‘Madam, please allow me to help you.’ Behind her back, I catch his eye and grimace as if she’s having a bad day. Alan rises to the occasion.

‘There, there, Mrs Ashton, you get nice and comfy. Don’t worry about a thing. You’re at The Brycgstow now.’ He speaks slowly, patting her on the shoulder, and Rose frowns at his forwardness.

‘Let me know if there’s anything you need – anything at all.’ He backs away, bowing, and my mother waves graciously, as if she’s riding through Windsor in an open carriage.

‘What an odd chap,’ she says, flicking her napkin onto her lap. ‘Who booked this table? You, Marigold? Is it a public house? You do make strange choices. Still, I suppose we’ll have to make do.’

‘You’re looking sprightly,’ I say, taking a sip of my cocktail. ‘Did you come by train?’

I know she didn’t. Rose doesn’t deign to travel by public transport. Sure enough, her nose wrinkles in distaste.

‘Darling Ginny drove me. Her daughter Venetia is working down here. You remember her? Your bridesmaid? Sweet girl, though a little unstable.’

Venetia in the cape, crying at the wasp sting. I’m briefly distracted. ‘Venetia works in Bristol?’

Another nose-pucker. ‘Well, she’s . . . at the Old Vic. Acting.’ She whispers it, as if it’s a dirty word. ‘Hopefully it’s just a passing phase. Ginny likes to come down, check she’s applying for proper jobs.’

In my mother’s world, the only proper jobs are lawyer and doctor. Architect at a push. Until you get married, of course – after that it should be more of a domestic role. Needless to say, married TV producer and unmarried alpaca farmer are both severe disappointments, to be swept under the carpet – or ruthlessly vacuumed.

‘Now, Clover, what in heaven’s name have you done to your hair? Please tell me it’s not permanent. I know you’re paranoid about it being grey and lank, but that is not the answer.’ She glances at Maz. ‘Nor is chopping it off like a you-know-what.’

My sister takes a long drink of her Three-Legged Dog. I smile, raking a hand through my curls. ‘Just spicing things up. You should try it. Your ’do is getting a little . . . out-of-date, if you don’t mind my saying. How long have you had that style? Since Diana died?’

For a second, Rose’s mouth is a little ‘o’ of surprise. Then she blinks and straightens in her seat. ‘Let’s get on. Is there a menu, or is it just a blackboard?’

I hand it to her. ‘Here. Shall I read it out to you? Otherwise, you’ll be squinting, won’t you, and you know that makes you look tipsy.’

The ‘o’ is now a firm line. Rose won’t rise, because that would be unladylike – what she doesn’t realize is I’m only firing warning shots, just limbering up for full gun warfare.

‘Can’t have the management turfing us out because Mother’s squiffy!’ I honk merrily. ‘Think of the palaver.’

‘Do pipe down, Clover,’ returns my mother. ‘People will stare.’

Oh, they’re going to. ‘If they’re staring,’ I say, ‘it’s only because they’re admiring your divine outfit. You put us all in the shade.’

Unsure, Rose decides to take this as one of the compliments she was waiting for. ‘Thank you.’ She preens, smoothing her delicate floral print.

‘Perfect for a summer wedding,’ I continue, taking a gulp. ‘And very brave to go sleeveless, at your age. Not everyone could pull it off.’

‘Well, I have always kept myself in good shape.’ Rose eyes my own bingo wings. ‘Still the same size I was as a girl.’

‘Back in 1885,’ I say, swigging. ‘Did you know Sarah Ann Henley?’

‘What has got into you? Are you . . . drunk?’ Rose leans forward, entranced. Although she’s far from teetotal, one of the things she loves to lament is when people have a few too many and cause a ruckus. There was a family Christmas party when we were small where Uncle Harold got weepy and maudlin after half a bottle of scotch, and had to be escorted out by his hissing sister, while Maz and I hid under a table sharing a bowl of Viennetta. I remember the goosebumps on her skin, from the ice cream or the scene. She started pinching herself shortly after.

I lean forwards too. ‘I drank a whole bottle of tequila. I even ate the worm. And now it’s turned.’ Finishing my cocktail, I hold the jar aloft. Alan’s arrival is reliably prompt.

‘Same again, please. And Mrs Ashton would like to try the Reverse Cowgirl.’

Rose now has the air of an Arctic explorer contemplating his own gangrenous foot. When the cocktail arrives,

in its jam jar, she takes it gingerly, sniffing and pulling

a face.

‘I do find cocktails rather vulgar.’

‘The Queen Mother didn’t think so. She had one every night.’

‘I’m sure she had more refined receptacles.’

I can’t argue with that one. We’ve finished the nuts, leaving the broken bowl sitting dejectedly on the table like the aftermath of a fight.

‘Are you ready to order?’ Alan has appeared again, nodding encouragingly at Rose, who still looks pained at her ordeal.

‘I suppose . . . I’ll have the fish.’ It’s actually cod and chips, but she can’t bring herself to say it. Maz has chosen this place very well.

‘Shepherd’s pie, please. And a bottle of the sauvignon blanc.’ I need Rose to let her guard down.

‘I’ll have the lasagne, thank you.’ Maz hands Alan the menu and he takes it reverently, as if the paper has been blessed by her touch.

‘What was that?’ enquires Rose, as he retreats.

‘What was what?’ Maz already looks exhausted – she can only take small doses of our mother.

‘That accent. You sound like . . . like Nicola Sturgeon.’ Rose loathes her. The only Scottish person she’s ever approved of was Sean Connery because he was a Sir and he made her feel coquettish.

‘Do I?’ Maz is pleased. ‘I worried I was veering east.’

‘You are,’ I tell her. ‘You need to rough it up a bit.’

‘What? Why is she speaking that way? Like an oaf?’

‘Maz identifies as Glaswegian now,’ I explain.

‘There is no one Scottish in our family,’ declares Rose firmly.

‘Dad’s sister Julie married a man from Inverness.’

‘No one in our family,’ repeats Rose.

The wine arrives, and Alan makes a big deal out of asking Maz to taste it. He clearly finds her faint ‘How nice’ a bit of a letdown, but she is supposed to be undercover, so he lets it pass.

‘Will, er, Mrs Ashton be partaking?’ Alan asks, as

he pours.

‘Do you want a glass, Nanna Rose?’ I ask loudly. ‘Or would you prefer a lovely lemonade?’