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and gave me a shove towards the chair.
    Five minutes later I was absolutely sick with panic, screaming to escape.
    ‘Don’t let them! Mum, help!’
    But she didn’t help. She smiled apologetically at the dentist as he held me firmly in place, then she left the room.
    I despised her that day. While I suffered unspeakable operations, she just sat in the waiting room like she was expecting a bus. When I emerged, shaken and in tears, she said proudly, ‘You’ve no idea how hard it was to make that decision.’
    Mouth distorted by empty, swollen gums, I thought, No, I really haven’t.
    Nan’s sister, Kate, had followed her GI boyfriend back to America after the war and every so often Nan would disappear for a few weeks to visit her. That meant I got the full run of our large room. That was never as much fun as I hoped. I hated sleeping alone. I was convinced people were snoring under the bed or hiding in the wardrobe or behind the curtains. I always got nightmares when I was on my own, which Mum blamed on watching too many children’s puppet shows on television. I knew it wasn’t that, though.
    Sometimes Nan’s sister would visit us instead, which was always fun – for me, anyway. She always brought such brilliant gifts and took me and Lorraine out to eat at nice places. But twenty years in the USA had taken its toll. She spoke so loudly in public that Mum hated going out with her.
    ‘Honey, how much is this?’ she’d bellow across a crowded shop while Mum died with embarrassment.
    I always looked forward to my great-aunt’s visits but other relatives and guests failed to make so much of an impression. My mum grew up on our road so we always had people popping in and out, from any of her dozens of friends to the numerous extended family members who also lived locally. She was extremely popular, well liked and welcoming, and everyone knew the key was always left in the door for you to stroll in. So it was no surprise when Mum announced one day that my dad’s brothers were coming over.
    ‘Who are they?’ I asked.
    ‘You know very well who they are,’ she snapped. ‘You’ve seen them plenty of times.’
    I thought, I haven’t. I’ve never even heard of them.
    Maybe I’d just forgotten their names, I decided, and everything would fall into place when they arrived. My memory wasn’t the greatest, after all. When I heard a car pull up outside I rushed to the window expectantly – and watched as two complete strangers climbed out.
    False alarm, I thought. They must be visiting someone else.
    Then our front door bell rang and they came in.
    Dad’s brothers must be coming later, I decided.
    Even as Lorraine and I were ushered into the lounge for Mum’s traditional formal welcome I was still adamant Dad’s brothers must be arriving later. I didn’t know this pair from Adam.
    But they seemed to know me.
    ‘Hello, Kim,’ one of the men said. ‘How’s school?’
    ‘Fine, thank you,’ I replied, searching for any sign of familiarity in his face. But there was nothing. No clues at all. Who are you?
    My sister was gabbing away with the other one. Either Lorraine knew them or else she was bluffing well. I didn’t understand. But it wasn’t the first time I’d met strangers who seemed to know me. I never let on that I couldn’t remember them. That would be terrible manners. So I always went along with it until I could work out who people were. When your memory’s as bad as mine you learn to do these things.
    When Nan was off in America or just out and about, and with Mum and Dad both working, they had to look elsewhere for help with us. Childcare options in south London in the 1960s weren’t as formal as they are today. You used whoever offered. To my young eyes some babysitters on our street seemed barely a year older than the little ones they were minding, although they must have been.
    Before I started school I was passed around all sorts of sitters. With Mum and Dad so busy, I kept going to them on and