My mother kept them – her two favourite childhood dresses – first, in case she had a daughter; then, in case I did. Both were pale-blue cotton, with tiny graph-paper-sized checks, cup-like sleeves and flowing knee-length skirts. One, with a Peter Pan collar and a proud display of smocking on the front, was made by my grandmother, but the one my mum liked best was shop-bought, with bright flowers embroidered round the hem. She remembers wearing it when she was old enough to put on socks and shoes but, to her frustration, not yet allowed to go to school.