‘It’s ok,’ I say and move forward and hold both his arms at the top, almost under his armpits. All bones and sinew. He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t resist. Margaret lets go and I take his weight. My forehead’s almost resting on the top of his head. He smells of aftershave. Strong and sharp. His hair – what’s left of it – needs a good brush. I have to be patient. Rushing him won’t work. It’s like in films sometimes when a scruffy kid manages to tame a wild horse just by holding its head and standing close and being calm. If you feel it they’ll feel it too. His body relaxes. Margaret hands me the stick and I give it back to him. He takes it. We move forward towards the bed. His arm through my arm like he’s walking me down the aisle. It’s not too far. I look down at the carpet to try and see what he’s seeing. Little purple flecks and diamonds that carry on forever. If you stare long enough it looks like they’re moving. I turn him around. 180 degrees. I ask him, quietly, to bend his knees. I have to repeat it a few times and push at his thighs a little before he gives and then he lets himself fall from too high and the bed bounces when his bum hits it and he breathes out in shock, and the sound vibrates. He looks at me. Straight at me. His eyes are blue and bloodshot and watery. It’s like he wants to tell me something. There’s something he needs me to know. I stand up and let Margaret take my place.

‘Thank you,’ she says.

I can’t hold her gaze for long. She sits down and takes his hand and strokes it. She moves closer so their shoulders are touching. He doesn’t look at her and she doesn’t seem to expect anything more. Her skirt has ridden up to her knees exposing the top of her pop-socks. Too orange. The material’s cutting into her calf. A line of mottled blue skin exposed to the air.

‘Stay here for as long as you need,’ I say, ‘just press the buzzer and someone will come to fetch you for tea and biscuits.’