To call it a cottage was a huge exaggeration. It was an ugly pebbledash bungalow, thrown up in the fifties with no doubt zero planning permission. Certainly before my parents’ time: a throwback to the days when the farmhouse had staff, no doubt. A gardener, perhaps. It had been derelict for years. There was a sitting room permanently covered in bat poo which had our ping pong table in it, two bedrooms, a bathroom and a kitchen.

‘I’ll have a look at it this afternoon. See what I can do.’

‘Do not! I’ll sort it out myself when I come. It’ll give me something to do.’

There was a pause. Then: ‘Your mother’s delighted, of course.’

‘Is she?’ I smiled. ‘Dear Mum!’

‘She’s getting the horse trailer ready. Thinks you’re both off to the local gymkhana. She’s keenly anticipating the bending race.’

‘Right,’ I said faintly. I swallowed. ‘Dad, is it dementia? I know you say you’ve had all the tests, but it sounds jolly likely.’

‘No, no, not that. The hospital were quite categorical. Just a few lapses in concentration; and, of course, I ham it up a bit.’ Oh, did he. If my mother was naughty, my father was worse. He’d do anything for a laugh, so one never quite knew where the joke stopped and reality began. ‘But I won’t pretend, if you’re really serious, that I won’t be delighted to see you myself. Maybe to – you know. Get the place in order a bit. But we’re talking a few weeks here, possibly a month or two maximum, yes? Just for the summer. And just to get you back on your feet again too, hm?’

‘Of course,’ I agreed. I got out of the car and locked it. Then I walked down the road to the estate agents. I gazed through the window at the glossy photographs and particulars spread before me, looking at long-term rental prices. Not bad. Not bad at all, especially if I went for a year. Two years even. ‘Just for a few weeks,’ I agreed, before bidding him goodbye and clicking my phone off. Then I pocketed it, and sailed through the door into the office.

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