But then Celia would look utterly lost and forlorn and Georgie would feel guilty for questioning the course of her mother’s decline. Her ebbing memory seemed to take her body away with it: she shrank. Her mouth looked too small, like a child whose grown-up front teeth had just grown in. Georgie would have liked to talk about what she felt about Celia, the loss of Celia, but Cass and Adam didn’t seem to want to. It was hard to know what Cass felt about their mother’s deterioration. In fact, it wasn’t easy to know what Cass felt about anything. She had always been the more reserved of the sisters.

At least Celia had forgotten that she liked a drink. That had been a blessing. Demented was one thing, but demented and drunk with it would have been too great a burden for anyone, even Adam, who had been totally brilliant with her. She’d always preferred men, if the truth be told. Georgie wondered if she might have been a different sort of mother, if she’d had sons. Of her grandchildren, she’d certainly favoured Georgie’s son Jake over Cass’s daughter Skye; whereas with her own offspring Cass, her firstborn, had been the favourite. The distribution of good looks had been reversed in the next generation: Jake was the beautiful one, the child of the less beautiful sister; while Skye was ordinary-looking, unlike her mother. Skye had beetly brows which somehow exaggerated the fact that her eyes were just a little too close together. Looks had mattered to Celia. She’d never made any secret of it.

Cass was still remarkable to look at. She had a natural grace and elegance; her gestures were economical and neat, like the smoothly retracting drawers in one of her ergonomically designed kitchens. Her hair was always freshly cut, steel grey now, in a long, even bob. She could appear stern: laughter was further away from her than it had been when she was young, her humour more buried. She dressed in the sort of sharp-angled, asymmetric linen clothes that were the international uniform of architects; as if membership of RIBA opened the door to a special outfitters, known only to the trade. Adam was scruffier. He always looked as if he’d just come in from planting a row of something in the vegetable patch.

They’d agreed not to talk about the farm until after the funeral. Everyone was on their best behaviour for the occasion, but it was a long day. By the time the last of the mourners – although how many would actually mourn Celia was open to question – had left, there were empty glasses everywhere. No one could be bothered to make supper. They flopped in the kitchen and agreed that they’d just finish up the sausage rolls and fruit cake they’d served at the wake, along with any remaining sandwiches.