‘She has felt for a long time that she is absolutely necessary to you. It will be difficult for her to come home and see that you have been fine.’

‘I’ve been more than fine,’ Jacqueline says irritably, and in that moment it does seem so to her, it does seem that the days in bed, the restless, dispirited viewing of the television, the tears, are just a bad dream. She has these dreams sometimes.

‘Does Claire drink alcohol?’ Patience asks.

‘What a peculiar question.’

‘Adult children of dependent parents are prone to depression when the parent dies or moves into a home. They are likely to turn to alcohol as a coping mechanism.’

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous. Claire can’t wait for me to die. She’ll probably pop the champagne.’

‘That’s what I’m worried about.’

‘Patience!’ Jacqueline exclaims, with a fierce pleasure that surprises even her. ‘You made a joke!’

When Claire drops her bags and bends down for a kiss, her mother says, ‘You stink of weed. Is that what you’ve been doing all this time?’

Jacqueline is bright and upright in her chair, her blouse clean and pressed. The house is spotless. Calla lilies glow like heliodor on the windowsill.

‘I’ve been working,’ Jacqueline says. ‘I’m writing my memoirs. It was all Patience’s idea. I was telling her my stories, and unlike you she seemed to think they were amusing – she said, why don’t you write them down? So I’ve started to write them down. I’m writing about your father, as a matter of fact.’

The storm, or whatever it was, seems to have passed. Perhaps it passed the moment Claire called and said she was coming home. She brings out her desultory airport gifts, some wax-wrapped cheese, some playing cards, a packet of Stroopwafel, while Jacqueline says, ‘You won’t remember this, but he once took us up in a private pod on the London Eye and gave me a diamond bracelet.’

‘You’re right: I don’t remember.’

‘What’re those? Are they caramel? I don’t like caramel. It glues all my teeth together. Do you eat them? Oh Claire, you’ll look older than me! Your father looked older than he was. People thought I was his child!’

They eat dinner together from trays in the living room, fish and chips and tartar sauce weedy with dill, everything homemade, while Patience crouches on the floor and polishes the gas fire’s fender.

‘Isn’t she a wonder? However did we manage without her? I suppose it’s being a machine, isn’t it? You just do everything perfectly. There’s no human error. Do you remember that bolognese you made, Claire? When you put cinnamon in it?’

‘Mum, we need to talk about this.’

‘God Almighty, I’ll never understand! What would possess anyone to put cinnamon in spaghetti bolognese?’