Mother failed the entrance examinations to the grammar school. Her family didn’t comment on it, as if there had never been any real prospect of success. The Parade continued. She went to the local comprehensive, which was occupied by farming oafs and their future wives, all of them reeking of cow shit. She had a single friend, Karen, whose family had recently moved to the area; Karen was painfully thin and perpetually bored, and when she lit a cigarette you could see the bleeding stumps of her fingernails. The teachers said that Mother was distracted and didn’t apply herself; but how could she, when she was so clearly meant to be elsewhere? She developed psoriasis on her elbows and underneath her eyes, and so became sensitive, which was how her mother explained it to the villagers who visited the shop, and asked what had become of her: Deborah is a very sensitive girl. To make matters worse, Peggy scraped into the grammar school, and began to speak to everyone in the family in a clipped, affected accent, which pierced each room of the tilting house – Peggy, for whom she had sacrificed everything.

Mother could sometimes be seen walking through the village to evening Mass at the Countryside Christian Church, still in her school uniform. She walked fast, with her arms tucked beneath her ribs and her stockings bunched at the ankles, and she was always alone. She liked to arrive just before the service began, and to depart before the rest of the congregation stood. She had heard that the village believed that she exemplified forgiveness, although for the most part she liked an evening away from her family, and the relieved smiles of the congregation, believing that she had pardoned them.

Mother left school at sixteen, with a few perfunctory qualifications, and a place on a secretarial course in the city. When she could afford to do so, she moved out of the house in the village and across the moors to the suburbs; that saved her from having to witness any more of Peggy’s ascent, or to care for her father, who was becoming confused. Over time, he had shrunk into the fabric of his chair, and when she kissed him goodbye, he flinched, as if she had hit him.

When Ethan and I were very young, and there was less competition, my parents would allow us to request bedtime stories. (Father saw books as inferior to his own tales; ‘They didn’t need paper in the days of Homer,’ he said, neglecting to elaborate on the history of the paper-making industry.) Ethan’s favourite story was that of his dramatic arrival into the world, which always culminated in Mother moving aside the living room rug to show the brown birthmark on the carpet. But my favourite story was that of the evening my parents met.

Karen had persuaded Mother to accompany her to the city on a Saturday night. ‘You’re getting boring,’ Karen said. ‘Even more boring than you used to be.’ (At the time of the telling, Mother believed that Karen still lived at home, unmarried, and with mental health issues; ‘Now who’s boring,’ Mother said.) They dressed in Mother’s flat, Mother always in black, with the white shroud of hair down to her waist, and a sad Elvis song on the stereo, whatever the occasion. They boarded the local bus with a bottle of Riesling to share en route.

The evening was a disaster. They ended up at a pub beyond the city centre – rickety tables; slot machines; a sticky carpet – where one of Karen’s old lovers was working behind the bar. They pretended to be surprised to see one another, although it was obvious to Mother that the whole evening had been contrived. She was the gooseberry, there to entertain Karen while the barman was serving. They drank free vodka and orange, and the barman winked at Mother when Karen visited the toilet. Just after eleven, somebody put on a vinyl – something heavy, which Mother had never heard before – and the barman and Karen started to dance. A toothless woman in sequins joined them, then one of the locals, barely able to stand, but gyrating his hips in Mother’s direction. After a short time of moving her weight from foot to foot, she snatched her jacket from the bar stool, and left.

She didn’t know where she was. She walked in the direction of the bus stop, tears in her eyes. In another life, she was already asleep, warm and oblivious underneath her blankets. In this part of the city, the buildings were far apart, and between their lights were wastelands of shadow, so dark that she couldn’t see her shoes. She ran across the dead zones, stumbling at the puddles and potholes. She was quite sure that she had gone too far.

After half an hour, she came to the church.

It was set back from the road, at the end of a winding gravel path between graves. Its bricks were a warm, terracotta red, underlit through the night. It was after midnight, but the stained-glass windows were flickering: somebody had lit candles inside.

Thinking little, she parted the door. She could wait out the night inside, and leave long before the first Sunday service. At the threshold, she removed her shoes and tugged her dress down to her knees. She left damp footprints on the stone.

Five candles burned at the end of the aisle. She tiptoed towards them, glancing down each pew as she went. When she reached the pulpit, she turned back, as if addressing the congregation.

‘Hello?’ she called.

‘Hello,’ Father said.

Her heart jittered. He was standing on a balcony above her, his palms pressed against the railings.

‘Hi,’ Mother said.

‘Hello,’ he said again. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone in.’

‘I feel very stupid,’ she said. ‘But I’m lost.’

‘That’s not so stupid.’