So now here I was, sitting in my parents’ front garden, gazing up at the brick and flint farmhouse minus the farm – that had gone long ago, before their time – in what might be described as leafy stockbroker belt, or the semi-rural, commutable Home Counties. To the left of the drive, hidden in the dark shrubbery, was the cottage. Dad had apparently got a local builder in to tart it up in readiness for me, which Helena and the children were pleased about, since it would give me some independence. I believe Helena had had no small part in initiating that, and of course I was equally pleased. No way did I want to live with Mum and Dad. I was dying to see it, but hadn’t been allowed down because Dad had wanted it to be a surprise. I realized now that I could hardly see it at all. When I was young, it had been in full view of the house, an ugly pebbledash eyesore, but over the years the shrubbery had sprung up, and all I could make out now were the gables, green and wooden and in need of some paint. That was a relief. Not that my parents were remotely nosy, quite the opposite. They were far too caught up in their own lives. But it would be refreshing to have a degree of privacy.

As I got out, my father, no doubt having heard the car, flung wide the front door, wine glass in hand.

‘Darling!’

I grinned. Anyone would think I was arriving for a party, not to care for my decrepit parents. Tall, slim, only slightly stooped as he rested on his stick, and still with a reasonable amount of silver hair swept back off a high forehead, my father looked every inch the genial host he always was. Despite the freshly laundered shirt, some strange grey tracksuit bottoms and, of course, the brown Velcro shoes from the back of the Telegraph gave him away. The shoes I was used to, the trousers I wasn’t.

‘Sorry about the horribly naff kecks,’ he said, giving me a kiss and seeing me glance. ‘It’s all I can wear with the wretched legs. And my feet are webbed now, as you know. It’s only a matter of time before I embrace galoshes.’

I grinned. ‘You look great, Dad. How’s Mum?’

‘Oh, in fine fettle, generally, but in a fearful fuss today. She’s burnt the lunch and the kitchen looks like a crematorium. But luckily, it’s only the Frobishers coming. Jeannie’s almost blind and Dickie’s taste buds are so jaded he laces his cornflakes with Tabasco, so it couldn’t matter less.’ We went inside. ‘Ah, here she is. A vision of loveliness, albeit in smoke grey.’

My mother appeared in the hall like an apparition from Hades. Dressed for Ascot, minus a hat, her face, silk dress and hair were blackened with soot.