After rubbing my hay-fevered eyes, I turned away from her to sneeze. No germs. Must avoid the germs. She pulled a screwed-up tissue from her bag and smoothed it out before handing it to me.

‘It’s clean,’ she said.

She hadn’t bothered to wear her wig. Too hot for it, she insisted. In the early days she wouldn’t even go out into the garden without it balanced on her scalp. I’d pretend that the heavy fringe and shiny nylon bob looked natural. We’d both pretend. But you get what you pay for and this came free with the voucher they handed over at her first treatment. Fast-forward to after her last chemo, sick, weak, pains in her feet – ‘I can’t bear it, Constance’ – and she’d stopped wearing it at all. And scarves. ‘I’m not a bloody fortune-teller.’ She wasn’t completely bald. Clusters remained. I told her to shave it off. ‘I will. We’ll do it tomorrow . . . Remind me to get the clippers from next door,’ she said, every day.

The place was rammed, as usual. The cancer farm. More wigs than a fancy-dress shop. More scarves than a football match. Yet it was loud, upbeat. The powerful energy of people’s determination to survive.

She took a seat, and I pulled a number from the ticket machine for those waiting for bloods. Like when we’d treat ourselves to a small wedge of our favourite Gouda from the deli instead of adding a few quid to the holiday fund.

We still didn’t speak. Only exchanged knowing glances about the atrocious wig on the woman sat opposite. Telepathically knowing we were both saying, ‘Dolly Parton.’

It was difficult to look at Mum at all by this point. I’d avoid it. Focus just past her like a blind person. Her teeth protruded from her skeletal face. Her sunken eyes were further away from me than ever. I’d turn away when able. Imagining I was addressing her round, ruddy cheeks and warm, tipsy, chestnut eyes.

She emerged from phlebotomy rolling down her sleeve.

‘How was it?’

‘That bit’s easy, isn’t it? It’s on the bloody hand that’s impossible.’

I changed the subject, to something worse. ‘I think we need to get you some new leggings. The Lycra’s gone in those.’ It hadn’t, of course. They were now just so baggy they hung like trousers.

We waited in two different seated areas before being called in by the nurse.

‘Hi, Angela. Let’s pop you on the scales, love.’ She recorded her weight. Seven three.

Mum looked as though she hadn’t even heard the diminished numbers. For me, tears surfaced and I wiped my eyes. ‘This hay fever’s pissing me off.’

The consultant, Mr Wallis, tall and bumbling, the type to be bullied at school, didn’t start with his usual small talk.

I knew.