She sat motionless except for a periodic rasp. Diana knew the facts of her mother’s life, but she didn’t like her or what she stood for. Joan Trewin Russell was a woman of the past, subservient. Yes, she’d had a career of sorts but once she had remarried, she’d thrown it in and become a housewife again. It was a wonder she had waited so long between husbands. Even now, she was beautiful. She would have been a ‘prize’ for any man, but she had chosen George Russell, a neat American. Diana had never seen the appeal. Her mother’s remarriage had pushed them even further apart, and Diana hadn’t thought that possible.

They must have been close once, though. The pictures showed it, but she felt nothing but distance. Diana stood and cleared her throat. ‘Look, Mum, I know you can hear me. I’m not good at this talking lark unless it’s scripted, and I haven’t had time to write this one – although I have a lifetime of questions in my head.’ She walked closer to the bed. Her mother’s eyes moved under the thin lids so she pressed on, ‘Now that there is so little time, words and questions desert me.’ She paced the room glancing back at her. ‘God, Mum, what happened to us?’

She picked up the box of photos and moved towards the bed. Her mother opened her eyes and Diana held up a photo of the three of them in front of St Basil’s. ‘We were happy but I don’t remember it.’

She pulled out the picture of her taking her first steps and held it up. ‘Why don’t I remember him?’ Diana knew all the facts. Allan Trewin had been drunk and had fallen from the cliff. She’d been through the police reports years ago. Her father’s alcohol levels were high. Her mother had mentioned her last sight of Allan had been of him clutching a cognac bottle and heading into the garden. She had kissed him, she said. It had been noted in the report that he’d remnants of lipstick on his lips and cheek consistent with being kissed, being loved.

Diana moved closer to her. ‘Please tell me what happened. Tell me he loved me. You loved me.’ Her mother clenched her hand. The blanket crinkled under her fingers. Diana stepped closer to the bed.

‘Mum, each year, each day you and I have pulled further and further away from each other.’ She sat at the end of the bed. ‘Why?’

There was no answer, but her mother’s hand remained clenched.