Then we were seven.

There was a cake with seven candles in the larder iced up to the eyebrows, its stunning pink and white beauty marred only by one little fingerprint – Nora, unable to resist. It sat in state in the larder, awaiting our return from our birthday treat, our first matinee. Our Cyn waved us off. We had our best coats on, green tweed, quite hairy, with velvet collars so the tweed didn’t scratch our necks, and little hats to match. Grandma dressed us like princesses. We always had glace kid gloves, for best.

Grandma lashed out, she got us seats in the stalls. It was almost too much for me and Nora. We were mute with ecstasy. The plaster cherubs lifting aloft gilt swags and crystal candelabra on the walls; the red plush; the floral and pastel silks of the afternoon frocks of ladies in the stalls, from whom mingled odours of talc and scent and toilet soap arose; and the wonderful curtain that hung between us and pleasure, the curtain that, in a delicious agony of anticipation, we knew would soon rise and then and then…what wonderful secrets would be revealed to us then?