“What about dessert?” Iris says.

“Hang on,” I say, reaching my hand to the bottom of the basket. “Oh, he’s put in half a cherry cake, and...”

Dad tilts his head towards the open window, looks up, perhaps following the white plume of the plane’s jet stream.

“It’s so weird,” says Iris. “I love cherry cake, but I hate cherries.”

“That is weird,” I say.

“What else?” she says.

“Apples. They smell so sweet. Oh, and a punnet of strawberries you’ll be delighted to hear...”

When I look up, alerted by the swerve of the car leaving the track and the sound of the loose stones at the edge of the road crunching beneath the wheels, we are already in the shadow of the tree, and before I have time to do anything, I am flung against the passenger door as Dad jerks the steering wheel at the same time as Iris yanks at the hand brake. The front of the car buckles against the tree trunk and we judder to a stop as the bonnet flies open and smoke pours out.

“Get out, get out,” I shout. “Everybody get out. The car’s on fire.” I release the catch on Dad’s seat belt and he makes a grab for the door handle, scrambles out.

“Come on,” I yell at Iris, who hasn’t moved.

“Don’t worry, the car isn’t on fire,” says Iris, pointing at the bonnet. I look again and am relieved to see that smoke is not in fact pouring out of it. But it’s true to say there are tendrils of smoke.

“Not yet,” I say. “Move.”

“I’m sorry, Terry, but I don’t think I can,” says Iris.

“Why not?”

“I may have overdone it in the scratcher last night. With Jacques-of-all-trades, I mean. Turns out he can also...”

“All right, all right, I’ll come around and help you.” I fling open my door and run around to Iris’s side. She looks at me apologetically.

“My legs have seized up,” she says.

I bend and hook her arm around my neck. “If I pull you up, can you stand?” I ask her.

“I’ll only know when you pull me up,” she says.

“Okay, hold on to me.” I haul her into a standing position, lean her against the side of the car. “Well?” I say.

“My feet are numb,” she says. “I don’t think I can walk without falling.”

“Is it because of the car crashing?” I ask.

Iris shakes her head. “No, it just happens sometimes. If I overdo things.”

I look behind me. Dad is sitting on the stump of a tree at the bank of the lake, in a patch of shade. He looks small and frail and afraid. He does not offer to help me with Iris, who I half drag, half carry to the bank, lower her down.

I straighten, panting. “Sorry,” she says.

“Next time you have sex, you might consider the missionary position,” I say.

“What are we doing here?” says Dad.