‘He’s the Dugdales’ chap,’ said Mum in surprise, passing me the marmalade. ‘Worked for them for years.’

‘About a hundred,’ remarked my father from behind his newspaper, clearly not the instigator of this farce.

‘He seems a bit … glass half empty?’

‘You’re wrong, actually,’ said Dad, clearing his throat. ‘Danny’s glass is empty.’

‘And will the Dugdales mind if we return him to them and start afresh?’

‘Not in the least,’ said Mum. ‘Cynth’s been muttering at bridge about how she misses him in her herbaceous border.’

‘He’s a gardener?’

‘Well, he’s a jack of all trades. You know. Used to work on the home farm. Can turn his hand to anything.’

‘Except one of them is a dead loss, because he lost three fingers in the combine,’ came dryly from behind the Telegraph. Dad appeared briefly to roll his eyes meaningfully at me. Then he disappeared again. ‘I’ve unpacked your car, by the way. Put all your bedding and cushions and books and whatever in the blue spare room, for the moment.’

‘Oh Dad, you shouldn’t have done that!’ My father, as ever, would have been up at six this morning. ‘Some of those cases were heavy. I’d have done it!’

I sensed, however, that whilst it had probably taken him ages and been a Herculean task, this was something he’d wanted to do to make up for yesterday’s disappointment.

‘Nonsense, your father can manage; he’s as strong as an ox! We’re not entirely decrepit, you know.’

This, or words to that effect, was to become something of a mantra from my mother, repeated at regular intervals: and it was one which increasingly reinforced to me that they were precisely that.

After I’d rung the Aga man and organized a service, then got to grips with the Checkatrade website on my laptop and made some calls, sorting out two teams of local builders to come and quote, I had a quick bath, then went downstairs. I realized the house was silent. No sign of anyone. Finally, I pushed open the study door. Dad sat in his leather chair by the window, and Mum was on her knees before him, doing something to his leg. As I appeared, she stopped. They both stared guiltily, like naughty children. Dad hurriedly dropped his tracksuit trouser.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Just changing your father’s ulcer dressing.’

I went forward and lifted his trouser leg. A ghastly sight met my eyes. A gaping wound was oozing with yellow pus. And not only that, something was moving. I made myself breathe. My father’s eyes were averted when I looked at him. I steadied myself.

‘Why isn’t the practice nurse doing this?’