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full possession of the facts.
    ‘The fire investigation team have established that the windows on the top floors were all wide open,’ Sarah says. ‘Which is another signifier for arson because it creates a draught, drawing the fire more quickly up through the school; especially given the strong breeze today. The head teacher told us that the windows are never left wide open because of the danger of children falling out.’
    ‘What else?’ you ask and she understands you need to know.
    ‘We think that the Art room was deliberately chosen,’ she continues. ‘Not only because there was a chance that the arsonist could get away with it – the use of an accelerant being camouflaged as it were by Art supplies – but because it’s the worst possible place for a fire. The Art teacher has inventoried what materials were kept.
    ‘There were stacks of paper and craft materials, which meant the fire could take hold easily and spread. There were also different paints and glues, which were toxic and flammable. She’d brought in old wallpaper samples for acollage, which we think were coated in a highly toxic varnish.’
    As she describes an inferno of poisonous fumes and choking smoke I think of children making collages of hot-air balloons and papier-mâché dinosaurs.
    You nod at her to go on and she sturdily continues.
    ‘There were also cans of spray mount in the room. When they are exposed to heat the pressure builds and they explode. Vapours from the spray mount can travel long distances along the ground to an ignition source and flash back. Next to the Art room was a small room, little more than a cupboard, where the cleaning materials are kept. They too would have contained combustible and toxic substances.’
    She pauses, looking at you; sees how pale you are.
    ‘Have you eaten anything yet?’
    The question irritates you. ‘No, but—’
    ‘Let’s talk more in the canteen. It’s not far.’
    It’s not up for negotiation. When you were younger, did she bribe you to eat then too? A favourite TV programme if you finished your shepherd’s pie?
    ‘I’ll tell them where you are, just in case,’ she says, preempting any arguments.
    I’m glad she’s making you eat.
    She goes to tell the staff in my acute neurology ward where you will be; you go to tell the burns unit.
    Once you’ve gone, Jenny turns to me.
    ‘It’s true, what Mrs Healey said about the windows not being left open. Ever since that fire-escape accident, they’re paranoid about children falling and hurting themselves. Mrs Healey goes round herself, checking them all the time.’
    She pauses a moment, and I see that she is awkward. Embarrassed even.
    ‘You know when I went to your bed?’ she says. ‘Before Dad got there?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘You looked so…’ She falters. But I know what she wants to ask. How come I am so undamaged compared with her?
    ‘I wasn’t in the building as long as you,’ I say. ‘And I wasn’t so close to the fire. And I had more protection.’
    I don’t say that I was in a cotton shirt with sleeves I could pull down and thick denim jeans and socks with trainers, not a short, gauzy skirt and skimpy top and strappy sandals, but she guesses anyway.
    ‘So I’m the ultimate fashion victim.’
    ‘I’m not sure I can do gallows humour, Jen.’
    ‘OK.’
    ‘Positive and even silly,’ I say. ‘That’s fine. That’s great. And black humour, that’s alright too. But when it becomes gallows – well, that’s my line.’
    ‘Point taken, Mum.’
    We could almost be at our kitchen table.
    We follow you into the absurdly named Palms Café; the Formica-topped tables reflecting the overhead striplights.
    ‘Great atmosphere,’ Jenny says and for a moment I can’t work out if this statement is because of her relentlessly positive attitude, inherited from you, or her sense of humour, which she gets from me. Poor Jen, she can’t be positive or funny without one of us taking the credit for it.
    Sarah joins you with a