The following morning, you went to nursery and, as I shopped and cooked and did the laundry, I thought constantly about the strange story you’d told. All I could imagine was that you were experiencing your own form of post-traumatic shock, processing in some way all that had happened and reliving it in the only form you knew: a story.

By the time I collected you from nursery, I’d decided to take you with me to do something that had been in my mind for a while. To go and see the scene of the accident for myself. Perhaps, I thought, it would help us both.

I bought flowers. It was an overpriced winter bouquet and as I paid for them, I hesitated, wondering what on earth I was doing, busting my budget for someone I’d never even met. I seemed to hear my beloved father’s voice, always the pragmatist. He laughed in my ear. Nineteen ninety-nine? Really? And you’re going to tie them to a lamp post and leave them there? Oh please, Jen, please.

You clung tightly to my hand as we jumped off the big step of the bus onto the pavement and I looked round, trying to make out the landmarks. A dry cleaner’s. A chemist’s. A convenience store. A coffee shop.

I looked warily at the surface of the road. No dark patches that might be the remnants of spilt blood. No shattered glass. Nothing at all. Just the endless rumble of fast-moving cars and buses and lorries and a hard, damp chill in the air.

You helped me to find the end of the roll of brown tape and pick it free. We wrapped it round and round the flowers and the lamp post behind. The stems stood upright, the heads leaning forward. I thought of witches, tied to the stake, waiting to be burned. I blinked, stuck the card on the front in its plastic sleeve. For Vanessa.

I drew you in front of me and stood there for a moment, my hands gripping your shoulders. A religious person would say a prayer. We were not religious people. You twisted round, expectant, trying to look at me.

‘Did you know her?’ A stout woman, full in the door of the coffee shop. Her hands were across her bosom, holding thickly padded upper arms, warding off the cold.

‘Not really. I mean, no. I know the woman driving the other car.’

‘Oh.’ Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Is she…?’

‘She’s fine. Barely a scratch.’

‘I saw it happen. I was stood right here.’ She nodded at the doorway that framed her. ‘That poor girl’s car went out of control, swerved right across the road. Bang. Head on.’

I nodded. I wanted her to say more, to tell me what I knew in my heart, that whatever the other woman did wrong, the accident was partly Ella’s fault too. Despite what the police said.

‘And that poor kiddie in the back.’

My eyes travelled down to you and hers followed.

‘Hello, darling. What’s your name?’

You didn’t answer, twisted back to me for guidance.

‘Gracie,’ I said. ‘She’s three. Well, nearly four.’

‘Nearly four! What a big girl!’ Her eyes rose again to mine and read my expression. ‘Was it her, then, in the back?’

I nodded.

She looked you over. ‘Come into the warm. You like marshmallows, Gracie?’

The coffee shop was almost deserted. We slid into chairs in the window and I ordered drinks and a toasted sandwich. You faced the interior and watched with round eyes as the woman worked behind the counter.

I looked out at the street. The table juddered each time a heavy lorry rumbled past. The flowers hung unhappily on the lamp post. They blurred as rain spattered the glass. It was a sad offering, already desolate.

‘I didn’t know what else to do.’

‘Of course you didn’t.’ She seemed to understand at once. She was bustling now, hissing steam and pulling levers as she made you a hot chocolate and stuffed the tiny cup with pink and white marshmallows, then made me a cappuccino and shook chocolate shavings over the foam. ‘It’s a lovely gesture. Two plates with the toastie?’

She waved me away when I reached for my wallet and came to sit beside me, facing the window. She jerked her head towards you and mouthed: ‘Is she alright?’

I nodded. She considered us both, then pulled herself back onto her feet and returned with a tin of worn crayons and a printed colouring sheet and put them in front of you.

‘Could you tell me a bit more, please?’ I kept my voice low, watching you pick out a crayon and start to scribble, hoping you were too absorbed in your colouring to listen. ‘What happened, exactly?’

She blew out her cheeks. ‘I was stood right here. It was quiet, you see. I like to get some air.’ She made a discreet smoking gesture over your head. ‘See what’s going on.’

You scribbled hard, the tip of your tongue sticking out between your lips as you concentrated. Yellow. Every now and then, your small fingers reached for a marshmallow and you bit into it, your brow tight as you chewed.

‘Who was she talking to?’ the woman asked. ‘Do you know?’

I shook my head. ‘Who?’

‘Your friend. Didn’t she say?’ She nodded. ‘On her mobile.’ She put her splayed fingers to her cheek to demonstrate. ‘Shouting. Right old ding-dong. Don’t know what she said but I heard her through the window, just before, you know. That’s what made me look up. And then, bang.’ She made the sign of the cross on her breast.

I set down my cup, spilling coffee in the saucer and out across the plastic tabletop. For a moment, my chest was so tight that I could barely breathe. I was right. I knew it from the start. Ella was to blame. She was shouting down the phone, distracted, when the accident happened. Not paying proper attention. With you, my love, in her care. You could have died.

The woman looked embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—’

I swallowed hard, pressed the flat of my wrists to my eyes to stop myself crying. She filled the silence by reaching for a serviette and mopping at the splashes of coffee.

‘And to think, that little one in the back. And she’s alright, you say? Well.’

I couldn’t speak. My hands, at my face, shook.

She looked away. You, oblivious, crayoned furiously.

‘They took forever getting her out. Put one of those things on, round her neck. Poor little mite.’ She raised her eyes to check on me. ‘And she was your friend?’

My friend? Ella? I didn’t reply.

Something seemed to occur to her and she got to her feet, dropped the sodden serviettes in the bin and went behind the counter, rummaging there. You lifted your head and watched. When she came back, she carried something small inside a folded carrier bag.

‘I was going to take it to the police, you know, but I didn’t know where to go. There used to be a police station just down there, along Flyfield Road, but they closed it. Turned it into a kebab shop. And I didn’t want to get her into bother. Anyway, take it. You can give it to her now, can’t you?’

I opened up the bag. A phone in a red leather case.

She pointed towards the listing flowers. ‘It was just there, in the gutter. I thought I’d better pick it up before someone nicked it.’

You looked too. ‘Is that Auntie Ella’s?’

The woman gave you an indulgent smile. ‘Well, aren’t you the cat with nine lives? Bet you gave your mummy a scare, didn’t you?’ She looked back at me and lowered her voice again. ‘I tell you, I didn’t think she’d made it. When I saw her out there in this bad light, I thought for a minute I’d seen a ghost.’