Morag brushes past Jess and trundles down the path. When she makes the pavement she turns and bellows, ‘And don’t touch nothing in the fridge with my name on it! Blossom’ll have your face off, you ever give her chicken again. And I will if it’s mine.’

Bewildered by Morag’s raised voice, Izzy watches her waddle off. She looks to her mum, her panda drooping from one hand. ‘Mommy got told off.’

‘Come on, love. Let’s start the sleep-over, yeah?’

In silence, Izzy rushes to join her mum who ushers her into the gaping black mouth of the vicarage before closing the front door behind them.

Inside the reception, the light dims and the inner gloom claims them.

15

As ever, Flo’s rheumy eyes are glazed yet enthralled with what lies either beyond the open French windows or within her dwindling mind.

Jess switches off the television. A programme Morag was watching. ‘Bet that’s been on all day. Surprised it ain’t caught fire.’ Warily she approaches the wheelchair. ‘You ain’t in a draught there, my love?’

Equal parts fascinated and horrified at such an aged spectacle, Izzy follows her mother. When Jess notices her daughter’s passage towards the wheelchair, she extends an arm, preventing Izzy from getting too close. ‘Remember what I said? She don’t know you and she gets upset. You don’t go near her chair. Ever. At all. Yeah?’

Izzy nods her assent and Jess turns to Flo. ‘This is my daughter. Izzy. She’ll be here tonight with us. Gonna be a right girls’ night in.’

Jess winks at Izzy then kneels before her wizened ward. As she adjusts Flo’s gown and spreads a blanket across her lap, her actions are more akin to defusing a bomb than attending to a dementia patient. When Jess attempts to delicately wipe Flo’s mouth with a warm flannel her ministrations grow more nervy. Moments after she begins dabbing the wash-cloth on her client’s chin, she hesitates.

Flo’s face has been transformed by a smile. And this is no ordinary smile. It is one of intense joy. The old woman’s milky eyes have even moistened as she stares in wonder and adoration at Izzy.

Jess looks at her daughter, who’s come to stand beside the chair and now bashfully returns the old woman’s smile. When Flo extends a lumpy hand towards Izzy, Jess tenses, looks at Izzy and shakes her head firmly. ‘No closer.’

Jess rises to her feet and removes Morag’s dirty plate, mug and magazines from the nearest armchair. ‘Izz. You come and sit here. Do some colouring.’

But Izzy remains entranced by Flo. And while Jess’s back is briefly turned, the little girl shuffles closer to Flo and accepts the extended lumpy fingers. ‘Your nails are long.’