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the landing, clicking the bedroom door shut behind us. Suddenly I feel warm, secure, childlike, as I know Flora does when Murray scoops her up in his arms. At the window, we look out across the fields, across the meadow of mud and stubby grass picked to the root by the few goats and sheep Mum keeps. I’m doing my best to keep everything going.
    ‘Something must have happened to your mother to cause this.’ David flicks his glance away briefly, swallows and thinks. ‘Do you have any idea what that might be?’ He stares at me as if I should know; as if I can tell him exactly the reason my mother is not speaking.
    I shrug. ‘No, I don’t,’ I answer honestly. ‘There’s nothing in Mum’s life that could have made her like this.’ I’m standing in the sunlight that’s spilling through the window and he’s staring at me as if it’s the first time he’s ever seen me. I smile and my cheeks feel hot.
    ‘I promise that I’ll do my best for her now, Julia.’ His words are slow and reassuring.
    ‘Mum’s life has always been . . . well, great. Like that.’ And I point at the farmyard below and the kitchen garden beyond. Even in winter, it still looks idyllic with the pretty fields spread around us. ‘See? Perfect. Maybe she’s upset because the washing line came down and the goats got her towels.’ I try to laugh but it doesn’t come out right.
    David breathes in and sighs seriously. ‘She’s going to need a few tests, Julia. It’s time for brain scans, psychological screening, a full blood work-up. Telling your mother this is one thing, but I suspect getting her to comply will be quite another.’ He’s already got an uncannily accurate measure of her. ‘She clearly needs help and I want to give it to her. The best way I can.’
    I wish I’d had such a concerned doctor when I was pregnant with Alex and Flora. Briefly, I recall the dismissive young man who completely missed the signs of pre-eclampsia. ‘Well, if she disagrees, it’s a good thing,’ I say, blocking out the disturbing memory. ‘It will mean she spoke.’ My face crumples with anguish. ‘Oh David, she’s barely eating and won’t do anything on her own. I’ve had to wash her and take her to the toilet for over a week.’What could have made her like this?
    David glances down. The carpet is threadbare and I recall running barefoot over its dated pattern as a child. ‘Without the test results, I wouldn’t like to say. Maybe she’s suffered a trauma . . .’
    ‘An accident?’
    ‘There are other kinds of trauma,’ he says. ‘And it doesn’t have to be purely physical.’ He pauses and thinks. ‘Maybe a problem will show on the brain scan.’
    We walk back downstairs – David’s hand sitting naturally in the small of my back. By the time we reach the hall, I feel calm again.
    ‘I’ve looked over your mother’s medical history and it appears perfectly normal. In the last decade, she’s only seen Dr Dale, my predecessor, a couple of times for minor things. I started practising at the medical centre in November and apart from her visit to me for her finger, she’s been as healthy as a horse.’
    ‘Her finger?’ We’re in the kitchen again, the heart of the old farmhouse, and David plants himself in the ancient sofa beside the fire. I like seeing him there but then I remember all the times Murray has folded himself into that sofa.
    ‘It was nothing serious. She had an infection around the cuticle. To be on the safe side, I prescribed antibiotics.’
    I think back. Mum never mentioned an infected finger. When we last spoke, we talked about Christmas arrangements. She told me what she’d bought for Alex and Flora and I told her off because I’d wanted the surprise too. I’d promised to make the mince pies and bring them over and, finally, she’d had a quick word with each of her grandchildren. Everything had been normal.
    ‘She never mentioned a bad finger to me.’
    ‘I’ve been keeping an eye on it these last few