In 1967, Bel was born. Isabel. She surprised them both for the canyons of love a child can throw open. She had Ida’s temper and Judith’s green eyes. ‘My eyes, fancy that! She’s a cute one, oh, she is!’ Judith said when she hurried down from Bakewell for the christening (the others couldn’t make it). Ida had only met Aubrey’s mother twice before, once at the wedding and then a few months afterwards when she had stayed for the weekend and given Ida cookery lessons covering Sunday roasts (including Yorkshire pudding) and shepherd’s pie. ‘Got to keep our men happy, haven’t we,’ Judith said slowly, for they had trouble understanding each other’s accents. Ida found that Judith made her tired, even over the telephone, when she called to check that Aubrey was being looked after properly, and to let Ida know she would be happy to provide more cookery lessons whenever she wanted. Ida told Aubrey, ‘Your motha fuss too much, it’s not right,’ upon which Aubrey flew to Judith’s defence, a little hysterically, Ida thought. Judith made Ida miss her own mother even more. As she watched her the day of Bel’s christening, fussing over the cradle in her old-fashioned pearl earrings, she wished it was Nne-Nne standing there instead. She wished it so hard that she saw it. Nne-Nne, in an orange wrapper and headwrap, in this lonely house in Neasden, gazing down at her new granddaughter. ‘Welcome, sweet girl,’ Nne-Nne said, ‘to our hearts and our home.’