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We reach the school gates and stand in silence, waiting for the bell to ring.

Eventually, Tom crosses the playground with another boy – an unkempt black-haired lad with breadline written all over him.

Tom reaches Elizabeth’s side and slips his hand into hers. He glances at me, then looks away.

‘Hello Tom,’ I say.

‘Hey Tommo.’ Elizabeth stoops to hug him tight. Her eyes are creased and tired.

‘Aren’t you going to say hello to your grandmother, Tom?’ I ask.

‘Hello, Grandma.’ The words are empty. Dutiful.

On the walk home I tell Tom, ‘You need to behave yourself, young man. You’re getting your mother in trouble with all these injuries.’

Elizabeth, of course, rushes to his defence. ‘Mum. Leave him alone.’

‘Tell those social workers how happy you are,’ I continue. ‘Or they’ll take you away.’

‘God, Mum.’ Elizabeth shakes her head. ‘“Shut it all away. Make it look nice. Don’t talk about the divorce, Elizabeth, or no one will like you.” What about Tom? What if he’snothappy? Something’s happening at that school. I think Olly … Oh, I can’t stand it.’ She starts crying again.

‘Elizabeth.’ I shake my head. ‘You have to stop making accusations. It’s making you look … I don’t know. Crazy.’

When we reach Elizabeth’s house, Tom shoots upstairs.

The lounge is a mess. I pick up Elizabeth’s green cardigan, fold it into a careful square and head upstairs to put it away.

Tom darts aside as I reach the landing and hurries into his bedroom, closing the door.

I hang the cardigan amid the appalling mismatch of casual clothing in Elizabeth’s wardrobe – bright woollens, jeans, striped T-shirts.

I stare inside the wardrobe for a good minute, not quite sure what I’m seeing. And then increasingly horrified.

Elizabeth is asucha mess.

There’s nothing to be done in her case. My grandson, however – maybe he’s still young enough.

I march into Tom’s bedroom. He’s looking at the wallpaper, stroking the butterfly wallpaper, eyes glazed over.

‘Tell your mother the truth, Thomas,’ I say. ‘She’s worried you’re seeing your father. Of course you’re not, are you?’

Tom shakes his head tightly.

‘This is all just bad behaviour. Social services want to send you to a home for naughty boys,’ I tell him. ‘Do you understand? They’ll give you grey porridge and itchy blankets. You have to tell them what a nice family you have.’

I sense Elizabeth behind me. ‘Mother,’ she says. ‘I think it’s time you left.’

‘But—’

‘Right now.’

‘Mum, I don’t feel well,’ says Tom, clutching his stomach.

‘Okay, darling.’ Elizabeth sits on the bed and scoops Tom onto her lap. ‘It’s okay.’

I purse my lips to show how displeased I am, but it has no effect these days. There’s no reasoning with Elizabeth when she gets like this.

She’s such a disappointment to me.