‘Funny you should say that, Mother. I have no idea either. You might just have to stay here,’ he says, spitefully.

He watches Amanda’s nostrils flare and a tiny tear appear in the corner of one eye as she looks away, and hates himself a little.

‘There, there, it’s all right. I’m only joking. I’ve got it, don’t you worry.’

When she turns back to him, all trace of upset is gone. How much of this is early dementia, he thinks, and how much is Amanda yanking his chain?

‘Oh but I do worry. I’ve always worried about you, darling.’ A faraway look appears on her face. He’s no longer sure whether she’s talking to him or to his long-dead father. Perhaps there will come a time when she forgets about him altogether. Liberation day. ‘Where will you sleep? Not in here. You snore dreadfully. Do they have another room?’

To his relief, Maura bustles in carrying a tray on which are balanced two canteen-style cups and saucers.

‘Here, let me take it,’ Cullen says, thankful for the interruption but eager, too, for the visit to be as truncated as possible. He puts down the tray, picks up both cups and hands one to his mother. He watches Amanda rising up against her pillows as if she’s about to storm the battlements. His battlements, inevitably.

‘My son was very clever,’ she says to Maura, as if he were no longer in the room.

Here we go again.

‘I’m still very clever!’ he says. Maura shoots him a sympathetic little smile. His mother closes her eyes and doesn’t respond. Why does he let her get to him? His mind has slipped back a quarter of a century to a drizzly afternoon in his uncle’s static in Llandudno, his mother fussing over the salty wind ruining her hair, his ten-year-old self doing his best to demonstrate the Golden Spiral using a shell from a rockpool, and his uncle, patting him on the head like a beach donkey, saying, ‘Another time, lad.’ And later, his mother lying beside him in the tiny bed, stroking his head and saying, ‘My darling little boy, if you show your uncle up again, he won’t invite us.’

‘I brought you some shortbread,’ he says, pulling out the packet from his jacket pocket. He puts down his tea and comes over carrying the packet before him as if it were some treasure and he a courtier currying favour at a medieval court. He is willing her to open her eyes and respond to him now but they are if anything more tightly shut and she’s humming a tune under her breath.

‘I am wondering what we can do to make you feel a bit more settled,’ he says, ‘only I do have a rather early start tomorrow.’ He checks his watch – nearly one o’clock.

‘Petticoat tails?’ she asks.