Mum stood to greet him as she always did, like she was meeting the Queen. He shook our hands. Sat and pulled his chair closer to the small square table. Opened the manila folder.

‘I’m afraid, Angela, the markers have risen significantly despite the last course of chemo, and the thing is, we’re running out of options. The next step would be to see if there are any trials running.’

Neither of us spoke.

I wanted to hold her hand. It was millimetres away from mine. But I didn’t.

We left that room for the very last time. Joined the herd as we walked towards the large glass exit. My throat clenched, chest caved. But I couldn’t break. Make her feel worse. Before leaving, we gelled our hands. No germs. Must avoid the germs.

Outside, I lit a fag. She extracted it from my fingers and had a drag.

‘You can’t smoke, Mum.’

She laughed. ‘Constance, don’t be daft. But hey, on the positive side, the diet’s going well, eh?’

I smiled. Which extended to a laugh that wanted to be a cry. I turned and tapped my foot to stop it from happening.

She stamped out the ciggie and beckoned me towards her chest. Put her sharpened maternal arms around me. Comforted me. It should have been me comforting her. She felt light, as if half of her had already gone.

Tearing myself away from her bones, I said, ‘The trial sounds promising, though.’

She was so weak I acted as her crutch during the walk from the bus stop. Once home, I told her to go in the lounge and I’d make us some pasta. While the kettle boiled, I went in to ask if she wanted tubes or shells. She was sat in his chair. She’d never sat in his chair.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Just sitting,’ she said.

We ate our dinner accompanied by Coronation Street as always. And as always I commented on Gail Platt’s irritatingly soft voice and fluttering lashes. But she didn’t laugh as she usually would, or say, ‘She’s the most annoying thing on telly. Wish that Richard Hillman had bumped her off.’ Instead she said, ‘There won’t be a trial.’

I placed my fork inside the bowl that rested between my legs. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He didn’t say there would be a trial. He said he’d find out if there was one running, but he wasn’t aware of one.’

‘He didn’t say that.’

‘He did, Constance.’

I stared at Gail, hooked a tube onto the fork and slowly placed it into my mouth. Chewed and chewed and chewed. Unable to swallow.

‘I don’t want to drag it on,’ she said.

I continued with the same mouthful until it evaporated into liquid, into air.

‘For you, I mean. With Dad, it was—’