Dr Bond was a friend and had been their doctor for years. Helena had pasted his mobile number to their bedroom phone a couple of years ago, when he’d said they could always call him. Of course, they’d never done so. Not even when Dad’s ulcers had leaked all over the bed. Wouldn’t want to be any trouble. My father hobbled in with a sigh and passed me the old-fashioned receiver. Mike Bond answered almost immediately. He listened, and said he’d be over in half an hour. Amazing. You wouldn’t get that in London. But then I wasn’t on first-name terms with my doctor in London. I tried to make Mum drink something but she wouldn’t, kept muttering about having to feed the birds, and how the squirrels took all their seed unless she put it in a special place.

Mike Bond arrived sooner than he’d said. He took one look, felt her pulse, didn’t even bother taking her temperature, and told me to call an ambulance. He quietly told me that the delirium was possibly due to a urinary tract infection, in which case she would likely need a drip. But he also wanted to rule out pneumonia. Actually, no, hang on, he’d do it. It would be quicker. He pulled out his mobile.

‘Pneumonia? No, surely not,’ my father was bleating feebly. ‘Surely just a dose of flu?’

My mother was coughing uncontrollably now, sitting up in bed supported by Mike and me. As she retched, her thin, frail body racked and heaved with the effort. Green spittle was trickling down her chin and nightie.

‘That’s it, Cecily, now breathe. Breathe gently now. In … out … in … out – excellent. OK, well done.’ He laid her back down again as the coughing fit subsided, then quickly asked me for warm clothes. I flew to the wardrobe and found a coat. We gently sat her up again and eased her out of bed; together we wrapped her in her dressing gown, then her coat, and found her slippers. I popped some socks on first. My father, all the while, was looking on helplessly. Alarm was in his eyes now and he made way for us, as Mike and I shuffled her past. She wasn’t really walking; she was being half carried. I’d wondered about waiting for the paramedics and the stretcher, but Mike told me when elderly patients were delirious like this, it was a struggle to keep them on it: they often scrambled off and were deceptively strong. The stairs would be a hazard.

‘Will she be all right?’ I whispered in the hall, out of earshot of my father. I couldn’t help it, I was scared.