‘No one . . . I don’t know . . . I think some people on the estate knew. Not from me . . . from rumours. No one here, though. I wanted to leave it there. I mean, they all probably knew, but I didn’t even make it through the funeral . . . didn’t speak to anyone. They didn’t give a shit about her. No one did but me. How are you supposed to do that? Watch your own mother glide through a fucking curtain to be burned? Because of me. No . . . I . . . I left before the end. And I only stayed in Manchester a few days to get the ashes back. In the meantime I sold a few bits, counted up the holiday fund, scraped as much money together as I could. Pawned some of her jewellery . . . my grandma’s jewellery, which I now regret. Then when I finally got the jar, filled with her. A jar. Like one of the big plastic catering mayonnaise jars they had when I worked in pubs. My mum was in that. Once I had her with me, I packed a couple of suitcases and left. Got on a coach to London.’

He pulled his chair right up. I didn’t mind this time. He took my hand, his fingers grazing the cut on my forearm. I tried not to wince. His cheeks pinked. I’m not sure he was supposed to touch me like that. But his hands were warm, comforting.

‘Remember you told me about your father? That you felt it was your fault because you let go?’

I nodded.

‘Well, that wasn’t your fault, was it?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘He made his own decision that day. We don’t know his reasons, but sometimes people do things out of love for others, though their actions appear to show the opposite.’

I dropped my head. Tears fell onto my coat.

‘Constance . . . I want you to look at me, Constance.’

I did as I was told, but it was awkward, strange.

His hand squeezed harder. ‘It was the same with your mother. She was a grown woman who made her decision. And it seems that decision was based on not wanting to suffer a painful, drawn-out death. Nor for you to witness it, like she did with her father.’

‘So she thought me walking in with her floating in a bloodbath was better?’

‘I don’t think she thought rationally about any of it. She just wanted it to end. For both your sakes. But none of it was your fault.’

I shook my head, dismissing his words, yet simultaneously gaining relief from them. I stood and collected my scarf, which had slipped to the floor.

‘Dr Franco, you don’t seem to understand . . . I didn’t stop her. I could have stopped her.’

He shook his head. ‘How?’

Unconsciously, I wrapped the scarf around my hand. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Tell me. How you could have stopped her?’