Kelly’s drive off the first tee sailed long and true. Whether the whistles from God’s waiting room were in praise of her shot or her tartan skirt was immaterial. She curtseyed to the men hovering about like cows at milking time, jumped into the cart beside Norma, and they sped off. She imagined rheumy eyes lingering nostalgically.

‘I know I’ve said it before, but thank you so much for all this,’ Kelly said. ‘It’s such a special place. It’s kept me sane.’

‘Soon I’ll be on the course again,’ Norma said. ‘I have an appointment with Dr Kim on Friday. He’s Korean. He was telling me he’s a member at Royal Ocean City, which was quite an eye-opener. I didn’t know they let them in.’

‘Orthopaedic surgeons?’

‘Stop it, you know what I mean.’ Did it make Norma less racist to utter these comments while not caring about, or even seeing, Kelly’s own colour? Long ago, way back at her wedding, Kelly had heard Norma blow her top at one of her friends in ‘defence’ of Kelly. ‘She’s not Indian!’ Norma had cried indignantly. ‘She’s Anglo-Indian!’ Kelly and Gordon had shared the joke for years. Where did you even start?

While Norma spun a lazy Susan of conversation through her favourite subjects—her time in the hospital, doctors and medicine, Asians, golf clubs, Ron—Kelly let her mind drift. If she could switch off, she’d enjoy the afternoon. Norma would not be able to play for months, and Kelly wondered if it was cruel to invite her to the club, like forcing a dog to sit at the window to watch people eat, but Norma had accepted with a Uriah Heepish gratitude that anyone would invite her out for anything.