‘Never much interested. Didn’t know how to talk to them. You were hopeless at any chatting. At the tennis club. With our friends. I knew you wanted to talk to me. You didn’t know how. I wasn’t going to help you. Told Winnie later and she laughed. They’re all hopeless at it. You have to help them.’

I imagine my father, tongue-tied and struggling. Trying to get her attention. Which she knew perfectly well, but she led him a merry dance. He courted her for years. And he hated social occasions. Parties. Dinners. They never had them. My mother would have, but she gave up in the face of his reluctance. Perhaps if she’d encouraged him, back then, when he was forced to make small talk and find things to say to the young woman he wanted to kiss, he would have found it less painful later, and would’ve been prepared to try with friends or even strangers. But she didn’t. She made him work hard for her. She laughed at him behind his back, with her always-laughing sister.

‘Where are my children? Are any of them coming? Do they know I’m here? Where is this place? Somebody needs to do something with that garden.’

‘I’m here, Mum. John. I’m with you.’

The light fades, and she fades with it. She’s asleep when the door opens, and one of the staff comes in. A short, round woman, with thin, black hair plastered to her scalp, flabby arms and a stained uniform. She turns on the light.

‘How’s your mother?’

‘She’s fine. She’s been talking on and off, but it’s all a bit rambling. She ate well enough though.’

‘That’s what we like to hear. She’s got a lot to say for herself, hasn’t she? I can’t understand all of it, but everything’s in there,’ she says, tapping her forehead.

Is it? Is every memory intact? I imagine her mind as a vast library, with a card index system, but the drawers have been pulled out and the cards spilt all over the floor. Worse still, many of the books have fallen to bits, or been eaten by worms, or destroyed by mould. It’s a wreck, a shambles, a hopeless muddle. I’m gripped with fear for my own mind.

The carer takes my mother’s hand and pats it.

‘Margaret? Margaret? Will you wake up for me? I need to get you ready for your supper.’

My mother groans, but doesn’t open her eyes.

‘OK,’ says the carer. ‘I’ll have to do it without your help.’

She turns to face me.

‘I’m going to need a hand. I can’t lift her on my own. Do you want to help? Or else I’ll go and get some of the others.’