Was I jealous of her freedom? Perhaps I was. But I was also looking out for her; you must understand that. In my heartfelt opinion she deserved only good things. I did all I could to cheer her up; we spent one weekend painting her floors white and her walls blue, de-Leah-fying the place. I suggested we do a makeover on her as well; I’d always been dying to dress her, as she didn’t have much sense of style. We shopped; she looked fantastic. I bought her some make-up: smoky shades that she said she liked on me. And it worked; she did cheer up. She began to have fun again. It was like watching a flower blossom. Within four months she was blooming. I hate to confess it, but I preferred her un-cheered up, when she was low and needy, enabling me to excel in the friendship stakes. She’d started going on dates. It was one thing her being with Leah but altogether something else when she spent the evening snogging a waitress. I wasn’t adapting very well.

I just hate my hair, she’d said, tugging at her locks. It’s all . . . She was searching for the word. We were walking along the towpath; I was behind her, Karl in front. She was wearing this beautiful dress I’d found for her in Urban Outfitters and I was marvelling at her petiteness. Frizzy? I proffered, because her hair was quite dry and flyaway and I did genuinely think that this was the word she was searching for. She did have faults, you see, I wasn’t blinded. Well, she turned round sharply, her face full of indignation. She was insulted and shirty with me all evening. In the pub she pointedly ignored me, turning her chair away from me to face Karl.

‘Apple!’ my mother cried jubilantly, as the blood spilled from her arm down the plastic tube. ‘Apple was one of the words!’

Dr. Rhys Evans smiled and passed the nurse a swab of cotton wool. ‘Very good! Apple!’ I didn’t like her patronizing tone. ‘Thank you so much, Sebo,’ she said, dismissing the nurse.

My mother was in good spirits now. ‘Oh, yes. Thank you so much, See. Eee . . .’ She was smiling at the nurse but then found herself struggling for the name she had just heard. ‘Eee . . . Ebola,’ she cried, pretty sure she’d nailed it. I could see the crossing of the wires in her brain: the vowel sounds, the endless threat of disease in the news, the colour of Sebo’s skin. Again, there was logic to her thinking. I felt suddenly terribly moved by my poor little old mum, with her clownish make-up and her accidental racism, for the terrifying loss of herself that she was experiencing.