I’d spent most of the Saturday after the camping trip with Joan. Leanne had picked up an old oven going free on the Bigley Facebook group, so they were now able to cook, but I’d still been coming up with excuses to send a meal round as often as possible. Leanne knew what I was up to, but she swallowed her pride for her daughter’s sake. They also made use of my shower two or three times a week. I had suggested that if they walked over to mine carrying a towel and a bottle of shampoo, Ebenezer might erect an outdoor shower in the garden, but Leanne replied curtly that she still had some pride left. Her stooped shoulders and air of exhaustion suggested that if she did, it was the tiniest shred.

After a ramble in the woods and a subsequent dog bath, thanks to Nesbit finding a swampy pool to investigate, I’d snuck a load of Joan’s laundry into my washer and helped her do a quick tidy and clean of New Cottage.

She’d been reluctant to talk about much beyond Nesbit and her newfound obsession for Terry Pratchett novels, which she fed using my adult library card when Irene was distracted elsewhere – something that was happening more and more, thanks to the rather inexplicable popularity of the Library Lady.

By mid-afternoon I’d left her to it, planning on catching up on some of my own to-do list, and I was upstairs changing my beautiful new duvet cover when I heard the knock. Even from that distance I could sense the urgency .

Dropping the bedding, I half ran, half tumbled down the stairs and raced into the kitchen, flinging open the door to find Joan, her tear-streaked face the colour of cold ashes.

‘Mum!’

Forgoing the seconds required to put on a pair of shoes, I sprinted across to New Cottage, praying that this was an emergency where speed could make a difference, rather than a tragedy where it was too late for swift action.

I found her on the bedroom floor.

For a heart-splintering moment, I thought she was dead.

Shoving aside the swirling horror, I knelt down in the mess of crumpled clothes and tried to remember the emergency first aid training I’d undertaken when Mum first fell ill.

Leaning in close to find out if she was breathing, I saw Joan appear at the bedroom door.

‘Have you called an ambulance?’

She gave her head a frantic shake.

‘Okay, that’s fine. But can you call 999 and ask for an ambulance while I check if Mum’s all right?’