‘Ask her,’ she said, holding a tight grip of my chin now, her face deadly serious, ‘what’s her problem with me? Does she not care, and she having a fine big car in the driveway, ask her what did I have her for at all?’

Her eyes were fast and intent on mine.

My jaw wobbled, unused to being held to ransom like this.

Dinnertimes. Father’s hands. Mother. Throat. Neck. Choking. Dancing off the ground.

‘I can’t say that,’ I said, resentful of my inability to be assertive without being angry, without provoking.

I deadened the call.

‘I’m not telling your daughter what you said,’ and I handed her my phone, ‘and keep your hand off my chin, it’s a trigger.’

She threw her head back, laughed and pointed forward with her index and middle fingers firmly together like a gun. Shooting. Pow. Pow. Pow. And she blew the top off her fingers.

‘Lave her be,’ Margaret Rose said. ‘I’ve a phone here ya can use, and I’ll ring your daughter and pretend to be the doctor far ya, love.’

‘Thanks,’ I mimed at Margaret Rose, embarrassed and guilty that I’d dragged her into this.

‘Maybe she’s busy?’ I said, attempting to console. ‘She’ll visit later. Try and sleep, lie down, they’ll be in with some tea soon, or try and rest maybe?’

‘You’re only a coward.’

‘OK, I’ll ring her for you this time, just this once, mind you.’

I redialled the last number.

Hello, Lohan, Lohan, Mary, answered the phone, rhyming off the number, and calling out her surname twice. Mary. Hello. Hello. Irascible. There was a brief and adequate conversation about medicines kept in the top drawer and Meals on Wheels for Tom, locking the top bolts of the gates and door, something about the large Yucca plant in the bathroom – its roots rotting from over-watering seemed to anger her, and trying to mind Tom’s hands when he opened the tins of dog food. I didn’t recommend a bra or knickers drop-off. I hung up. She wouldn’t be visiting. Everything was fine. Goodbye.

‘I’ve my husband at home, you see – Tom,’ Jane said, and giggled. ‘I’m his carer. Me, I care for him, I shouldn’t be in here at all, you know, with all I have going on, we’re two right old codgers.’

‘Oh, that’s a tough gig, Jane,’ I said.

She trailed off.

‘He’s terribly forgetful …’

Margaret Rose sensibly asked if she was getting the Carer’s Allowance but Jane screamed at her to mind her own business. Margaret Rose said she just thought it might help. Jane told me she was getting the allowance, but not to tell anyone, they’d take the eye out of your head that sort, as she dismissed Margaret Rose’s concern with hand swats and smirks. She got new curtains with last year’s Carer’s Allowance, she said. They were lovely. She couldn’t remember what room they were in, but they were yellow, same colour as her tenth birthday dress, when she had her first kiss. No. No. She can’t quite remember her name, but yes, she distinctly remembered her face. Her husband’s name was Tom. But she never wanted to marry Tom.