It is not going to rain. It is one of those box-fresh spring mornings. My mother would declare herself lucky to be alive on a day like today.

I know what she means now.

I make tea and coffee in my brand-new industrial-sized flasks, fill the sugar bowl and the milk jug and arrange the chocolate brownies and jam tarts and porter cake I have made on plates. I glance around. What if nobody comes? I distract myself by checking the shelves, stocked with information about services and resources. I have a stack of notebooks and pens. I have a short film about dementia that Kate wrote and directed for me.

It’s brilliant. Kate says I would say that even if it were awful.

Which it’s not. It’s brilliant.

“Over there, sweetheart.” I hear Vera’s hoarse, cracked voice behind me and I turn around. She is sitting cross-legged on a grass verge, rolling a cigarette, pointing an elderly couple in my direction. The woman has dementia. I can tell by the way her fingers worry at the buttons of her cardigan and the careful way the man leads her towards me. He wears a suit, shiny from years of wear and fraying at the collar. His shirt is missing the top button and there is a ketchup stain on his tie. I try not to notice these things. Instead, I listen. His name is Tom. His wife, Sheila, was the principal in their local primary school. She played piano. She visited art galleries. Now her consultant thinks she should go into a nursing home. That Tom can no longer cope since he turned eighty last week. But he can. He just...he just needs a bit of help. Can I help?

I tell them I can. Anna sits them down, Kate pours them tea, Brendan cuts them slices of cake, Vera offers to roll them cigarettes, and Dad sits beside Sheila and holds her hand. I open the information booklet and go through it with Tom, show him what services might help.

“Mum,” says Anna, pointing. “Look.” I follow the line of her finger and see them. Carers and their loved ones. Moving towards the bus.

Lots of them. A crowd.

“We’re going to need more cake,” I say to Brendan, who grabs his jacket and jogs for the shop across the road. I hug Tom and Sheila before they leave even though I told myself to maintain a calm, professional distance.

Tom hugs me back. His bright blue eyes water. “Thank you,” he whispers.

In the end, every bun, tart, and cake is eaten, the flasks are emptied and refilled several times, the information booklets pressed into hands or packed into handbags, the notebooks written in and the pens squirreled into pockets. Brendan pushes the awning back and the girls pack the signage away.

Vera pats me on the arm. “You done good, girl.” She mumbles it and doesn’t make eye contact. I gather her in my arms and hug her, careful not to squeeze her brittle body too tightly. When I release her, I gather Anna and Kate in my arms, which is not as easy as it was when they were little. Inhale them. Whisper my thanks. “We didn’t do much, Mum,” Anna says. Kate nods in her solemn way. “Yeah,” she says. “You did everything. As usual.”