‘No, don’t, Mum,’ he said gently. ‘I’ll do it. I’ll pop round and see her. Don’t you get involved.’

‘Really?’ I felt a great wave of relief flood through me. ‘Would you, Ned? It’s just …’ I fought back something: tears even, perhaps; certainly a large lump in my throat.

‘Of course.’

I busied myself even more than usual that day, cleaning rooms as yet untackled. Helena’s old bedroom, the boot room where Hector slept, the utility room. I concentrated on one at a time, doing each one methodically and thoroughly. I made a few puddings for the freezer because that was what my mother really loved, but made sure they were full of fruit, or eggs, or a bit of stodge, like bread and butter pudding. Having dropped my mother off at the chiropodist in the afternoon, since both she and my father were unable to cut her toenails – and I have to say, I’d felt a bit queasy when I’d looked – I came back and met a cheerful team of builders who gave me a reasonable quote and timescale for the bungalow. I’d just been to collect Mum when my phone rang. Without thinking, I popped it on hands-free speaker phone. It was Ned. He sounded grim.

‘She’s already arranged it.’

I gasped. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Promise you. Invites have gone out already. Church is booked. Flowers ordered. She must have done it ages ago.’

I shut my eyes. Luckily I was at some red lights. I opened them as they went green. Took a deep breath.

‘Is there anything we can do?’

‘Well, she won’t listen to me. Imo’s hopping mad – as you know, she flew back yesterday. I won’t be able to stop her storming round. Amanda says she’ll have it with or without us, though.’

‘I’ll go and see her,’ I said, seething. ‘I’m the only one who can put a stop to this.’

‘Or maybe just go along with it?’ he said despairingly.

‘Ned …’

‘I know. I don’t want to either. It’s just … Amanda is almost, like, possessed.’

‘I know.’ And it was how Michael could get, too. Possessed was a good word, particularly coming from a vicar.

We said goodbye and my mother looked at me. Her face was a bit crumpled: scared. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Amanda wants a memorial service.’

She didn’t speak. But her face, like my son’s voice, made me realize how much he had woefully affected everyone’s life: how even though I’d tried to limit the damage as much as I could, he had spread, insidiously, into everyone I loved and infected them with fear too. She leaned across and patted my hand. I gulped and we drove silently on, both quietly depressed.

My daughter, however, was made of sterner stuff. That evening, she rang. She was incandescent on the phone.