I don’t answer.

Lettie leans forward to peer up into my face. Her eyes have speckles in them and veins in the whites that make them look yellow. “Do you even know where she is?”

“Yes.” It’s not a lie.

“But you can’t contact her?”

“No.”

“Some kind of retreat, is it?” She sits back.

Retreat. It’s as good a word as any. I nod.

“Bloody hippy-dippy parents. I’m all for kids standing on their own two feet, but to go out of contact . . .” She shakes her head.

The acid’s in my eyes now. I blink. They feel better closed. I keep them shut.

“Right.” She sits the card back on my lap. I open my eyes and look at it. “I’ll do it. But I’m having words with your mum when she gets home.” Her voice gets muttery: “Twice in less than twenty-four hours. I keep doing this I’m going to go all Daniel Day-Lewis on you.”

I’ve got no idea what she’s talking about. She sighs, digs out her phone and hands it to me. I turn it over. She has her phone number stuck on one of those printed labels on the back. I stare at the numbers. “You kids know about phones. Hide the caller ID and give it back.”

I watch as she dials. She squints at the screen and pecks out the numbers with her fingers. I feel sick rising. But, again, when she speaks the old lady disappears and the voice that comes out is not hers. I watch, fascinated. She’s sharp; she speaks like a reporter on the news. Uses words like inappropriate, confidentiality and harassment and then community-minded, neighborly and civic duty. After five minutes I hear the other person apologizing and thanking her for her call.

I watch, openmouthed.

“How did you do that?”

“I keep telling you. I wasn’t always a sad old goat in a house full of junk. I was someone, once.”

“RIGHT.” LETTIE DROPS me at the front gate. She leans over the handbrake as I coax Splinter out of the back. “You all right, then?”

I nod.

“Good. I’m off to get the car washed and vacuumed. No offense to fleabag here. But if I leave anything for too long . . .” She trails off. Neither of us look at her house.

I wave her off, and as Lettie pulls out from the curb Oscar walks toward me, a hand raised in greeting.

I stare at him. “You’ve got a nerve.”

He stops, his palm still up.

“What?”

“As if you don’t know.” I gesture at Lettie’s car, at her house.

“I’m not sure what you—”

“Don’t bother.” I pull Splinter back from sniffing at his foot and walk through our gate, shutting it firmly behind us. Oscar speaks to my back.