‘Oh no, I don’t think so. I’ll try the drink, though.’

‘OK. Let’s have another go.’

I raised her up and she almost managed the rest of it, then seemed about to gag so I lowered her back down. She shut her eyes. I felt her hand on the covers. It was cold. I tucked her in properly. Then I shut the curtains and felt the radiator beneath them. It was coming on, good. For the moment, though, I found an old storage heater in the spare room. She seemed to have fallen asleep again, and knowing that was the best thing, I crept out and left her. I was a bit cross with Dad, though, toasty warm in front of the fire when I came down.

‘Could you not have given her some Nurofen, Dad? And the room was freezing.’

‘Hm?’ He just about looked up from a missed try. ‘Hopeless pass from that wretched number eight, he should be shot for that.’

‘Dad?’

‘What, darling?’

‘Mum, upstairs. Too cold.’

‘Oh, nonsense, Luce, she gets colds all year round, she’ll be fine. We both do, despite the so-called flu jab. If the back row were stronger they’d get it to the forwards quicker, that’s the problem.’

Later on, I got us some supper, which we ate on trays in front of an old Inspector Poirot movie which he loved. And I have to say, when I checked on Mum later, she seemed better: warmer, certainly. I turned the storage heater off. And she was sleeping soundly, her breathing soft and regular.

The following morning, however, it was a different story. When I went in quite early, she was still asleep, but her breathing was shallow and rapid. When I felt her forehead it was hot. Damp, too.

‘Mum? Mum!’ Alarmed, I shook her awake.

She stared at me with blank, confused eyes. ‘Hels?’

‘No, it’s Luce. How d’you feel?’

‘De Courcys will be here soon, must cook—’ She tried to get out of bed but she was shaking and feeble.

‘No, no, Mum, the De Courcys aren’t coming. You don’t have to cook.’

‘Bloody dog – eaten all the bird food again! Look!’ She pointed to the corner of the room.

‘No, Mum, Hector’s downstairs.’

‘What’s going on?’ My father had appeared from his dressing room. He was in the doorway in his pyjamas and dressing gown, tying the cord.

‘It’s Mum. She’s got a fever. Ring Dr Bond, would you, Dad? Ask him to pop round.’

‘Oh no, he doesn’t do home visits any more. That went out with the ark. And he’s probably still away, anyway. She’ll be all right, love. I’ll make her a cuppa.’

‘Pass me the phone.’