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As far as Lewis is concerned, those two deserve less of a second chance, and more of a good whipping – so caught up in the past, in their own petty bitterness, that neither of them could see what it was doing to their mother. It had been destroying her, from the inside out, just as surely as the cancer, and neither of them seemed to notice or care.

She’s seen them, of course – there have been weekends away, trips to their homes, nights out at shows in London. But never at the cottage. Never in the same room. Never together – and that’s what did the damage. That’s what caused the internal injuries that all the MRI scans in the world wouldn’t show up.

He still has no idea what the two of them were even feuding about – Andrea has always cast a dramatic glance skyward, and uttered something vague. But surely it wasn’t serious enough to cause this – to leave their own mother spending her last weeks on this earth coming up with some crazy plan to reunite them?

Maybe, he thinks, she is right not to have told them. She wants to be remembered as she was, not as she is. And perhaps, deep down, she doubts that even a call to her deathbed will bring them together, and that would be more than she could bear.

His motives, his reasons for being grateful for their absence, are less pure. Lewis thinks they simply don’t deserve her. But what does he know? He’s never had children. It would be possible now, in this day and age – he’d find a nice lesbian couple and come to some arrangement, or even do an Elton John and David Furnish and maybe adopt. But back in his era … well, confirmed bachelors didn’t become fathers, simple as that. And from what he’s seen of Andrea’s life, he’s quite glad about it.

He reaches out and takes one of her hands in his. He has huge hands – he is built like a grizzly bear – and hers are tiny. Her skin is fragile, like the dusty paper in an antique book, and he holds it gently, scared it might disintegrate and fly away with the slightest touch. He feels her fingers twine into his, and is grateful to be there. She might not have her daughters, but she is not alone.

‘Is it all sorted, do you think, Lewis?’ she whispers, startling him from his thoughts. He’d assumed she was on the verge of another fitful bout of sleep.

‘Do you think I’ve done enough?’ she says, her fingers clinging to his, looking for reassurance.

‘Darling, it is all beyond sorted. I have never seen you display such organisational skills as I have in the last few weeks. It will be enough, I promise. So don’t worry about a thing – I know what to do. Everything is ready, and I’ll play my part to perfection.’

‘Ha! That’ll be a first, then …’ she murmurs, sarcastically. Ever the critic. Just because once – once – he dropped the bloody skull during his am-dram Hamlet.

She tries to sit up, and he sees she is struggling. He helps her move forward, and adjusts the bed so she is propped upright. He casts one last glance over her – the hair as neat as it can be, the make-up done, the dreaded earrings gone. She’s insisted on wearing ‘proper clothes’, even though her cream-silk blouse is now hanging off her shoulders, and has doused herself in Chanel Coco, as though the girls will have some kind of sniff-o-vision when they watch this.

‘Okay,’ she says, drawing in a big breath. ‘I think I’m ready. I can practically see a man with a scythe lurking in the corridor by the vending machine, my love, so we’d better get on with it. The show must go on. All set?’

He nods, and switches the camera on. He’s never been much of a one for technology, and he’s had to learn fast. Now, if he ever tires of playing the Solid Rural Lawyer, he can become an internet whizz-kid instead.

‘Testing, testing, uno-dos-tres …’ Andrea says, her voice high and firm; stronger than he’s heard it for days. What a trouper.

He adjust his angles, knowing that she will insist on reshooting this if it doesn’t meet her high standards, and gives her the thumbs-up.

She turns those brilliant eyes towards him, and smiles into the lens. It’s a perfect close-up, and she plays it exactly right.

‘My darlings. Rosehip, Popcorn, my only true loves. Not to be too Hollywood about this, but if you’re watching this tape, that can mean only one thing: I have shuffled off this mortal coil … and you two are going to need each other more than ever. You need to set aside your differences, and look out for each other – just like you always used to.’

Chapter 3
Beacon C of E Primary School, 1986

‘I’m going to rub your nose in that dog poo, you stuck-up cow,’ says Jackie Wells, holding Rose’s face down on the grass by the scruff of her neck.

It’s Rose’s last year at little school, and she has committed the cardinal sin of being clever. She’s won all the prizes; she’s pretty and popular and even good at netball. Of course Jackie Wells hates her.

‘You don’t even have a dad, and if you did, my dad would beat him up,’ adds Jackie, sitting on Rose’s back. Rose has no doubt about that; Jackie’s dad looks like a Tonka truck.

She struggles, trying to throw her 11-year-old nemesis off her back, but only succeeding in wriggling ineffectually on the school playing field. She glances ahead, sees flat green grass and, not very far away, a lovely pile of dog mess is buzzing with flies.

If she was on her feet, she might stand a chance against Jackie – but unfortunately for her (and for Jackie), the child takes after her father and already weighs as much as that baby hippo they saw on the school trip to Chester Zoo.

Naturally enough, there are no teachers in sight, and the small circle of kids gathered around the spectacle seem to be enjoying it. The ones that aren’t – Rose’s friends – look twitchy and embarrassed and worried, but too scared of Jackie to intervene.

Rose tries to remind herself of her mother’s oft-repeated words, the ones about jealousy being the mother of all aggression.

That might be true, Rose thinks, but it’s not much of a consolation right now. Not when her uniform is covered in grass stains and her face is smeared with soil and she’ll be eating poo for lunch.

She flails around, trying to kick Jackie with her Clark’s shoes, but can’t manage it. All that happens is that Jackie presses her face even harder into the ground, and for a terrifying few moments, she can’t breathe at all. She can hear jeers and shouts and the brave, solitary cry of her best friend, Tasmin: ‘Leave her alone, or I’ll fetch Miss Cunningham!’

That is followed by a small, sad yelp, so Rose has to assume that Tasmin has paid the price for her courage.

Jackie pulls her head up, using Rose’s long, curly ponytail like a handle, and slams her face back down into the damp ground. She feels soil smash between her teeth and into her mouth, and again panics as the world goes dark.

Just as she is about to give up and accept her early death, there is an ear-splitting screech, and Jackie’s hefty weight is suddenly gone.

Rose takes a brief moment to suck in air, then rolls around so she can see what is going on. Poppy has arrived, in a blur of violence and fury, and is holding Jackie down while she punches her in the head. Rose has no idea how she is doing that, as she is not only two years younger than Jackie, but most of a baby hippo lighter.

‘Don’t!’ she yells, punctuating each word with a blow from her screwed-up fists, ‘Ever! Touch! My! Sister!’

Obviously, it’s at that point that Miss Cunningham arrives, and the group of spectators magically all disappear off to play football or collect ladybirds or talk about Zammo in last night’s episode of Grange Hill.

Miss Cunningham physically drags Poppy away from Jackie, who is left cowering and crying and, yes, Rose notices with some satisfaction, covered in smears of the exact same dog poo she was threatening her with just moments ago.

Poppy is trembling with anger, her long, scrawny body vibrating with emotion. She looks over at Rose, who is getting to her feet now, and is instantly calmed by her big sister’s smile. The smile that tells her that everything is okay, that it will all be fine, and that there is nothing to worry about.