Ben realised that by threatening to get behind the wheel of a car, Grandpa could make Dad do whatever he wanted. Grandpa was still the boss, more than ever now that he was convinced he was a prisoner.

Over the next fortnight, Gordon had had to bring Grandpa every day, as much to stop him finding his way there himself as to give him and Grandma time together.

As Ben drove now, his dad was chewing the insides of his cheeks in the back seat. Gordon was usually an adequate driving instructor, but he got nervous when Grandpa was also in the car.

‘Dad, why were you with Tony?’ Gordon asked.

‘Your father was a terrible driver at your age,’ Grandpa told Ben brightly. ‘Hopeless! He failed his test three times before his mother organised paid lessons. The instructor was a defrocked priest. Whisky blossom as red as his beard. He became enraged at Gordon’s driving. He got out and slammed his door so hard that the glass pane dropped through the cavity and shattered. Remember that, Gordon?’

‘I just want to know what you were up to with a man you’ve despised for forty years.’

‘Wouldn’t you like to know? Change lanes here, son!’

‘No, it’s a solid white line,’ Gordon said.

‘Change here, I said!’

Confused, Ben obeyed his grandfather.

‘How many more hours’ driving do you need before you get your license?’ Grandpa asked.

‘Another sixty-five.’

‘At this rate, you’ll be an old man before you qualify.’ Grandpa looked into the rear-view mirror. ‘This must be very inconvenient for you, Gordon. You’d be better off leaving the car with me.’

Gordon gave a weary sigh and didn’t ask Grandpa again about Tony Eastaugh.

The patients in the rehab unit were older than in orthopaedic. Grandma wore her own clothes instead of a hospital gown, which cheered Ben a little. When they arrived, she was primed for a monologue on one of her favourite themes.

‘All Chinese,’ she broadcast into the hallway. Gordon got up and shut her door. ‘The surgeon, the anaesthetist, the emergency doctors, the nurses—and, what you’d never guess, also the physio and the occupational therapist!’

‘Mum, you can’t say that,’ Gordon murmured.

Grandpa was in an armchair beside Norma’s bed, reading the Saturday Herald.

‘Oh, all right.’ Norma waved a dismissive hand at her moralising son. ‘They’re all Eurasian. That better?’

‘How are you feeling, Gran?’

Gordon had once told Ben he would like him to referee all the arguments in their family. And once he’d done that, fix the Middle East.

‘Awful, my love.’ Grandma tried to push herself up on her pillows. ‘Just awful. Bored out of my brain.’

‘Is there anything we can do?’ Ben asked.