‘Towards the end, Mum got the bit between her teeth about Dad being alone after she’d gone,’ Will says quietly, before shooting a meaningful look at Jonathan. ‘Given how things turned out, I’m inclined to agree with her.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Jonathan says with a sigh. ‘Get it all off your chest, why don’t you?’

‘Anyway, the point is,’ Will continues, evidently warming to his theme, ‘by then, Mum was pretty much housebound, so the only women she saw were either long-term friends who came to see her, or Gina the cleaner. The problem with the friends was that they all inconveniently had husbands who were very much alive, so she turned her focus on to poor Gina.’

‘She’d follow her around the house, asking questions about her personal life, her politics, the kinds of things she liked to do and so on,’ Jonathan adds. ‘I think Gina was a bit scared of her by the end. It was a little like living in one of those old sitcoms. I’d hear the whirr of the stairlift as Geraldine went up, swiftly followed by the clattering of Gina’s heels as she hurried downstairs to “find something she’d forgotten”. Geraldine would then come back down and Gina would find an excuse to go up. If you filmed it and showed it at double speed, it would have been comedy gold.’

‘Of course, the sad part is that Mum needn’t have bothered, because everyone knows Gina’s in love with Dad,’ Will says with a laugh.

‘No, she isn’t. You mustn’t say things like that.’ Jonathan looks horrified.

‘Oh, she so is. It’s fine. I’m here to protect you from the scary lady.’

‘She isn’t, and I don’t need your protection. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, Will.’

Will merely raises his eyebrows and stares at his father.

‘You know what I mean,’ Jonathan says sulkily.

‘Are you two always like this?’ I ask.

‘Like what?’ Will replies.

‘Sparring constantly.’

‘No,’ Jonathan says, pointedly looking at his son. ‘There was a time when Will respected me.’

‘That was before you started behaving like a consummate arse,’ Will retorts.

Jonathan sighs. ‘You’re never going to let this go, are you?’

‘Not for as long as it gives me the upper hand, no.’

At that moment, a late-middle-aged woman who I’m guessing is the fabled Gina sticks her head around the sitting-room door. Her black hair is either the result of amazing genetics or, more likely, a bottle, and she’s heavily made-up.