I have done the maths and I am certain we have time.

After Iris is out of the shower, I put Dad in the bathroom with his electric shaver. He loves shaving. Sometimes he does it twice a day. I think it’s because it’s something he remembers how to do. The ritual of it. It’s entrenched in his memory, buried deeper than the disease can reach.

A dig in the grave. That’s what he calls a shave. I gather my new wardrobe, pack everything into Dad’s suitcase.

Iris is sitting on the roof terrace. She has changed into her tiger-print harem pants and a bright yellow T-shirt. I should probably do the same. My clothes smell of Vera’s flat; cigarette smoke and Coco Chanel.

Iris sits in the deck chair, her long legs elevated on a stool. Her hair darkens to nearly black when it is wet. She looks like her old self. She looks great.

The cramped roof terrace looks more like The Secret Garden, with Iris in it.

“Have you got sunblock on?” I say.

“You’re mammying me,” she says.

“Occupational hazard,” I say.

I sit beside her. “So. What are you up to?”

“Just smelling the roses,” Iris says.

“How’s your ankle?”

“Grand.”

“Do you want me to change the dressing on your forehead?” I ask. “And I’m not mammying you by the way. It’s just, you know, important that you keep it clean.”

“Thanks,” says Iris. “I appreciate your help by the way. I don’t know if I said that. I was too busy being mad. About falling in the first place. And then Vera rocking up.”

“Are you still mad with me? About Vera?”

Iris considers the question before she says, “No.” So I know she means it.

I look at my watch. “Do you want help?” I ask. “Packing?”

“There’s no hurry,” she says. “The ferry’s not until half seven this evening.”

“I thought we’d go earlier.”

“We’ll just be hanging around the port.”

“I thought we could be tourists for a bit.”

Iris shakes her head. “I just want to get to where I’m going without any more distractions.”

“I know, but have you ever seen the white cliffs at Dover?”

“We’ll see them from the boat.”

“That wouldn’t be the same,” I say.

“Yes, but what about my ankle?” Iris counters, pulling up her trouser leg and pointing at the swelling there, with a sort of triumphant flourish.

“You can use your sticks,” I say.

“But my wrists!”

“You said they were grand, remember?”

This feels low. Using Iris’s positivity against her. Still, it’s effective because I feel Iris hesitate.

“Okay, then, if you really want to.” She sighs and allows herself to look tired, but I don’t take the bait.

Instead, I jump up and say, “Great. I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes.”

So here we are, in the car, driving towards the white cliffs of Dover and looking like three ordinary people, notwithstanding Dad’s propensity to take his teeth out and wave them at overtaking cars.