‘We both live on small islands,’ Sonja said, the first night we slept together, and I thought that was fine as long as we lived on the same small island. Twenty years later we don’t.

When Ian and I finish dismantling the last joists of my mother’s deck, so rotten, some of them, that they crumble in our hands, we carry them to the skip, dump them, then lie on the grass in the garden, drinking cold beers. It’s June and the golf course is virulently green, the trees overloaded with leaves. My mother sits on a nearby stone bench with a newspaper and a bottle of wine, looking put out that her deck has disappeared. When we arrived here a few days ago she was blind drunk, asleep on the sofa, but since then she has steadied herself, reduced the river of alcohol to a constant dribble. I think our being here has helped, has filled some of the emptiness left when Ellen died.

I push myself to my feet and gesture to Ian with a botde. ‘Want another?’

He nods. Signs, ‘I found my word for the week this morning. It was in an article in the paper. I think you’ll like it.’

‘What is it?’

He spells it out: ‘Nepenthe.’

‘Nepenthe?’

‘Look it up.’

When I went into the library all those months ago Ellen was awake, looking through the window at the cows tramping across the valley. I sat by her on the floor and she held out her thin, shiny hand for me to stroke. She was difficult to understand because she was so weak but she tried, shifting on the bed to turn to me, looking me in the face. ‘So, Special. This is it.’

I wanted to shout, to pulverise whatever it was that made this it. I tugged at the tip of my beard, fighting the desire to cry.

‘You’re going home today? With Sonja?’

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

We were silent for minutes as Ellen struggled to speak. ‘John, I know you’re not happy. I want you to promise me something. I want you to promise me that you’ll think long and hard about your life when you get back. I’ve known you a long time, since you were a boy.’ And she stopped, coughed. ‘I know you’ve always thought that as long as nothing bad happens, that’s as good as it gets. Well, it’s not. It’s not enough, John. I want you to think about that.’ She smiled weakly. ‘I guess I’m saying I want you to be brave. Will you promise me that?’

I nodded again.

‘Promise me.’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah, well, I think I’ve told you everything I wanted you to know. You’re a good man, John. Look after your mother. I think she’ll need you.’

Was that it? It couldn’t be it. I didn’t want words of wisdom. I wanted Ellen to live.

‘There is one thing’ and Ellen paused, frowned, pain slamming through her. ‘When my husband died I thought I’d never live again. That I’d sleepwalk through life. But I didn’t. I’ve had a good life, a much longer life than I thought possible. Longer than I maybe deserved. Sure, I didn’t have Matt but I had you and your mother, other friends. It was enough. I guess all I’m saying is you don’t always have to live with people to love them. Lives change and that’s OK.’