I thought of my own mother, on whom I’d effectively turned my back. After much deliberation, I’d decided recently that I would bite the bullet and go and visit her again. I’d spoken to her consultant, and it seemed she had been more settled of late. I had thought very long and very hard about it, but losing Reggie had made me realise the importance of acting while the opportunity was still there. My mum wouldn’t be around forever and I didn’t want to look back and regret that I hadn’t at least tried to see her again. She was the only living link to my childhood now, even if I’d prefer to forget much of it.

I thought guiltily too of my great-aunt. Of her final miserable months. And of the worst thing I had ever done in my entire life.

*

I hadn’t been home for some weeks and my conscience was pricking me. I knew that Auntie Jane was unlikely to have been further than the corner shop, nor would she have had any visitors. Recently, my studies and social life seemed to absorb every waking hour, although I knew I ought to make time to go and see her. But my guilt was born of a sense of duty rather than love.

I wasn’t prepared for her mood as I walked through the living room door that afternoon. The television was blaring loudly; some old black-and-white film. Her eyes flickered as I entered the room but didn’t leave the screen.

‘Oh, good of you to call.’ The sarcasm in her tone was biting. She was sitting in her customary armchair, fingers drumming the cushion.

‘I’m really sorry, I just seem to be so busy these days.’

‘Too busy to pick up the telephone and check if I’m still in the land of the living? Nice to know you’re obviously terribly concerned about my welfare. You’re only the other side of the city, not in Timbuktu.’

‘I said I’m sorry, Auntie. How are you?’ I sat down in the armchair opposite hers, glancing round at the unusually untidy state of the room, the sideboard thick with dust.

‘I’m fed up, that’s how I am. Stuck here; day in, day out. I’m an old woman, in case you hadn’t noticed. Can’t even do my housework any more with these stupid hands.’ She spread her fingers to demonstrate the arthritic knots in her joints.

‘Couldn’t you get somebody in? Lots of people have homehelps these days. I could make some enquiries for you …’

‘Why should I have to pay someone? And besides, I don’t want some stranger rooting through my things. You get all sorts doing those jobs.’

‘There are lots of reputable agencies out there. They employ people who’ve had all the proper checks, to make sure they haven’t got criminal records.’