‘Are you all right?’ I breathed. She was tiny, and still very pretty, her face like a small crumpled violet. But I sensed she was confused. Many machines appeared to be whirring in here. The washing machine, the tumble drier, Mum’s old Kenwood mixer and – oh dear God, the ancient deep fat fryer, bubbling away furiously, full of boiling oil. I lunged and turned it off.

‘Helena! How lovely!’ Hetty exclaimed.

‘It’s Lucy, actually, and I’ve got you a skirt. I’ll wake Bertie and get Ron to take you home, shall I?’

‘I tried to wash my things,’ she told me, ‘but it’s all so different. And Lorraine usually does it.’ She looked upset and I realized she was shivering. My mother’s silk skirt was going to be totally inadequate.

‘I can imagine; so confusing, other people’s machines. Tell you what, I’ll wash it all later and pop it round tomorrow. Meanwhile,’ I plucked some tracksuit bottoms of mine from the clean laundry basket, ‘we’re going to put these on, OK?’ I took the towel away, drying her first, and sat her down on the stool by the ironing board. As I helped her into the warm, fleece-lined trousers I seethed quietly. My parents. So irresponsible.

‘That’s better,’ she said politely, but she was still shaking.

‘Good, good,’ I purred. ‘And now here’s a lovely cardigan of Mum’s …’ It was mine, actually, but thick and warm; my mother only seeming to possess the flimsiest of clothes. I gently guided Hetty’s arms into it, hoping I wouldn’t break them; they were like twigs. Then I found one of Mum’s pashminas, which I added for good luck. I shouldn’t have gone to London. On so many levels. What an error that had been.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen my spectacles?’ Hetty peered about myopically.

‘No, but we’ll find them. Come on, let’s go and get Bertie.’

‘Oh yes!’ The mention of his name seemed to galvanize her, and I guided her back into the sitting room, relieved that the shivering seemed to have calmed down.

My father, by now, had collapsed in an armchair, eyes shut, arms hanging limply, but still singing gustily. Nancy was nowhere to be seen. I snapped Nina Simone off, irritated.

Dad’s eyes sprang open. ‘Hey! I was listening to that!’

‘Dad, where’s Nance?’

‘Gone to find your mother and Hetty, upstairs. She thought you looked a bit shirty.’

‘I am shirty. Help me get Bertie up, would you? I’ll go and get Ron.’

Dad looked surprised. He sat up a bit and raised his eyebrows. ‘Party’s over?’ he enquired.

‘I think so, don’t you?’ I said sweetly.

As I shook Bertie awake my father roared helpfully: ‘Bertie! Party’s over!’