I try hard not to tell her anything. I tell her about the girls, obviously.

Brendan says I could go on Mastermind and have the girls as my specialist subject and I’d come away with the chair, quicker than you could say, I’ve started so I’ll finish. I say I am on a driving holiday with my father and Iris.

She doesn’t comment on the fact that I am on holiday without a change of clothes. Instead, she wants to know if Iris is my best friend.

I say, “Yes,” even though the very fact of our friendship continues to remain a surprise to me. We’re like chocolate and chili, me and Iris.

I do not say that Iris is my only friend. People tend to feel awkward around those who admit to such limitations. I have lots of acquaintances of course. But Iris...well, I don’t think Iris knows how to be an acquaintance.

Iris—quite literally—barged through the front door of my quiet, orderly life. Of course, I was aware of her before she did that, since she was the person who was in charge of the Alzheimer’s Society; the chairperson or the managing director or the CEO; I’m not entirely certain of her title, Iris is not one for such things. She joined as a volunteer after her father passed away. The Society had done a lot for Mr. Armstrong—who was riddled with dementia, as Iris put it—and Iris said it was her turn to do something for them. So she joined, and within a short period of time, she had given up her job as Sister-in-charge at the Coombe Hospital, and was running the place.

The first time I spoke to her, she asked for my help.

No. That’s not true. She didn’t ask. She just happened to be in the kitchenette at the back of the hall where the Alzheimer’s coffee morning takes place twice a week, struggling with the lid of the coffee jar. She bore down on the jar as if the weight of her body might convince the lid to turn, but even though the weight of her body is significant—there isn’t an ounce of fat on her, mind; she just happens to be a strong woman—and even though her hands are enormous—she’d tell you that herself, hands like shovels, she’d say—she couldn’t get her hands to come to grips with the lid of the coffee jar that morning. Of course I didn’t let on that I’d noticed. I busied myself looking for jam. Dad had developed an insistent taste for blackberry jam smeared between two digestive biscuits. And still she struggled, so I reached out my hand and curled my fingers around the jar. I looked straight ahead, at the blackened grout ridging the tiles around the sink. I somehow already knew that Iris was averse to accepting help. I sensed her long fingers slipping away, so I slid the jar down to my end of the counter, and, with my two good hands, I turned the lid and passed it back to her, all the while concentrating on the grout. Perhaps I thought about vinegar and bread soda. How a combination of both might shift the grease. She might have mumbled a brief thanks, which I perhaps acknowledged with a nod. Then I located the jam, checked the best before date, and left the kitchen to the sound of the whistle of the kettle, high-pitched and insistent.