“You’d be more than welcome,” says Hugh. “I’ve been telling you that for years.” It’s true, he has. But I sort of suspect—and I know this sounds uncharitable—that he invites me because he knows I’ll never come.

“You’re right, Hugh,” I say suddenly. “We shouldn’t always expect you to do all the visiting. I’ll look up flights when I get home.”

“Did you win the pools?” Hugh says.

“I’ve a bit put by.” I don’t mention the money Mam left me. The running away from home account.

Although I’m sure she left him exactly the same amount.

She would have called it something else.

“When are you bringing him back?”

“Well, I, let’s see, today is...”

“Thursday,” Hugh fills in. My blood feels cold in my veins, and goose bumps break out on my arms. I know it’s Thursday. Of course it’s Thursday. Which is the day before Friday, which is Iris’s appointment with the doctor in Zurich. And two days before Saturday, which is Iris’s appointment at the clinic.

I know all that.

But at the same time, I seem to have lost all sense of time. Like we’re someplace else, the three of us, where time doesn’t matter.

Except it does. I can’t afford to forget that. “Terry?” Hugh says. “You still there?”

“Yes, yes, I...do you want to talk to Dad?” I say.

“I suppose so,” he says.

“You’re a good son,” I tell him.

“You sound like Mam.”

“Thank you.” I hand the phone to Dad. “It’s Hugh,” I say.

“Hello?” Dad says, and I clench my muscles, willing him to know his son. “Hugh? Oh yes, indeed, how good of you to call.” Which is his telephone voice. The impeccably polite voice he uses when he doesn’t know someone but—crucially—knows he should know.

That’s something, isn’t it?

That he knows he should know. That means something. Doesn’t it?

Jacques drives our car to the front of the castle. He gets out, opens the boot, and lifts our bags into it. Then he shakes Dad’s hand, kisses Iris on both cheeks, and hands me an impeccably packed picnic.

“The dining hours in France can be a little...rigid,” he says.

“No shit, Sherlock,” says Iris.

“You’re very kind,” I tell him.

“Come on,” says Dad, shuffling towards the car. “I told your mother we wouldn’t be late.”

It’s only after I’ve driven several kilometers, I realize I haven’t dwelled on the fact that I’m driving on the right-hand side of the road. And even that thought is worthy of note because I’m not calling it the wrong side of the road.

I am acclimatizing.

The thought makes me wish the car was a convertible and I could pull the roof down and drive with the French sunshine pooling along my bare arms and the French wind in my hair (I might even release my ponytail) and a French song in my ears. Something soft and sweet. A love song maybe. I turn on the radio and Johnny Logan is singing “What’s Another Year?” and Iris says, “Turn it up,” being a huge, unashamed Eurovision fan, so I turn it up, and even Dad knows the words so I pull the windows down and the three of us belt it out and even though it’s a sad song, it sounds joyful, the way we sing it. I don’t know why. It could be the volume of our voices. I’m surprised Dad doesn’t complain, but he doesn’t. Or the fact that we’re all singing together. In unison. Something powerful about that, I realize.