“Do you want to feed one, Mr. Keogh?” Iris says. I don’t think she has any idea how terrified I am. How terrified I was. And for this I am glad. I can cross out horses on my list of things I fear. I’d say I can cross out cows, mules, and donkeys too.

Dad backs away from the proffered apple and I reach for his hand, coax him past the horses. We walk on.

Ahead, there is a bench. Dad makes a beeline for it. Or perhaps for the woman sitting on it. Older than Dad, I’d say. A scarf around her head out of which stiff gray curls poke. A gabardine coat buttoned to her chin. A shopping bag on wheels beside her, her swollen, arthritic hand gripping its handle. Dad smiles when he sees her, sits beside her, and then kisses her. On her mouth.

“Dad!” I pull him away, and the woman laughs, two pink circles blooming on her worn, leathered cheeks. “Don’t worry, love,” she says, reapplying her lipstick. “I haven’t been kissed like that since VE Day in Trafalgar Square. Oh my, that was quite the day, that was.” She leans against Dad, squeezes his arm, and I worry that he’s going to swoop in again, but instead he sits back, puts his arm around her shoulders, and lifts his face to the sun with his eyes closed, looking more relaxed than I’ve seen him in a long time. In fact, they look like a couple. The type of couple who complete each other’s sentences.

“This is my father,” I say. “Eugene Keogh.”

“I’m Winnie,” the old lady supplies. She extends her hand and I shake it.

“I’m Terry,” I say, “and this is Iris.”

“Are you on holiday?” Winnie asks.

“No,” I say at the same time as Iris says, “Yes.”

“I see,” says Winnie, as if our response makes perfect sense.

“The A stands for Albert,” Dad tells Winnie. “Francis Albert Sinatra.”

“I didn’t know that,” says Winnie. “Are you a fan?”

“There was an abattoir at the back of the house in Harold’s Cross.”

Winnie glances at me as Dad rambles on. I smile my apologetic smile, but I think Winnie already understands. “If you girls want to walk on a bit further, I’ll look after Casanova here,” she says. “You need a rest, don’t you?” She nudges Dad gently with her elbow. “Hard work, I expect, trying to keep up with those two fillies.” She smiles at Iris and me. Lowers her voice. “I looked after my brother for years. He was the same.”

“That’s very kind of you,” I say.

“We won’t be long,” Iris says.

“Take your time,” says Winnie. “Me and Eugene will have a fine time here, won’t we, love?” She smiles at Dad as if she has known him for years and is fond of him.

Dad smiles back at her. “We will indeed,” he says.

We set off. When I turn back to look, I see Dad lifting his Frank Sinatra story out of his small stock of memories, dusting it off for Winnie’s benefit.