down and we'd watch Dallas, The Generation Game, anything light, and have eggs and chips on our laps in front of it, or sardines on toast, macaroni cheese, corned beef hash, things I hadn't had for years. And if Mum and Dad weren't rowing, it could be cosy, easy. And then sometimes, particularly if Gran was there, we'd play cards after supper. Hearts, Racing Demon – which always provoked shrieks of laughter. Cribbage, maybe. These days I ate linguine with clams at the table, bought, but didn't read, Zadie Smith, and since Ant only watched documentaries or arty pro-grammes I hardly watched television at all. I don't think Ant knew how to play cards. Oh, bridge. I heaved up a great sigh from the soles of my shoes.

‘Penny for them?’

I smiled. ‘How funny. I've spent the whole week trying not to throw money at Ant's.’

‘I doubt your husband could be so easily bought.’ She sank down on the sofa beside me and handed me my drink.

‘No, you're probably right.’ I gazed at the gathering gloom through the slatted wooden blinds. Then at her.

‘Do you like him, Mum?’

‘Who?’

‘Ant.’

She stared at me wide-eyed. ‘What a question! Of course I do. Why d'you ask?’

I flushed under her astonished gaze. Why had I asked? ‘I… don't know.’ Why had I asked? I did my best to answer.

‘I suppose… well, you're very different.’

She looked surprised, then gave this some thought. ‘I suppose we are. But he's true to himself. I like that.’

As Mum was. Which Ant liked. And as I wasn't, it occurred to me, with a horrible rush of adrenalin up my legs.

‘He's got another child,’ I blurted, and even as I said it, I knew I wanted to tarnish him. To disenchant her. ‘By a girl he once taught. A student. She was eighteen and he was thirty. We were engaged.’

She sipped her drink. ‘Yes, I know.’

‘You know?’ I turned to face her, horrified.

‘Anna told me.’

My jaw dropped. Eyes popped too, probably. ‘When?’

‘A few days ago. She dropped by after school on her bike. Told me all about it. We had a long talk.’

‘Oh!’ I was flabbergasted. And hurt. A long talk. They'd had a long talk. She hadn't had that with me, Anna.

‘Why didn't you tell me? Ring me?’

‘I figured Anna might not want me to pass it all back… how she felt. Thought maybe she'd come here to offload.’ She sipped her Baileys calmly.

Yes. Yes, she was probably right. And Anna often did come here; cycled round. She liked seeing Mum. Liked playing her Neil Diamond CDs, going on her exercise bike in her bedroom, playing with her china thimble collection. In fact, she sometimes talked to her more than… well. It was often the way, wasn't it, I told myself stoically. Skipping a generation. I gave my head a tiny shake to regroup.

‘How is she?’ I had to ask how my own daughter was?

‘Not great. Threatened. Jealous. Scared.’

‘Makes two of us.’

She sighed. Patted my hand. ‘You're bound to be. But, Evelyn, don't make this too big. She's only a child, this Stacey. Imagine if it were Anna.’

‘How could it be Anna!’

‘Easily. Imagine if he'd married her, not you. Left you pregnant. And you'd brought Anna up alone. For sixteen years.’

I gazed at her. Her grey eyes were steady. ‘She's done very well. They've both done well. To get this far without contacting you. Without inconveniencing you. She could have made your life very different. But they didn't. They left you alone.’

I went quiet. Put my drink down on the glass coffee table.

‘They're having lunch tomorrow, at Browns.’

‘I know.’

‘Again? Again you know?’

‘Anna just texted me.’ She nodded at her phone on the arm of the sofa. The texting granny. Who'd caught on to technology long before I had. I rubbed my temples hard with my fingertips.

‘Browns is a good idea,’ she went on. Neutral ground. Neutral territory.