She loved the fact that even here she was a star. On Sunday evenings they hired a pianist, and she would sing. “The old fools love to be entertained, George, but the pianist has two left hands. Do you remember dear Mr. McReady? What an ear he had, pick up any tune . . . But now, without sheet music, this young man can’t play a note.”

She sang snatches of songs as George tucked her blanket around her swollen legs, and called and waved until they reached the end of the driveway. Then she fell silent.

“Shall we have our usual stroll along the front, work up an appetite, Ma?”

Doris nodded, drawing her blanket closer with delicate pink-nailed fingers. George started singing again, “When you walk through a storm . . .” but Doris didn’t join in.

“Come on, Ma, let’s hear you!”

“No, darling, my voice isn’t what it was.” She put a hand to her head. “Did you bring me a scarf?”

It was high tide, and the spray was blowing onto the promenade. He parked the chair beside a bench and brought out a silk square. Folding it carefully, he handed it to her.

“Thank you, darling. I was asking Matron if we could get a better hairdresser, only I need a trim, but I don’t like the young girl that comes in. Oh, she’s very sweet, but she’s an amateur . . .”

George watched her tie the square over her head, carefully tucking in the hair. “You have to watch these girls, they cut off far too much . . .”

George could see the reflections of her past beauty as she tilted her head coquettishly. “All ship-shape, am I, darling?”

He nodded, and gently pressed a stray curl into place. “All ship-shape. Now, how about singing me ‘Once I had a secret love, that dwelt within the heart of me’ . . . ?”

Sitting in her wheelchair, wrapped in her rug, she swayed to the rhythm, her hands in the air like an old trouper. Being together like this brought the memories flooding back to both of them, and they were laughing too much to finish the song.

“You always like the old ones best. Remember that Elvis medley I used to do?” She sat up straight and played an imaginary piano as she sang, “Love me tender, love me true, all my dreams fulfil; for, my darling, I love you, and I always will . . . That was your Dad’s favorite. I don’t know what he would think about this . . . What does that Moyra think of it all?”

George’s face fell. “Now, Mum, don’t start. Moyra’s a good woman, and she’s stood by me.”

He took a newspaper from the carrier bag. It was folded so that the article about him was on the outside. Managing to grin at her, he asked, “What did you give them this photo for? I hated that school.”