Fortunately, perhaps, my parents were now in a parallel universe: immersed in their own little world of soft furnishings, glass candlesticks, side tables, place mats, and faux flower arrangements, they were somewhat oblivious to anything else. Or at least Mum was. Consumed by catalogues, online shopping and trips to Dunelm – which apparently was far cheaper than Peter Jones, historically her spiritual home – she’d even picked out a recliner chair she’d seen, before my father quietly reminded her I might not need a chair that gently eased me to my feet. He caught my eye.

I’d managed to have a quiet word with him in the greenhouse. My mother was a bit under the weather, nursing a cold she’d had for days, and was under a rug on the sofa in front of Cash in the Attic. The timelessness of the greenhouse was a comfort: I remembered coming in here as a child to help him plant tomatoes.

I took the other ancient Lloyd Loom chair opposite my father’s at the far end and watched as he sprinkled sweet pea seeds into a tray. He’d made a furrow in the warm earth with a lollipop stick and was carefully picking a few seeds out of the palm of his hand. Hector was lying at his feet and his old Roberts Radio was on low, tuned to Classic FM. As I sat there, he waited. He picked up another packet of seeds. Tobacco plants, this time. Mum’s favourite. Eventually I cleared my throat.

‘Dad, Helena says I’m not allowed to get confessional, but—’

‘Then don’t,’ he interrupted sharply. His gaze was steady for one with eyes so rheumy. ‘I don’t need to know, Luce.’

‘No,’ I said uncertainly, wrong-footed. ‘It’s just – I know you’re not stupid. And I know you know they both came down here to give me advice—’

‘But that the fewer people who know about that advice, the better. Helena’s right, love. We’re here if you need us, but you don’t need to tell us anything. Keep shtum.’

My heart began to beat fast. What could he know? He put his seed packet aside. Regarded me over his reading glasses. ‘The thing is, Lucy, under immense pressure, it’s possible to feel immense guilt. You felt it all your married life. Michael persuaded you you were permanently in the wrong. Permanently culpable. As far as I’m concerned, there’s little you could do that would be wrong. But don’t let his influence cloud your judgement. Even from the grave.’