‘Rucksack,’ shouts Lotte. ‘And when you tried to put in on, in the bit for your boobs, you found a Peppa Pig plaster, a gummy bear and a toy stethoscope!’

My skin itches with dried sweat; my hair is sticky with it. I haven’t shaved for two days and my stubble prickles. I could do with a shower. And I’m not sure I can listen to one more story about my dead niece. I raise a glass to my sister, who is laughing and crying at the same time, and to her husband, and I force myself to sit down, to take a piece of cake. I feel a complete tool, now that the anger has drained from me as suddenly as it had sprung up. Christ, today of all days I had to be such a monumental wanker.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, to no one and everyone.

Matt grunts.

‘We forgive you,’ says Lotte and grins at me, her smile gappy where she’s lost a tooth.

I let my shoulders relax and perch on the corner of the chair Theo’s in and he leans companionably against me. Without the candles, it seems even darker. I wonder if my father is still upset with me, and then I feel guilty for thinking that, even if he is, he’ll have forgotten what I said to him soon. Hopefully.

Strike while the iron is hot, I think. Otherwise, with my shit memory, I’ll probably forget. How ironic: forgetful son forgets to make dementia appointment for father. If Bethany wants, she can take him. I go inside and google ‘private hospital’, ‘Bristol’ and ‘Memory Clinic’. The first hit I get is for a private facility on the outskirts of the city. It’s called The Castle. I feel an overwhelming sense of relief. So Bethany had taken Dad, and he’d remembered enough to write it down in his journal. Thank God.

Perhaps because it’s not NHS, the phone is answered immediately and within seconds I’m transferred to the Memory Clinic. A voice as warm and smooth as caramel assures me that my phone call is of the utmost importance and, although no one is in reception at the moment, if I leave a message, someone will get back to me as soon as possible. I’m an idiot; it’s Saturday evening, of course there will be no one there. I leave a message requesting a follow-up appointment for my father. I give his full name and date of birth, and my mobile phone number.

‘Bethany,’ I say out loud, when I rejoin them. ‘Did she go to the festa after all?’

Chloe looks at me and then away. Bethany’s anger can be incandescent, but the good thing about her is that she never holds grudges and bounces back quickly.