I’d organized some computer lessons for both of them, and had driven them into town for the first of many sessions, somehow knowing such instruction, like driving lessons in my youth, would be better not coming from a family member. Dad was reasonably adept in that he could at least email; my mother was a complete beginner, although I knew that once she got the hang of it – especially once she could flaming well see – she’d enjoy emailing friends and texting her grandchildren. Online shopping had been a complete revelation to both of them, and the morning we all sat down to place an Ocado order and then, hey presto, it arrived, was like the annunciation at Pope’s Farm. I knew this would indeed be their saviour one day – one day being some unspecified date when I would no longer be with them and they’d be going it alone, which we all spoke of as if it would definitely happen, but all quietly knew it might not. My only slight qualm came when my mother asked me if I thought ordering an entire twelve-piece dinner service in a terribly attractive lotus leaf pattern, which she’d seen half-price on some dodgy American site, was an extravagance at her age. I assured her it most definitely was, wondering what monster I’d unleashed.

Mrs Cummings paid a visit, on the pretext of collecting for the parish magazine. She asked if the noises she’d heard last night had been ones of distress? Mum and I had been upstairs in her bedroom trying on her many dresses in the hope that some might fit me and they’d have another life – we’re talking Dior and Chloé here. Not a chance with the dresses. I couldn’t get them past my hips and we decided even Helena, who was whippet thin, might struggle. But Mum had insisted I force myself into one of the coats, which was beautiful quality. It was so skin-tight my arms stuck out at ninety degrees like a windmill, or a teenager whose mother insists the blazer worn in reception still fits, and I’d then been unable to extract myself. Dad had had to come up to pull me free as my mother collapsed in a heap on the bed. Hilarity, I’d told Mrs Cummings, as her eyes darted past me, taking in everything from the recently hoovered stairs and the washed parquet floor, to the smell of polish still in the air from the dresser. She left, looking disappointed.

And then, one morning, I awoke to a text from Amanda.

‘Have decided to have a memorial service for Michael. Ned has sweetly agreed to take it.’