I drove home with a broad smile on my face, obviously. How could I not? And yes, music blaring too, of the soppy uplifting variety. I needed to preserve these moods whenever possible, knowing at the back of my mind they would be rare. And transient. But today had been good. When I got home and pulled into our drive an hour or so later, the fine rain which had been threatening was falling steadily. In the lamp-lit, warm sitting room, my father was watching the rugby in his favourite armchair, a fire burning in the grate. When I’d first arrived, the fire had only been lit in the evenings, on the dot of five to six, in time for the news. The house had been permanently cold during the day, as Dad maintained it was too expensive to heat the whole place, but now that logging was under control and I’d had the chimney swept – I’d been sternly told by the sweep it was a chimney fire waiting to happen – the fire was lit at midday when necessary. It was chilly today. Dad hailed me cheerily as I came in.

‘Hello, love!’

‘Hi, Dad.’ I glanced around. ‘Where’s Mum?’

‘Hm?’ He glanced away from the rugby. ‘Oh, her cold was a bit worse, so she took to her bed.’

‘Oh, right. Is she OK?’ But I’d already dumped my handbag on a chair and was on my way to her.

‘Perfectly!’ he called after me. ‘Heavens, how my daughters fuss.’

And he didn’t. Never had. And neither did Mum. They could be at death’s door and still claim they were perfectly all right. Just as our children complained of being sent to school with a stinking cold, so Helena and I could claim the same. The apple doesn’t fall far. I softly pushed open the bedroom door, which was ajar. The room was dark and chilly. The heating hadn’t come on yet and the curtains were open. Darkness filled the latticed window.

‘Mum?’ I whispered, approaching the bed. ‘Are you asleep?’

‘Oh, hello, darling,’ she said groggily. ‘No, not really. Just dozing.’

‘Oh, OK.’ I perched on the side. ‘How d’you feel?’ I peered. She looked pale in the half-light.

‘Absolutely fine. Tip-top. It’s just a rotten cold.’

‘Have you taken anything? Nurofen? Paracetamol?’

‘No, darling, I told you. It’s just a cold.’

‘OK, hang on.’

I nipped downstairs to make her a Lemsip, and found some Nurofen. I took them up.

‘Can you sip this? It’s not too hot.’

She didn’t move, so I gently raised her back up with my hand and propped her up on the pillows. She drank some of it, sipping slowly, but then shook her head.

‘OK.’ I lowered her back down. ‘In a mo, d’you think you can drink the rest?’

‘Yes, darling.’ Sleepily.

‘And could you swallow the ibuprofen?’