The carpet is heavy and red, full of swirls. A drop of milk has landed on the pile, and I rub it in so my father doesn’t see.

The nurse comes out of the kitchen and her face is sad, but when she sees me, she rearranges her expression into a smile. I like her because she doesn’t ask me how I am.

‘Wouldn’t you be more comfortable on a chair?’ Her eyes crinkle as she says it, so I know she’s not telling me off.

I pick up my bowl and drink the milk straight from it. It’s full of sugar and tastes delicious. ‘I’ve finished.’ I stand up. ‘Are you going now? Is Mum OK? When do you think she’ll get better?’

Her eyes flick towards the kitchen, where my father has just slammed a cupboard door and is now tossing cutlery into the drawer. The sound of forks and spoons hitting each other is a percussion of anger and sadness.

‘She’s comfortable, petal,’ says the nurse. ‘I’ll come back a bit later, all right?’ She opens her mouth as if to say something more, but squeezes my shoulder instead. We stand in silence for a minute. ‘Talk to your dad,’ she says.

But I don’t want to talk to him so I stand at the sitting room window and watch her drive off. Her little car disappears around the corner and then the front door of Hilltop House opens and Shannon and Sara walk down the steps, clutching their ballet cases.

Shannon gives me a wave and mouths something at me, but I can’t work out what she’s saying. I expect she’ll be over later with Sara because they always come over on Saturday afternoons, or I go there.

Our house is the smallest on the street. It’s not grand like Hilltop, or as neat and tidy as Mr and Mrs O’Toole’s next door. There are cracks in the paintwork and weeds on our front path. We don’t have a gardener or a window cleaner like the Carters. But our view is just as pretty.

A river runs through the heart of the village like an artery (we’ve been doing the circulatory system at school) and Saltbox Hill rises behind it. My mother is going to take me there for a picnic when she gets better, like she used to when I was little and her clients had all gone home. We would roll down the hill, full of sandwiches and lemonade, grass in our hair.

If I close my eyes, I can feel the heat of the summer sun on my cheeks, and hear the violin legs of the crickets, and my mother is singing, a low, sweet song about a boat and a bird on the wing.

‘Brinley, can you come into the kitchen for a minute?’