Since then, she had made sure that she took the brunt of her mother’s outbursts. She’d been kicked, pushed, pinched and bitten, mostly when she was dressing or washing Bridie. It was nothing on the scale of what Maisie was used to – she batted her mother away easily, without suffering any real damage. She told herself that Bridie didn’t know what she was doing, that she just had to keep it all under control, away from the kids, and everything would be all right. It made life more stressful, but she wouldn’t abandon her mother when she needed her most.

Maisie left Valerie’s room and took a moment to fix a photo of Bridie, Jeremy and Valerie on the hall wall. Bridie was front and centre and her grandchildren were climbing all over her. Even though it was raining and their hair was stuck to their heads they were laughing and happy. She wished she’d been in the photo too. At the time Bridie had told her to hand her camera to a passer-by – ‘Maisie, get that spiky-haired young fella to take the picture’ – but Maisie had thought the spiky-haired young fella looked like he’d have no problem taking off with it. It had been expensive, and if she lost it, she couldn’t afford to replace it.

‘You have trust issues,’ Bridie had told her.

Maybe she did. The boy had been wearing runners. I’d never catch him, she’d thought, glancing down at her squelchy flip-flops. If she’d known then that, just a few short months later, her mother would display signs of dementia, she’d have risked it.

When the photo was straight, she returned to her mother and son in the kitchen. Bridie and Jeremy were finishing their breakfast when Valerie eventually joined them at the table.

‘Well, it’s about time, Maisie Bean,’ Bridie said to Valerie.

‘I’m Valerie.’

Bridie stared at her, trying to find some meaning. Valerie just ate her breakfast, pretending to ignore the mist that had descended behind the old woman’s eyes.

Jeremy was patient and he seemed to know instinctively how best to handle Bridie when she was having a moment. Now he took her hand in his and hummed ‘We’ll Meet Again’. After a moment or two Bridie joined in, leaning on her grandson’s shoulder, beating time to the music she could hear in her head.

‘I think you need a rest, Grammy,’ Jeremy said softly to her.

‘And I think you’re right, son.’

Maisie watched them walk down to Bridie’s bedroom. He opened the door for her and she stepped through, turning to say, ‘Nighty, night,’ even though she had just had breakfast.

‘Nighty, night, Grammy. Remember, Jeremy Bean loves you.’ He always said that: it was a ritual.