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By Joanna Moorhead. Updated: BST, 14 May I have never entirely trusted sunny days since — and somehow I know that, however long I live, I never will.
We were, until that day, a lucky family. My parents were well-off; we lived in a large-ish house in a leafy Manchester suburb. We had a big garden and a daily help; my next sister down, who was eight, and my six-year-old brother and I — then almost ten — were pupils at cosy prep schools. Our younger sister would be joining us at school that September. I remember pushing past her and running along the road, heart pounding, panic rising in my throat.
I remember nearing our gate and seeing the ambulance pulling out of our driveway. I remember that it put on its flashing blue lights as it sped away up the hill.
All this I remember as though it was yesterday, or perhaps last week. In fact, it was almost 40 years ago: the day I am describing was 19 July The minutiae of disaster etch themselves into the memory so trenchantly that the passing of years and even decades does little to smooth the scars.