“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you outta the rain, eh? You hop in the front, all right? Keep me company, yeah?” She pats the seat. “I’d say you was a right looker in your day, weren’t ya? Your Terry’s cut right out of you, ain’t she? She got your big blue eyes, didn’t she, eh?”

Her tone is soothing, and Dad smiles through his tears and sits in the car. I look towards the theater. “I’ll be back in a tick,” I tell Dad.

“Best take this,” says Vera, pushing the umbrella into my hands.

The rain beats like fists against the flimsy umbrella, which somehow endures. I stop in front of Iris, who is still under the awning.

“Iris, I am so sorry. I was...”

“What on earth were you thinking?” Iris says to me.

“I...” What was I thinking? “I thought maybe...you’d like to see her. Just once. You know?”

Iris shakes her head. “This isn’t an episode of The Brady Bunch, Terry. Where we discover that it was all just one big misunderstanding before we kiss and make up and promise to ring every Sunday and visit every bloody Christmas.”

“I know. I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have phoned her.”

“How did you even...” Iris begins. Then she shakes her head. “No. Forget it. It doesn’t matter.” The blood on her face has dried in long, crooked trails and her hair is plastered against her head.

“Dad’s in Vera’s car.”

“I know.”

“I’ll have to get in with him.” There’s no way Dad will get out unless it stops raining, and the rain looks like it’s down for the night.

“Nothing is turning out the way I wanted it to,” she says, almost to herself.

I couldn’t feel worse.

“Is you comin’ or goin’?” Vera shouts at us from her car. I look at Iris, who says nothing. I’d prefer if she was angry with me. There is something defeated about her silence. Something beaten. And the blood isn’t helping. It’s all down the front of her beautiful jumpsuit. If I was at home, I’d be well able to get those stains out. A thorough scrub in cold, salted water, then smear it with Vanish stain stick followed by a short, hot wash. I’d have to check the label, obviously.

The material looks silky, but I’m guessing a clever synthetic mix that’d be well able to withstand a high temperature.

And the rip at the knee. It could be sewn up I’d say. Even though the rip is not along a seam, more’s the pity.

Odd as it seems, these are the thoughts that soothe, and it is with reluctance that I persuade myself from the laundry room in my head, where I am seldom vanquished. I look at Iris. “I’m really sorry,” I say.

“I know,” she says.

“Come on,” I say, holding the umbrella over her head and pulling her arm around my neck. We walk slowly towards Vera’s car. I open the back door and help Iris inside. I close the door and walk around the back of the car.