‘Fourteen sleeps till Christmas.’ She holds up four fingers.

‘You might need a few more fingers,’ Dad says. ‘You’ll want this fellow to join in, for a start.’ He uncurls her thumb.

It would’ve been a more touching scene if it weren’t for the muffled arguing we could hear coming from the kitchen. I reckon Abby is being snarky on purpose, dreaming up a reason to fight with Mark so she can keep him at arm’s length, make him a minor but distracting villain, in order to not spill the beans. Maybe she doesn’t even see what she’s doing, but to me it’s plain as day. And I think she’s making a mistake. We need him.

For Sarah’s sake, Dad and I keep up a stream of banter until Dad can tolerate it no longer. He lifts Sarah off his lap and onto the couch, and walks out of the room. I can’t hear what he says but it does the job, because a few minutes later Abby, Mark and Dad are in the room with us, all jutting chins and dark expressions.

In times of stress – Mum dying, Grandma and Grandpa dying, Abby’s school formal, me getting into trouble (shoplifting, age thirteen; straight Cs, fourteen; smoking at school, fifteen), best-dog-ever Sooty running away – we revert to type. Abby becomes efficient and terse, the controller. Dad becomes morose, cross and, finally, the take-charge guy – which is when he and Abby lock horns. Mark’s all cool facts and debate, except when he’s charming people, in which case he’s slick as a seal. You’ve never met a man who’s calmer under pressure – shame he wasn’t in the car with us. My choice is to loosen things up and take the heat out of the room.

I ask Abby for a pack of cards.

‘I’ll get them,’ Mark says.

‘I will.’ Abby walks out of the room.

‘You’ve gotta make her pull her weight, man,’ I say. ‘The woman doesn’t lift a finger around here.’ Mark and Dad laugh.

Abby returns with the cards and a plate of crackers, cheese cubes and pickles. On her next entry, she carries a box of wine, cups, and some orange cordial for Sarah.

‘Okay.’ I stand in the centre of the room and fan the cards out. ‘Prepare to witness some mind-blowing magic. Young lady,’ I say to Sarah, ‘pick a card, any card.’

She does, and shows it to me.

‘My fault.’ I whisper a few instructions to her. ‘Here we go. Pick a card.’

She doesn’t show me her card this time, but announces it’s the number five, which is how old she is until February, when she’ll be six, and says I’ve done a good trick.

‘Sarah, sweetheart,’ Abby says.

I hold up my hand. ‘Sarah’s shown she’s beyond card selection. She’s ready to be a magician’s assistant. Wait here. Don’t move.’

I grab a tea towel from the kitchen and tie it around her waist, explaining that something more than undies and a t-shirt is called for on stage, and a lairy display of Flags of the World around her middle is just the ticket.