‘Lunch?’ said Dad, his arms crossed across his stomach, his jaw set in indignation. ‘Oh, no. We don’t do Sunday lunch any more. Lunch is a sign of patriarchal oppression.’

Granddad nodded mournfully from the corner.

‘No, no, we can’t have lunch. We do sandwiches on a Sunday now. Or soup. Soup is apparently agreeable to feminism.’

Treena, studying at the dining-table, rolled her eyes. ‘Mum is doing a women’s poetry class on Sunday mornings at the adult education centre. She’s hardly turned into Andrea Dworkin.’

‘See, Lou? Now I’m expected to know all about feminism and this Andrew Dorkin fella has stolen my bloody Sunday lunch.’

‘You’re being dramatic, Dad.’

‘How is this dramatic? Sundays is family time. We should have family Sunday lunch.’

‘Mum’s entire life has been family time. Why can’t you just let her have some time to herself?’

Dad pointed his folded-up newspaper at Treena. ‘You did this. Your mammy and I were perfectly happy before you started telling her she wasn’t.’

Granddad nodded in agreement.

‘It’s all gone pear-shaped around here. I can’t watch the television without her muttering, “Sexist,” at the yoghurt ads. This is sexist. That’s sexist. When I brought home Ade Palmer’s copy of the Sun just for a bit of a read of the sports pages she chucked it in the fire because of Page Three. I never know where she is from one day to the next.’

‘One two-hour class,’ said Treena, mildly, not looking up from her books. ‘On a Sunday.’

‘I’m not being funny, Dad,’ I said, ‘but those things on the end of your arms?’

‘What?’ Dad looked down. ‘What?’

‘Your hands,’ I said. ‘They’re not painted on.’

He frowned at me.

‘So I’m guessing you could make the lunch. Give Mum a surprise when she gets back from her poetry class?’

Dad’s eyes widened. ‘Me make the Sunday lunch? Me? We’ve been married nearly thirty years, Louisa. I don’t do the bloody lunch. I do the earning, and your mother does the lunch. That’s the deal! That’s what I signed up for! What’s the world coming to if I’m there with a pinny on, peeling spuds, on a Sunday? How is that fair?’

‘It’s called modern life, Dad.’

‘Modern life. You’re no help,’ Dad said, and harrumphed. ‘I’ll bet you Mr bloody Traynor gets his Sunday lunch. That girl of his wouldn’t be a feminist.’

‘Ah. Then you need a castle, Dad. Castles trump feminism every time.’

Treena and I started to laugh.

‘You know what? There’s a reason why the two of you haven’t got boyfriends.’

‘Ooh. Red card!’ We both held up our right hands. He shoved his paper up in the air and stomped off to the garden.

Treena grinned at me. ‘I was going to suggest we cook lunch but … now?’

‘I don’t know. I wouldn’t want to perpetuate patriarchal oppression. Pub?’

‘Excellent. I’ll text Mum.’

My mother, it emerged, had, at the age of fifty-six, begun to come out of her shell, first as tentatively as a hermit crab but now, apparently, with increasing enthusiasm. For years she hadn’t left the house unaccompanied, had been satisfied with the little domain that was our three-and-a-half-bedroomed house. But spending weeks in London after I’d had my accident had forced her out of her normal routine and sparked some long-dormant curiosity about life beyond Stortfold. She had started flicking through some of the feminist texts Treena had been given at the GenderQuake awareness group at college, and these two alchemic happenings had caused my mother to undergo something of an awakening. She had ripped her way through The Second Sex and Fear of Flying, followed up with The Female Eunuch, and after reading The Women’s Room had been so shocked at what she saw as the parallels to her own life that she had refused to cook for three days, until she had discovered Granddad was hoarding four-packs of stale doughnuts.

‘I keep thinking about what your man Will said,’ she remarked, as we sat around the table in the pub garden, watching Thom periodically butt heads with the other children on the sagging bouncy castle. ‘You only get the one life – isn’t that what he told you?’ She was wearing her usual blue short-sleeved shirt, but she had tied her hair back in a way I hadn’t seen before and looked oddly youthful. ‘So I just want to make the most of things. Learn a little. Take the rubber gloves off once in a while.’

‘Dad’s quite pissed off,’ I said.

‘Language.’

‘It’s a sandwich,’ said my sister. ‘He’s not trekking forty days through the Gobi desert for food.’

‘And it’s a ten-week course. He’ll live,’ said my mother, firmly, then sat back and surveyed the two of us. ‘Well, now, isn’t this nice? I’m not sure the three of us have been out together since … well, since you were teenagers and we would go shopping in town of a Saturday.’

‘And Treena would complain that all the shops were boring.’

‘Yeah, but that’s because Lou liked charity shops that smelt of people’s armpits.’