“Least I can do,” says Vera. Her voice is careful. The two women look at each other and I hold my breath because I don’t know what will happen next. If something will be said that can never be unsaid.

But nothing happens. Nothing is said.

Vera puts Iris’s plate on the arm of the enormous armchair—there is no room left on the counter—and sits down.

“Are you not having any breakfast?” I ask her.

“’Course I am,” she says, holding out her cigarette in one hand and her mug of tea in the other. “Tea and a fag. I can be vegetarian too, see?”

We all laugh. It sounds good, that blend of laughs. It sounds like a good and certain thing, our laughter in that small space that smells of burned food and cigarette smoke and long-gone dog.

So afterwards, when Iris stands up and says, “We should go,” it doesn’t sound as bad as it might have. Before the laughing I mean. It just sounds like a casual statement of fact.

We should go. Vera offers to drive us to the car park in Chinatown but Iris declines.

“Thanks but we’ll get a taxi,” she says. My relief is solid and glorious.

We gather our coats and our bags and we head for the door.

“Ta-ra now,” says Vera, stubbing her cigarette out on a rasher rind. “Thanks for popping in,” like we’re regular visitors.

Dad waves and shuffles towards the door. Vera stands beside Iris. “You be careful now,” she says. “No more falling down, yeah?”

“I’ll do my best,” says Iris.

Vera looks at Iris then. Really looks at her. “Your dad did a right good job with you,” she says.

I wonder what Iris will say, but she doesn’t say anything.

She just nods.

“You know where to find me now. If you’re ever in need of some TCP. Or TLC.” Vera does her cackle-laugh.

Iris says, “Goodbye then,” and Vera stops laughing. Iris leans on her sticks and follows Dad out the door.

I bring up the rear. Vera glances at me and I pause in front of her.

In the end, I hug her. I don’t know why. Her slight, bony frame fits easily into the circle of my arms. At first she stiffens, but, strangely for me, I persist. I keep hugging her, and eventually she relents. I feel her body flag, yield. Her shoulders lower and her arms, which were rigid by her sides, loosen. She lifts her hands, flutters them along my arms, allows them to rest briefly on my shoulders.

Vera is hugging me back.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” I say into the scratchy fabric of her headscarf.

When I release her, her face is flushed, as though she has applied two circles of rouge to her cheeks. “You better keep your wits about you,” she says, “if you’re going to keep up with that pair.”

14

Detours should be clearly marked to aid the flow of traffic.