The plan couldn’t have been simpler and in the event, the great care home escape was executed with aplomb: Mrs Davison in the front seat of our car with my wife Fionnuala driving, and me and her neighbour Genghis in the back.

Fionnuala filled her in on the rota drawn up by Genghis that included some neighbours and ourselves.

Yes, everyone was delighted to be helping out; no, it was no trouble at all; yes, you can pay for whatever groceries or whatever is needed; no, the care home was perfectly fine with her suddenly going home.

Mrs Davison seemed to settle and as we carefully got her into the house, she smiled at how gleaming everything was, and we all sat down for a lovely, well-earned cup of tea. And no-one mentioned the elephant who was not in the room.

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I had given the framed photos of her only son David – whom nobody had seen for years – a real good polish during the big clean and I admit I had grown to hate him.

Maybe it was because I couldn’t comprehend someone never coming home to see their mother, even when she was hospitalised. I know I’m no angel when it comes to my own ma, but I do go and visit, do what has to be done, and she’s half mad. Mrs Davison is adorable.

I wondered why families could be so complicated. My own wasn’t too bad but the ghastly tales of great family feuds are legendary.

There was a family in Belfast that had a Shakespearian tragedy befall them after their mother died.

The father was a quiet accountant and the house was one of those lovely large semi-detached dwellings on a leafy street. The type you walk past and glimpse in at enviously.

The mature hedge meant it was just that, a glimpse, but you could see the crisp, red bricks and the deep, cosy porch and the large bay windows. At night the soft lights from within told of comfort, wealth and contentedness.

But looks can be deceiving – though I’m sure at one time there was happiness in that house.

When the mum was still alive she was a fun character, a sort of counter-balance to the staid dad. She was bubbly, energetic and into everything, while he was slow-moving, dowdy and discreet.

We knew the family quite well: they were normal, ordinary folk. The children were older than us (two girls and a boy), so we never crossed paths at school, but they were part of the community; good people.

Cancer took the mother in her mid-sixties, and the father mosied on with no real visible signs of grief; though what would I have known about his feelings?

He didn’t crack up like my mum did in the same sort of circumstances, just worked on crunching numbers till retirement came and events then took a turn for the worse.

The son lived somewhere in England (like David) and had nothing really to do with life at home but the dad, being an accountant, had contrived a scheme where he divvied up the house before he died to avoid the children paying inheritance tax.

Something to do with gifting – I don’t have a clue – but the upshot was the oldest girl bought her siblings out for a sum they were furious about, and they stopped speaking to her.

She lived in the house with her family and her father stayed on, much to her irritation, as he began to become forgetful and eccentric.

When he became incontinent, she packed him off to the care home and no-one visited him and there he died, alone.

It was a small funeral, my mum had said, for the Antrim Road King Lear. The eulogy was brief, there was no choir, and no tea and sandwiches at the hotel at the top of the road.

No-one went back to the house afterwards, which now had electric gates so you could no longer glimpse in as you passed...

“Are you daydreaming, Fabien?” Mrs Davison was smiling at me. “You look ever so thoughtful.”

I looked back at her and I was smiling too.

© The Irish News