Gill unlocks the craft room. All her keys jangle as she tries to find the right one. Inside it smells like paint and new carpet. The walls are spotlessly white. She opens a window and a rush of fresh air cuts through the chemical smell. I can see the staff car park, the bus stop, the pink petals from the blossom trees clogging the drains along the main road. She puts her pile of papers and pens down on the metal table.

‘We haven’t used it much yet,’ she says, ‘but the relatives like to know we offer this kind of thing. And now you’re here…’

It makes me feel a bit sick, the thought of her relying on me. Now I’m here I want to run in the other direction.

‘You’ll mainly be watching today of course, helping record what they say. Seeing how we do things. We’ll be trying to work on their memory books and maybe gather some ideas for displays.’

I look at the pin board on the wall, half full of grainy photocopied images: an old-fashioned car, a church with the steeple cut off half way down, a group of women in 1950s dresses standing on a promenade. The photos are cut out and backed on coloured paper. All the stencilled letters are wonky.

‘Ok, Sana?’ she says.

‘Fine.’

‘You’ll get the hang of things in no time.’ She hands me a packet of cheap custard creams and a paper plate. ‘Open these and I’ll go and fetch the group.’

There’s an empty notebook in front of my seat. And a pen. I didn’t think about this when I applied. I thought about all the physical stuff. The hygiene training and everything. I prepared myself. Gill probably thinks she’s easing me in gently. Just a little spot of writing.

I can hear them coming down the corridor. I lean on the table and try to look natural. Maybe Ewan was right. If I was really cut out for this I wouldn’t be so scared.

‘Sana, help Albert into his chair, will you?’ Gill says.

She walks him in – her arm through his, and all the others follow on behind. It feels a bit formal. Like a procession. I’m so nervous I want to laugh. Nobody’s talking. I take his arm and he smiles and pulls me in too close. His waistcoat is covered in tiny little dots. I steer him slowly round the top end of the table to the chair furthest from the door. He takes my hand and kisses it, like an actor in a film.

‘Sana, this is Malcolm, Tony and May. May’s still feeling a little unsettled, aren’t you, love?’