If Ron had a question for Gordon, it tended not to be because he wanted an answer, but to somehow assert his autonomy. A few years back, when Ron had ‘got right into the internet’ and harboured dreams of becoming a late-life local government lobbyist and pamphleteer, he had asked Gordon, who as a newspaper editor might have had some expertise, for advice on desktop publishing units. Gordon, quietly chuffed at being asked—for advice! By his father!—did two days of research before preparing a tailored solution: Apple Macintosh computer, QuarkXpress WYSIWYG software, ImageWriter printer. And Xerox paper. So Ron went out and bought an IBM computer, Publishing Partner software and a second-hand HP printer. He’d got a deal. When Gordon mumbled about having wasted his time on research, Ron said, ‘I did take your advice. I got Xerox paper.’

‘Why are we going back?’ Ron asked now, his eyes on the exit. ‘Hospitals depress me. Too many old people.’

‘You were desperate to visit Mum, remember?’

Ron checked his watch. ‘I want to go!’

‘You’ve just made that clear,’ Gordon said. ‘But I need to fetch Ben, and maybe it would be nice if you said goodbye to Mum.’

‘I have to go back so she can keep bullying me?’

Gordon was so startled by this that he lost the strength to keep pushing the wheelchair.

‘Mum bullies you?’

‘You’ve got no idea. You’re her son.’

‘I’m your son too.’ Gordon got him moving again.

‘You were always on her side. You were never any good on camping trips; it was your brother who took after me.’

Gordon pushed the chair faster. The sooner they could get this finished, the sooner he could breathe.

‘That’s why I want that rug-muncher of yours. I can see her putting up a tent. Does she like engineering projects?’

‘Lou has enough going on.’

‘Chasing little girls around the beach, no doubt. It never stops. Just when they get on top of the dirty old men, it’s the lezzos, hiding in broad daylight.’

Gordon wheeled his father silently back to the room. When Norma saw Ron in the wheelchair, her face fell.

‘Oh no, what’s he done?’

‘He’s fine, just had a stumble,’ Gordon said.

‘You silly man!’

‘I want to leave,’ Ron said.

‘You can’t drive!’ Norma said.

‘Who says I want to drive?’ Ron replied with a look of pure innocence. ‘It’s fifteen minutes until dinner. It’s your son who’s making me late.’

Norma looked reprovingly at Gordon. ‘Why won’t you take the poor man to his dinner? There’s nothing of him.’

Gordon told his mother he would settle her bills, fetch her things, pay the cleaner and do Ron’s laundry.

‘The cleaners need cash, and I don’t know where they live!’ she cried in a panic.

‘That’s all right, I’ll pay them next time they come.’