The next morning the pilot knocked gently at the door and poked his head inside. Did I want to come along? Schwind would be coming too. They could take me all the way to Sydney, or drop me off in Rock Harbour. No? He waved and gently closed the door. I heard the three of them on the stairs, and then on the stairs down to the beach; they did not speak and they trod lightly. They’re stealing away, I thought, but then I told myself that was a dumb idea. Then the engine roared to life, the rotor blades buzzed and rattled, the helicopter took off, grew quieter then louder again, as if circling around the beach and the house – and flew away. It had startled the birds; they flitted about, flapped their wings, warbled and cawed excitedly.

When at ten, Irene was still not up, I listened at her door, heard nothing, knocked, again heard nothing, and went in. It didn’t just smell of sickness. It stank of excrement and urine despite the open window – a strong, pungent smell. Irene was lying in bed with her eyes open and looked at me, ashamed.

“Go. I’ll get up in a minute. I just feel a little weak.”

“Should I run a bath? Or do you want a shower?”

She started crying. “It’s never happened before. I wanted to get up and go to the bathroom, but I couldn’t, and I was stuck lying down and I couldn’t hold it.”

“I’ll get you in just a minute.” I went into the bathroom, ran the tap, poured bath oil into the water, carefully adjusting the temperature and the amount of foam. I waited for the bath to fill up. As a child, I liked having a bath; the tub was fed from a boiler on a stove, and I would flick water against the hot boiler and listen to it hiss. For decades, I’ve only taken showers. Having a bath is a waste of time. But Irene had time, and it would do her good to lie in the bath after her shower until I had her bed ready. We had time – we now had all the time in the world.

I picked her up; she laid an arm around my shoulder and let herself be half-carried, half-led to the bathroom. I undressed her in front of the shower and I washed her under the shower as she held fast to the handle. I had not changed my children and I had no idea how stubbornly dried-on excrement sticks to the skin. Once I’d cleaned Irene up, I lifted her into the tub. She kept her eyes closed throughout, and didn’t say a word. I did not say anything either. I concentrated on getting her clean and keeping myself dry. I got wet anyway.