As well as being a self-employed garden designer I volunteer at our local community centre, so I have more than enough to do. Nevertheless, when a ‘save the date’ email landed in my inbox I dropped everything and booked a flight to Belfast International.

‘We have to stop Helen making a fool of herself,’ I told my sister.

‘Don’t be a killjoy, Luv. I can’t wait for Mum’s wedding. It’ll be fun being the daughters of the bride.’

I was born during our mother’s student anarchist phase, so I was taught to call my parents by their first names. By the time my sister came along, twenty years later, Helen had learned that life is easier if you try to fit in.

‘It’s all right for you, Amy,’ I said. ‘It’s my father she’s going to marry, not yours.’

My friend Bub looked puzzled. ‘I don’t get it, Luv. Why ain’t you happy for your Mum and Dad?’

‘Bub, they’re terrible together. I know because I spent the first eighteen years of my life refereeing their squabbles.

To be honest, I was relieved when they separated. Anyway, what’s the point of getting married at their age? If John moved in with Helen nobody would mind. Things have changed since they shacked up together in 1972. Back then people said they were living in sin.’

‘I bet that’s why they did it,’ said Bub with a grin. ‘And now they’re getting married for the same reason.’

‘What’s that?’ I said, shouldering my cabin bag.

‘The shock value, Luv.’

On the short flight from Stansted I made a list of reasons not to get married. By the time we landed I was ready to talk sense into Helen, but when she picked me up in her vintage camper van her first words shook me to the core.

‘Lovage, I’m just off the phone with Amaryllis, and she told me you have lots of ideas for the wedding. It’s kind of you to take time off work to help me plan my big day.’

Amy had sneakily undermined my mission. I was so shocked I dropped the scrap of paper with my prompt list, and the wind carried it away. By the time I’d pulled myself together we were hurtling through the countryside at breakneck speed. It was now or never. I had to speak up or forever hold my peace.

‘Helen, can we stop somewhere for a coffee? I have something important to say to you.’

‘Can it wait? I don’t want to be late for the reunion.’

At first I thought she was talking about seeing my father again. ‘Is John back from Liverpool?’

‘This has nothing to do with John,’ said Helen. ‘My old school is holding its last reunion.’

‘You’ve always said you despise reunions. What’s so special about this one?’

‘McCracken House amalgamated with a boys’school yonks ago, and now the Old Girls are calling it a day. You’re right, I’m not a fan of reunions, but this is my last chance and there was a spare ticket for you. I can have a drink if you’re there to drive me home.’

Now I knew why my mother was overdressed for an airport pickup, in high heels, a smart buffet dress and an expensive scarf Amy had given her. I was wearing baggy jeans, ankle boots and a jumper I’d been wearing when I tackled a particularly thorny rose bush.

‘I can’t go like this,’ I howled.

‘Of course you can. Who do you think is going to be looking at you?’

‘But there’s a hole in my top!’

‘Don’t worry, we can tell people that’s the style over the water.’

When we whizzed past the signpost to Helen’s village I stopped arguing. While we sped along the motorway I tried to make myself tidy, while she cut up other drivers and reminisced about her schooldays.

‘I didn’t enjoy school, Lovage. I used to sit in the back row and keep my head down. Most of the teachers soon gave up on me. The only one I couldn’t come to terms with was Miss Green. That woman gave me no peace. I never put my hand up but she asked me questions anyway. And she used to tick me off about the state of my uniform, even though she didn’t dress like the other teachers. They wore frilly dresses and put their hair up, but Miss Green had short hair and her suits were tailored tweed. That’s why I used to call her Mr Green behind her back. I thought I was well rid of her when we left school, but the day my A-Level results came out she was in the school office handing out the envelopes. I turned my back on her when I opened my results, which were fine.’

I was trying to apply mascara without getting any of it in my eye, but Helen’s tone froze my hand. ‘What do you mean, fine?’

‘I’d passed with the bare minimum. It was all I needed, but Miss Green was watching me with a pitying look on her face. I couldn’t believe it when she said, “Helen, are you sorry you didn’t work?” As if my results were her business! The cheek of her!’

‘What did you say?’

‘I didn’t want her to know she’d got to me, so I turned my back and walked away. But I’ve never forgotten those words. In fact, I can hear Miss Green’s voice in my head to this day. That’s why I’m going to the reunion. I’m hoping to meet some other old girls who remember her. If I can have a good bitching session about her, I’ll be able to put the ould scunner out of my mind. And I want you to back me up.’

We had reached the centre of Belfast, where Helen eased the camper van into a parking space. Then, to my amazement, she led me up the steps of City Hall. The now defunct McCracken House was a minor public school, and the committee of the Old Girls Association had chosen to blow the last of their funds in style. When I saw the stunning ballroom full of lavishly decorated tables, I made Helen lend me her scarf. With a metre of Hermes draped over the hole in my jumper I circulated and eavesdropped. Most of the attendees had attended reunions regularly over the years. All around me groups of white-haired grandmothers embraced and talked over one other. Younger women who had been in the school’s last few cohorts exchanged contact details, shared family photos and set up business meetings.

Helen followed in my wake clutching a glass of fizz. Peering anxiously into the crowd she said, ‘I can’t see anybody I know.’

‘Your school friends must have changed over the years,’ I reminded her. ‘When you last saw them they were probably doing the twist in mini skirts and hot pants.’

