‘Do you know what we’re going to do now, Gracie?’

I settled you down at the kitchen table with felt-tip pens and paper and a packet of multi-coloured tissue paper.

‘You remember those coloured windows you saw in the church? Let’s make our own.’

You set about working with me, watching as I drew a simple flower for you. I planned to cut the petals out of the paper and stick pieces of tissue paper across the holes. I’d done something similar one Christmas, years ago, when I was at primary school. It wasn’t hard.

You crayoned with care the centre of the flower, the leaves and the stem, your brow puckered and the end of your tongue sticking out between your lips.

I opened the leaflet up on the table. ‘That’s the window, isn’t it?’

You paused to look, considered. ‘He has a beard. But it still looks like him. My angel.’

‘He’s called Saint Michael.’ I tried to remember what I’d learned from my halting search on the Internet while you were eating your snack. ‘People have been drawing pictures of him for hundreds of years. He was probably based on a real man but he lived so long ago, no one really knows what’s true and what’s just made up, just stories.’

You were crayoning again. ‘I know. He’s my friend.’

I didn’t answer. I was trying hard to be patient but it was a growing struggle. I didn’t know why the idea of an angel was tangled up in your head with the trauma you’d suffered. You were an intelligent child. Perhaps you’d heard people talking about her death and were trying, in your own way, to get the measure of that?

But Saint Michael? A gaunt, bearded man in ancient robes, slaying the Devil? He had no place in your subconscious. None at all.

I looked at your head, bent forward over your picture. I was cutting green and red and blue tissue paper into petal shapes for you to stick on, once the colouring was finished. It was easier to talk when your hands were busy. That’s why Richard and I had some of our most difficult conversations in the car when he was driving and neither of us could escape.

‘It’s not your fault, you know, Gracie. The accident. You do understand that, don’t you?’

Red tissue paper, snip, snip. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw you look up, guarded, then turn back to your crayoning.

‘Daddy and I were so worried about you, when you were in hospital.’

The crayoning slowed. A pause. ‘Is that why Daddy cried?’

I took a deep breath. ‘Of course.’

I picked up a sheet of blue tissue paper and started to cut that. You sounded worried but your face was low over your drawing and I couldn’t see your expression.

‘That’s looking lovely, Gracie.’ I couldn’t even see, I just wanted to soothe you. ‘That yellow is so cheerful.’

You didn’t lift your head. I reached forward and scooped a clump of falling hair, tucked it behind your ear. Such soft, fine hair. Hairclips never stayed in place for long.

‘I’ll get some glue. When you’ve finished colouring, we’ll cut out together and I’ll show you how to stick tissue paper on the back so light shines through.’

I knew you. You would talk if you wanted to. You never responded well to questions. I rummaged in the back of the kitchen drawer through blunt scissors and scattered paper clips and an unfolding ball of string until I found the glue.

You sat, eyes on my fingers, as I carefully cut out the paper panels and we started to stick on the tissue paper.

The window was almost finished when you suddenly said, in that way you had of launching a sudden remark from nowhere: ‘Was the accident Auntie Ella’s fault?’

The breath caught in my throat. ‘Auntie Ella?’

You nodded. ‘She was very cross, Mummy.’

My fingers fumbled the piece of tissue paper, stuck it crookedly.

‘What makes you say that?’

Your eyes stayed on the petals.

‘No, not red. Blue.’ Your voice had a tremor as you pointed to the next petal, ready to fight me. I gave in at once. You could do it any way you wanted; what did I care? All I wanted was to keep you talking.

Once we’d glued the blue one into place, you said: ‘She kept talking on the phone. She shouted. Screamy shouting. I heard.’

I stopped, looked at you. That’s what the woman in the café said, that she’d been arguing on the phone. I hadn’t considered that you must have heard too.

‘Gracie. This is important. When did she shout?’

You looked petulant, annoyed by my sudden change of mood, by the fact I was interrupting you at a crucial creative moment.

‘In the car.’

‘But when?’ My fingers trembled. ‘Before the accident?’

You nodded.

‘Auntie Ella shouted on the phone?’

‘Yes, Mummy. I already said.’

I stared at you, imagining it. If she held the phone in one hand, she only had one hand on the wheel.

‘You’re spoiling it.’

You pointed at the tissue paper, crushed between my fingers. I set the picture on the table and you fell to smearing glue along the edges, ready for the final panel. A prick of sweat ran along my hairline as I watched you.

‘Gracie, what did Auntie Ella say, do you remember?’

You didn’t answer at first. Your face was tight with concentration. You held up the yellow tissue paper for me to cut.

‘She said: “Go away. Stop it. Leave me alone.” Like that.’ You finally tore your eyes from the picture and looked up. Your eyes were mischievous. ‘That’s not very polite, is it? She should have said please.’

‘Yes, she should have said please.’ My head span. ‘Even silly grown-ups forget sometimes, when they get cross.’

‘Silly sausage.’ You smiled to yourself. ‘Silly banana.’

I wrapped my arms round your small body and squeezed you tightly, even as you struggled to pull away. I whispered into your neck. ‘I love you, Gracie.’

You battled to extract yourself from me, brushed fallen hair from your cheeks, smoothed out the crumpled tissue paper and handed it to me. The sight of your sweet face, so serious, so intent, made my eyes swim. I blinked. I thought about what might have happened, about what so nearly did.

‘I love you so much. You have no idea.’

If you heard, you gave no sign of it. You were here, fully focused on the present.

I left you to squeeze the glue on your own, getting it everywhere. I just couldn’t help. My hands shook in my lap. I sat, trembling, watching you and thinking about the accident, wondering who had made Ella shout down the phone that day. I knew now with absolute certainty that Ella was every bit as responsible for that crash as that poor girl.