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delight, ‘Hah! Get out of that then’. Of course I couldn’t, but I’d stay there as long as possible, until it got too painful. Dad always fell asleep in front of the television after work at night, but when Mum went to turn it off he would instantly spring awake again and bark, ‘What are you turning that off for, I’m watching it!’ A wiry man, he’d been athletic in his younger days and moved quickly. Mum and I would often leave him to the television and go into the other living-room where she played the piano and I sang, loudly and badly. PoorDad, we could hear the volume go up on the telly by degrees until he drowned out our fun as he tried to hear it above our appalling singing. We would have loved him to join in, but he never did.
    When I was small I’d watch Dad playing cricket at Colne, where he’d grown up; later as he took scouts at Barrowford, where he eventually became district scoutmaster. Maybe he’d have noticed me more if I’d been born a boy. The only time he seemed to approve of me was when I was being obedient, not crying and not complaining—generally keeping out of his way.
    My sister, Jill, was born when I was almost five, around Christmas, which made the event extra exciting. I was so looking forward to the new baby coming home; I’d be able to put her in my doll’s pram with Elizabeth, named after the Queen, and wheel her round the neighbourhood with me. I imagined that I’d look after her in a very grown-up way until she was old enough to come on Enid Blyton adventures with me.
    Dad and I caught the bus to Colne the day Mum and Jill were due to come home from hospital, and we all caught a taxi back together. I was wriggling with excitement sitting next to my mother and brand new baby sister in the back seat. I leant over to kiss her, meaning only to give her a little peck, but must have been too rough because Jill started and cried. Dad delivered a swift, hard smack and told me off. Instantly, the joy was gone. I sat silently, smarting, the rest of the way home, misjudged and unhappy.
    As Jill grew, she became cuter and cuter. People cooed over Jill. It was one thing being upstaged by a new baby—I could almost cope with that—but the novelty showed no signs of wearing off. The more people focused on Jill, the more I triedto attract attention and the more annoying I became. I hadn’t exactly been a bonnie baby either—an aunt of mine thought I looked so fragile as an infant that she told my mother, ‘You’ll never raise that child’. Another aunt told me once that whenever she was at our house I was always getting myself into trouble for something or other.
    The night panics began around the time of Jill’s birth. I don’t think my mother was really aware of them, thinking that I just wanted an excuse to come downstairs, the way children do, when I was meant to be asleep in bed. One day, while my mother was feeding the baby, I came and stood beside her and came straight out with what was plaguing me.
    â€˜Do you still love me, Mummy?’
    â€˜Of course I do,’ she replied, giving me a cuddle.
    When Jill became a toddler Dad would take us both with him to scouts while Mum was working. We’d walk to a hall in Barrowford where the brigade met, about thirty minutes away, with Dad carrying Jill on his shoulders. He took us with him camping once too, when the brigade set up their tents in a nearby field. The scouts seemed so grown-up and impressive in their fawn uniforms and neckerchiefs. I was desperate for them to notice me but they couldn’t have been less interested. They would take Jill, though, into their tents and play with her for hours. It was unbelievable. Disgruntled, my behaviour became even worse. I was positively ratty. It wasn’t long into the weekend before my father sent me off to the other end of the field in disgrace.
    Having a sister did have its advantages, though.