‘Alright love?’ She flings fur-trimmed marigolds under the sink, before washing her hands and applying Lily of the Valley hand cream. ‘How’s work?’ she asks with a peck on my cheek.

‘Alright. Busy.’ I kiss her back, my hand hanging on to the kettle as it boils.

‘You’re looking peaky.’ She reaches for my forehead then eyes me suspiciously, taking a sniff. ‘Or is it drink? Have you been out on a bender? Because if you have, I don’t approve. You won’t get nowhere in life without a bit of hard graft!’ She wags her finger at me.

‘I went to work!’ I say, hands up in submission. ‘I haven’t sacked the day off to go drinking since I was twenty-two and ended up jamming with the Mexican pipe buskers outside City Hall. I think I’ve still got one of their ponchos. And, yes, I know, hard graft.’

She softens. ‘The biscuits are in the cupboard. Right at the back, on the top shelf. If I hide ’em, I forget they’re there and won’t eat ’em all. Never mattered when our David was here, he’d finish ’em before I got a look in. He loved a Garibaldi.’ She goes to the fridge to bring out a jug of milk she’s decanted from the bigger bottle. I’ve never understood why she does this. ‘So what’s with your face then, son?’

I go into the lounge; our David’s chair is out of place and Mum bustles in after me, shifting it back in its spot. ‘Must have forgotten to – well, anyway, do you want the pouffe?’ She doesn’t wait for my answer, sticking the old leather footstool under my feet. That was David’s too. Something he picked up from a flea sale. Mum had complained it probably literally did have fleas, but he refused to chuck it out. Of course, as well as the fleas, it’s now riddled with sentimental value. The chair and the pouffe and our bedrooms: all that remain unchanged in a house newly done up with floral wallpaper, velour curtains, statement feathers and too many fake flowers. ‘I only have myself to please,’ she’d reasoned as we wandered around Atkinson’s fabric section, searching for the perfect curtains.

She tidies magazines up, placing them in a rack. ‘Come on, spit it out. What’s up?’

‘It’s nowt, Mum. Nothing.’ She raises her eyebrows in disbelief. ‘Honestly!’ I insist. My phone rings, so I reach straight to my pocket for it in the hopes of a moment’s distraction. It’s Michelle. I cancel the call quickly before flicking the phone on silent and shoving it deep into my pocket.

‘Ignoring calls! That could have been work. You are definitely not right. Come on, out with it,’ Mum demands.

‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s nothing major, not really. It’s just weird. A day I wasn’t expecting. Well, a morning really. And you know, it sets you thinking.’ I try not to get maudlin about stuff, life is too short, but sometimes, something nags.