Now I help Dad out of his clothes, into his pajamas, brush his dentures and put them into a glass of water out of his reach, tuck him into bed, kiss him goodnight. None of it bothers me, and when I think of that weeping woman, she seems like a stranger to me.

I sit on my bed and take the monitor out of the box. There are instructions, but I don’t need to read them. I remember my way around a baby monitor. Even after all these years. I plug it in, put the detachable bit into my handbag, and check Dad before I leave. In sleep, he looks peaceful. As though his brain is not knotted with plaque. He smiles in his sleep, mumbles something, and I wonder if he is dreaming, and if his dreams are eroded by dementia or is there some clarity there? Some respite?

I have to ask Jacques which way is west. He doesn’t smile indulgently or say something derogatory about women and their orienteering skills or sense of direction. Instead, he walks through the French doors and points to a stone wall running along the edge of the lawn, inset in the middle of which is a small blue door with peeling paint that I imagine Jacques is going to sand and repaint when he gets the time. “Go through the door and turn to your right,” says Jacques. “And don’t worry about your father,” he adds. “I will be in the office so if he comes down the stairs, I will see him.”

“You work long hours,” I say.

“I am the night manager,” Jacques says, without a trace of irony.

I open the little door in the wall and duck my head before I walk through it. And now I’m in a little garden, lit silver by the moon glancing through the branches of the apple trees that line the edges of the garden, like sentries. I take off my sandals and walk on the grass beside the gravel path that wends its way past rows of lavender, thyme, rosemary, wild garlic, honeysuckle, jasmine... I don’t recognize all of them, but their scents drift towards me as if they recognize me. Between my toes, blades of grass poke, soft and lush.

Iris is lying on one of two sun-loungers at the top of the garden. Between them, a wrought-iron table with our wine glasses and the remains of the bottle. I perch on the edge of the other lounger, testing its ability to accommodate me, which it does without complaint.

“These are a treat,” I say, stretching out. “I thought there was only a bench?”

“There is,” says Iris. “Behind me. But then Jacques appeared and hauled these two beauties out of the shed over there.”

“Is there nothing he can’t do?”

“He’s quite the Jacques-of-all-trades all right,” says Iris, rummaging in her bag. She takes out a handmade cigarette and a box of matches.

“I can’t believe you’re smoking again.”