What’s another year to someone who’s lost everything that they own? What’s another year to someone who’s getting used to being alone?

Iris air-guitars, Dad claps along, out of time, and I stick my arm out of the car window and punch the air with my fist; a sort of victory punch.

I have no idea why. I haven’t won anything, there is no victory, but there is so much energy in the car at that moment. So much life.

And where there is life, there is hope. My mother always said that.

22

Drivers are expected to have the ability to foresee and react to hazards.

The landscape is not as flat anymore, the fields rolling in waves now towards the horizon and small pockets of dense forest strewn here and there. In the distance, a faint outline of what must be the foothills of the Vosges. The day is glorious, as if summer has nudged spring aside, taken over.

I’m on the lookout for a nice spot to stop and have our picnic lunch when Dad taps my shoulder. “Is it my turn to drive now?” I look at him in the rearview mirror. He looks so hopeful.

“Soon, Dad.”

“You said that the last time.” Did I? Probably.

“I’ve never had an accident in my life,” says Dad.

“It’s a really straight road, Terry,” pipes up Iris.

“Thirty-three years’ no claims bonus,” Dad adds.

We are on a country road, and the last vehicle we saw was a moped. I shake my head. No. I shouldn’t even consider it.

He was always such a careful driver. He has dementia.

It’s like riding a bicycle, you never forget. He has dementia.

Up ahead, there’s a turn into what looks like a factory, long closed down, surrounded by a wide, flat car park, troubled only by moss.

It looks like someplace safe. And quiet.

“All right,” I say, pulling in to the side of the road. “But just for a minute, okay?”

Dad doesn’t answer. Instead, he flings open the passenger door and gets out of the car. Already, he’s at my door, rapping smartly on the window. I look at Iris. “You better keep your hand on the hand brake. Just in case,” I tell her.

“I can’t believe you’re letting him drive,” says Iris.

“You were the one encouraging him,” I say, stung.

“Yes, but I didn’t think you’d actually let him. He has dementia, Terry,” Iris says.

“No shit, Sherlock,” I tell her.

Dad opens the driver’s door, holds it while I get out before arranging himself behind the wheel, pushing the lever to slide the seat forward a little, adjusting the mirrors, pulling the gear stick from side to side, checking that it’s in neutral.

All the things he used to do. The familiarity of his routine. He remembers.

We will not be the victims of a road-traffic accident in France.

Nor will we unwittingly cause others to be the victims of a road-traffic accident in France. The road is straight. And deserted. And he remembers. I climb into the back. Dad puts the car in first gear, indicates, checks his mirror and his blind spot, and pulls out onto the empty road.