‘No, dear, you couldn’t wear both of those together. Oh good, here’s our table.’

We were seated with two other women who were attending their first and last school reunion. One of them was a dead ringer for Margaret Thatcher and the other could have played Miss Marple without rehearsal. They didn’t know each other and neither of them remembered Helen. She didn’t remember them either. Making conversation was going to be a challenge. However, the locally sourced lunch menu was enticing and Helen had pre-ordered a bottle of Pinot Grigio.

‘No wine for you,’ I whispered to Helen. ‘You’ll need all your wits about you to handle these two.’

To my surprise, when I filled my mother’s glass with water she didn’t argue. She was too intimidated by Miss Marple and Mrs. Thatcher, who were very grand. I’d have needed a bank loan to buy their outfits, and although they’d ordered the most expensive wines on the list I could tell they were used to better vintages. I was hungry after my journey, so I left Helen to do the socialising while I focused my attention on the goat’s cheese starter. Forgetting what a lightweight I am, I also got stuck into the wine. It wasn’t long before I began to lose touch with reality.

Fragments of conversation floated my way while I stuffed my face with salmon and champ. I was impressed to learn that Mrs. Thatcher was a professor and Miss Marple a judge. Although they had never met before they knew each other by reputation. They were polite, kindly women, but Helen was totally overwhelmed by their status.

That’s why she did what she always does when she feels out of her depth. She smiled brightly and repeated the last three words of every sentence the others said. I suspect her new friends guessed what she was doing but chose to play along. For whatever reason, the atmosphere loosened up until my elderly companions were chatting like old friends. By the time I’d cleared the cheese board and necked all of Helen’s wine, they were laughing together as if they’d known each other forever.

That’s when I remembered why I’d been hijacked into being Helen’s plus one. My job was to give her confidence while she slagged off Miss Green to a sympathetic audience. Awash with Pino, I decided to help my mother to put the memory of her bullying teacher behind her forever.

‘Excuse me,’ I said, leaning over the table. ‘Do you remember a teacher by the name of Green?’

‘I certainly do, and with great respect,’said Mrs. Thatcher. ‘I heard Miss Green was headhunted by a top public school in England after McCracken House closed. She was a wonderful teacher. Her science lessons were a revelation. In fact, I owe the success I’ve enjoyed in my career to her instruction and guidance.’

‘....instruction and guidance,’ Helen echoed.

‘I couldn’t agree more, Lettice,’said Miss Marple. ‘Miss Green was inspirational. I felt very sad when I heard a few years ago that she’d passed away. She was my form teacher, and I credit her with developing my natural sense of justice.’

‘....sense of justice.’

Mrs. Thatcher shook her head sadly. ‘With hindsight, Cicely, I don’t think Miss Green’s colleagues appreciated her qualities. She wasn’t a bit like them. In fact, she was quite the feminist.’

‘....quite the feminist.’

‘You’re absolutely right, Lettice. In those days people tended to exclude anyone who was slightly different.’

‘....was slightly different.’

Suddenly two pairs of steely professional eyes were trained on my mother.

Cicely said, ‘Helen, you must have known Miss Green. What did you think of her?’

‘....think of her?’said my mother in a shaky voice.

Lettice nodded encouragingly. ‘Don’t be shy, Helen. We’d love to hear your opinion of Miss Green.’

‘I don’t know really,’ Helen said feebly. ‘I suppose she was quite nice.’

I hadn’t expected this response, and in my inebriated state I wasn’t having any of it. ‘Be honest, Helen! Miss Green questioned you aggressively and harassed you about your choice of clothing. Worst of all, she belittled your achievements. After all that, how can you say she was nice?’

At that moment the chair of the Old Girls Association announced a guest speaker. Under cover of a gushing introduction Helen stood up and grabbed my arm. ‘On your hind legs, lady,’she hissed through gritted teeth. ‘It’s time to get out of here.’

‘But we’ll miss the speeches,’ I burbled.

‘Sod that for a lark,’said Helen. ‘There’s been too much said already.’

In the car park I threw up all over the Hermes scarf. On the long drive to Helen’s bungalow, neither of us spoke a word. After all the drunkenness and drama I felt low, but I cheered up when my father opened the front door. It was the first time we’d seen each other in person since before the pandemic, so we had a lot of hugging to catch up on.

Eventually he put me down and asked us if we’d enjoyed the reunion. Luckily, just then Helen’s phone pinged.

When she read the message her face brightened.

‘Cicely says thanks for the best laugh she’s had in years. She says we’ve made her and Lettice feel like schoolgirls again. They’ve gone on to have drinks at a hotel and they can’t stop giggling. What’s more, she wants to congratulate me on my very caring daughter.’

‘I’m glad you enjoyed yourselves,’ said John. ‘Did you find anyone who remembered that mean teacher you told me about?’

‘Miss Green? I’ve forgiven her,’ said Helen. ‘Apparently she was very good at her job.’

‘But are you sorry you didn’t work?’ I said, tripping over the cat.

John took my arm to steady me. ‘Luv, are you tipsy?’

‘She’s well blutered,’ said Helen. ‘Lovage, I nearly forgot. You told me you had something important to say. What was it?’

My mother was all smiles. My father was brewing tea with a huge grin on his face. It was the first time for years we’d been together as a family.

'That can wait until I'm sober,' I said.