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“Mum, it’s only me,” Frances called out as she entered the house, a wall of warmth hitting her as she did.

The frail frame of her mum wandered into the hallway as Frances placed her keys on the centre table.

“Oh, it’s you.”

“Yes. I’ll make you some lunch, and then I have to head back to the office,” Frances said, already moving past her mum into the open-plan kitchen and sitting room.

“I’m not hungry,” her mum said, from behind.

“You need to eat, Mum.”

“I’ve just had breakfast,” she replied matter-of-factly.

“No, we had breakfast together earlier, before I left for work,” Frances corrected her gently. “It’s half past twelve now.”

Her mum frowned. “Did we?”

“What have you been up to while I’ve been gone?” Frances asked, steering the conversation away from the lapse in her memory.

Her mum thought for a moment, scanning the room as if it might offer an answer.

“I’m not sure... I watched some television. Yes, yes,” she said, as though the memory had just surfaced. “There was a programme on. It had that man on it. Oh, what’s his name? Tit something. He came here years ago to film something in the gardens.”

“Alan Titchmarsh?”

“Yes, that’s him.”

“It was Monty Don that came here, Mum.”

“Oh, was it?” Her gaze drifted to the window. “I don’t remember meeting him.”

Frances opened the fridge and took out a packet of cheese and a tub of butter. “I see you’ve done a little more of the puzzle,” she said, nodding at the dining table as she reached for the bread.

“The pieces are too fiddly. Can you help me later?”

“Maybe,” Frances replied.

She had hoped her mum would have an early night. Frances had a growing mountain of work, and she was hoping to clear some of it. Early bedtimes usually meant early starts — for both of them — but mornings had their advantages. They gave her the chance to take her mum for a brief walk in the gardens after breakfast, before the staff arrived. A walk often led to a mid-morning nap, leaving Frances free to get to the office.

“I’ll make you something and pop it in the fridge, but promise me you will try and eat it. I’ll write a note to remind you.”

“Okay,” her mum said, shuffling away.

Frances watched her lower herself into her chair in front of the television, unsure how much she was taking in. She hated leaving her on her own, but there was no alternative at the moment. Once Christmas was over, she would have more time, more flexibility to be at home. At least, that’s what she kept telling herself.

Having prepared some cheese sandwiches, she resisted the urge to quell her appetite with one. Instead, she placed them on a plate, wrapped them in cling film, and put them in the fridge. For her own lunch, a rather more appealing — at least, she hoped — afternoon tea awaited her approval.

“Mum, your sandwiches are in the fridge,” Frances called out as she scribbled ‘Sandwiches in fridge’ on a Post-it note.

She tore it off the pad, picked up the remote, and pressed it to the top, keeping clear of the Tipp-Ex arrows marking the channel buttons.

“Here,” Frances said, placing it on the side table next to her mum’s chair. She lifted what appeared to be an untouched glass of water and refreshed it in the kitchen. Setting it back down on the coaster, she added, “Try and finish this by the time I get back, Mum. It’s important that you drink.”

“Where are you going?” her mum asked, looking up with concern.

“I have a meeting with the heads of department.”

“Should I come?” her mum asked, starting to push herself up.