‘No, you won’t.’ I turn to look at her as she drives. She is a very careful driver, slow and exacting. I am not allowed to drive any more, not since I killed that post-box, which carried a far more expensive fine than you would perhaps imagine, because it belongs to Her Majesty. It must be the same if you run over a corgi: if you run over a corgi, you probably get sent to the Tower. My mother is such a careful driver, and yet she never looks in the rear-view mirror when she’s reversing. It’s like she feels that, in that one aspect, it’s safer simply to close her eyes and hope for the best. I used to love driving; I loved the freedom and the independence and knowing that, if I felt like it, I could go anywhere I fancied. I don’t like that my car keys have disappeared, gone without me being allowed even to kiss them goodbye, hidden away in a place where I will never find them. I know because I’ve tried. I could still drive, I think. As long as no one put anything in my way.

‘It’s not come to you moving in yet,’ I insist, although we both know she has already moved in. ‘There’s still lots of time left when I won’t need any help at all. I mean, listen to me. I can still talk and think about …’ I wave my arm, causing her to duck and look under my hand, which I tuck apologetically back in my lap. ‘Things.’

‘Claire, this isn’t something you can stick your head in the sand about. Trust me, I know.’