“You lookin’ for the john, lovie?”

Dad turns, studies Vera as though she’s some exotic specimen in the Natural History Museum. “Pardon?” he says.

“The lav,” says Vera. “The bog. The can. The throne?”

Dad looks at me.

“The toilet,” I say. “Are you looking for the toilet?”

“Oh, right. Yes. Indeed,” he says.

“Come with me, dearie. I’ll show you where to lay your ‘hat,” says Vera, taking Dad’s arm and leading him away. I brace myself for the cacophonous barks of Coco Chanel, but there is no sound other than Vera, explaining the sometimes fickle nature of the pull-chain flush mechanism.

When she returns, she eyes the pair of us, still standing at the door. “You best sit down, Iris,” she says. “You look done in.” She points to the armchair. It’s a faded red leatherette that bare legs would stick to on a hot day. Stuffing spills from the arms where a large glass ashtray overflows with cigarette butts, the filters stained lipstick red.

Iris sits down and Vera lifts the ashtray off the arm of the chair, hands it to me. “Fetch us the first aid kit, would you love?” she says to me, nodding towards a plastic Tesco bag on one of the white plastic chairs.

The bag is heavy and makes a sound like broken glass when I lift it. Vera perches on the arm of the chair and pushes Iris’s hair off her forehead. Iris stares at the television as if it’s on.

“I’m going to need the TCP, cotton wool, tweezers, and bandages,” says Vera, inspecting the gash on Iris’s forehead. I rummage inside the bag and am surprised to find everything Vera has asked for. There is also a fine concoction of pharmaceuticals and I’m certain not all of them are what one might find in a pharmacy.

Cannabis resin.

I’m pretty sure that’s what it is.

There was a talk at the girls’ school years ago. A drug-awareness presentation. We were shown photographs of all different kinds of substances.

I take what I need out of the bag, set them beside Vera on the arm of the chair.

“Can you get me a bowl of warm water too?” Vera says, examining Iris’s knee through the rip in her jumpsuit.

The water that comes out of the tap has a brownish tinge.

“I’m gonna need some ice cubes too, love,” Vera says.

“Do you have ice cubes?” I ask. I can’t see a freezer in the kitchen.

“In the top of the fridge, lovie. Can’t make a martini-slushy without ’em, can I?”

The fridge light doesn’t come on when I open the door, but even in the dark, it’s clear that it hasn’t been the beneficiary of warm, sudsy water in quite some time. I fight a sudden and not uncommon urge to remove the cans of lager, the Easi Singles, the two slices of processed ham on a plate, their edges curling, and scrub the living daylights out of the thing.