‘Yes, no, I mean, not your health. Obviously it’s fantastic. But I couldn’t help wondering if you want to stay here, in this home?’

‘Or what? I’d like my own home back. I think you sold it.’

‘Yes, we sold it, Mum, and it pays for your life here. The money’s invested.’

‘So I can’t go back there. Shall I come and live with you? Or Laura? Or Ben?’

‘Of course, we’d love to have you. We’d need to move things around. Or maybe look for a bigger house.’

‘OK. Thank you. With all due respect, I don’t want to live with any of you. I love you all, but you’re grown up, and so am I. I’m enjoying being a healthy, independent woman. Even if I am in a care home. Anyway, this place is like a decent hotel.’

John tries to hide his relief. Not at all well. I leave it alone, because I understand. The last thing he wants is me living in his house. And since it doesn’t suit me either, I make no comment.

He stays for another hour. The sun moves round. The birds come and go. The cat sleeps in the flowerbed. As we chat, I watch a spider weaving its web on a bush on the far side of the lawn. I can pick out each thread. As I watch, a fly hits the web, and in a second, the spider is upon it. The fly struggles as the spider attends to it, its legs extended around the fly’s body as it reaches in to deliver a fatal, lingering bite. The fly’s movements slow as the poison seeps into its cells, and it relaxes and surrenders. When it can move no more, the spider begins to swaddle it in silk. John’s talking about school fees. The fly’s view of the world must be as if through frosted glass, now that the silk is thickly wrapped around it. The spider begins to transport it to a different section of the web. The larder. Where the living, paralysed prey must wait until the spider is in the mood to eat. Now John’s talking about Charlotte’s health. Charlotte’s web! That’s how I’ll remember her name.