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‘May I? Thanks.’ Fleur took it from Nan. ‘I’ll make sure to get another one now I know the brand she prefers.’

Tuesday morning arrived, bringing the news that her father wasn’t feeling well.

‘What do you mean?’ she asked Irma, who was tucking greedily into eggs and bacon at the breakfast table.

‘I mean he’s not well,’ Irma repeated, sounding exasperated by the enquiry.

‘What sort of unwell?’

‘Fleur, I’m many things but I’m not a doctor,’ she replied, effectively closing her part of this conversation.

Fleur decided she no longer cared about the pretence of courtesy, especially as they were alone. ‘You are indeed many things, Irma, and among them is that you lack a shred of empathy for anyone.’

Irma slammed her cutlery down onto her plate. They locked gazes of hate.

Fleur hadn’t finished. ‘Why are you not up there with him, instead of feeding your face down here?’

‘I’m also not a nurse.’

Fleur could see she was deliberately trying to enrage her stepdaughter in saying so and she had to admit it was working.

‘I’m no use to him,’ Irma continued, feigning helplessness.

‘I agree. You are absolutely no use to him at all!’ Fleur flung down her napkin next to her cooling porridge and walked upstairs to her father’s room. She knocked gently, and then stepped into his bedroom. The curtains were still closed. ‘Dad?’ She moved across to the window and opened them slightly, watching him wince as the sunlight hit his gaze. ‘Sorry, Dad. Let me open these and get some air in,’ she said, taking the liberty of opening the window a crack.

She was at his bedside in moments and took his hand, noting the roughness of his skin, as though small warts were appearing. She made an effort not to show how worried she was by the change to his skin colour. She could see patches that had darkened, while other areas looked livid. He also looked confused.

He blinked at her, his expression groggy. ‘What time is it?’

‘Past eight, Dad.’

‘I won’t make church.’

Fleur gave a small gasp. ‘It’s Tuesday, Dad.’

Henry frowned. ‘That can’t be right.’

‘It is. We have to pick up from the Bedfords, and Mrs Smith from hospital.’

‘Already?’

She nodded. ‘What’s going on, Dad?’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Fleur. I feel so drowsy and blurry in my mind.’

‘I think I’m going to call for the doctor.’

‘You’ll do no such thing, my girl. I just need some help.’

Fleur crooked her elbow around his and watched as he swung his tall, suddenly painfully thin legs around and placed his feet on the ground.

‘Give me a few moments.’

She waited. ‘Have you let it slip your mind that Tom Catchlove is coming this evening?’ Fleur asked, simply for something to say into an otherwise tense silence.

‘Tom? Ah, yes. I’m looking forward to seeing him. Right, help me to stand, please, my love.’ She did. ‘There. I’ll go bathe.’

‘Dad, you won’t make the Bedfords.’