“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I have all the paperwork in an envelope,” Iris says. “I’ll give it to you at the border.”

“We both know I’m not leaving you at the Swiss border,” I say.

“Ah, Terry, we agreed.”

I ignore her.

“Tell me about all these arrangements you’ve made,” I say, trying to keep my voice level.

“I don’t think we should talk about it now,” says Iris.

“I want to know,” I say.

“Okay, well it’s a private cremation in Zurich and then posted home,” she says. “The funeral director I’ve been in touch with does a lot of work with the clinic and knows exactly what needs to be done, so you’re not to worry about...”

“What address did you give?” I don’t usually interrupt people.

Iris flushes in a most uncharacteristic manner. Looks away from me. “I...I gave them yours. I know I should have asked first, but...I hope you don’t mind.”

I want to say yes. Yes, I do mind. I want to say it in a sharp tone. So there can be no question of my not minding.

But then I notice that my father is relieving himself against a tree in a mass war graveyard.

I run towards him, grateful for the interruption. I wait until he’s finished, then take a bottle of water out of my handbag, tell him to hold his hands out, which he does, like an obedient child. I pour the water over them, dry them with my scarf, spray them with the antibacterial spray I keep in my handbag.

“No sign of your mother?” he asks.

I shake my head. “No. Not yet.”

“Maybe she’s gone to see your brother?” This is unusual. Dad rarely mentions Hugh, and I often wonder if he has forgotten him completely.

“Maybe,” I say, crossing my fingers tightly. Mam never lied to Dad. She always explained everything to him as if he didn’t have dementia. As if he was still here.

I link his arm and we make our way back towards the car, Iris behind us. Suddenly I stop. Twist around to look at Iris. “When did you make the arrangements?” I say.

Iris shakes her head. “Ah, Terry, I don’t want...”

“When?”

“A year ago.” Her voice is small but steady. There is no getting away from the veracity of the statement.

A year. A whole year.

I turn around, continue walking so that Dad has no choice but to continue walking too, doing his best to match my pace.

Iris follows us. I hear the sink of her sticks into the soft ground, the quickening of her breath as she struggles to keep up.

I do not slow.

19

Tired drivers are a major road safety risk.

Driving is a great distraction. Even when one is a nervous driver, as I am. Perhaps especially when one is a nervous driver. Because I have to give everything over to it. Every last bit of my anger, my frustration, my confusion. I have to park all that somewhere and concentrate on the road.