Pop was there, in his concrete desert, urging the horses on, checking his dad with his swollen legs and red face and lack of breath, saying, This time tomorrow, I reckon, as his dad (who knew he’d never make it), replied, That’s it, son, keep going.

Pop said to Ernie, ‘Can’t you hear the voice?’

Ernie had no idea what he was talking about. The dementia, no doubt.

‘He’s waitin’ for us, Ern. He’s saying, Keep the faith, son.’

As the cart and horse continued, over roads that were no longer roads, bogging in sand, as the horses strained, and managed to get free.

‘The old man?’ Ernie asked.

‘No,’ Pop replied. ‘Can’t you see? The son.’

Since the government weren’t going to help, we, the inhabitants of Lanark Avenue, had decided to do it ourselves. So Peter and Pop had knocked out a dividing wall, removed the shower screen and peeled back the original tiles. We’d all helped barrow the debris out the door, down the drive, into a skip. Now we were left with blank walls, and twelve boxes of tiles, ready to be stuck on, little plastic toothpicks to get the spacing right. Peter had started at the bottom. This didn’t seem right. Surely any imperfection would be amplified as you worked up? And it was. What had started slightly out of plumb had become very obvious. He’d stopped, stood back, squinted (apparently this helped) and said, ‘Nothin’ you could actually notice.’

Although you could.

So we continued. I smeared the adhesive, handed him the tiles and he worked his way up, saying, ‘I reckon it’s gonna look great.’

I couldn’t argue. Providence came in, sniffed around, licked the walls and left. Val, saying, ‘Look at this: plenty of room for the wheelchair.’

The rubbish had been removed and the tiles and paint and new shower fittings delivered. Peter had said to Val, We could get the whole place lookin’ nice.

How?

Bita paint, new carpet. You don’t have to spend a lot of money.

She’d shaken her head, Carpet’s got a coupla years in it yet.

The rows were getting wonkier. ‘You’ll be twenty degrees off at the top,’ I told Peter. ‘How you gonna finish it then?’

‘Cut a few to size.’

‘Should we just take these off, start again?’

‘I’m not startin’ again.’ He showed me his claggy hands, glue and grout under his long fingernails. ‘Doug doesn’t really think there’s a reef?’

‘Course he does.’

He laid another tile. ‘You believe?’

‘I thought by the time he finds the spot, nothin’ there, he’ll say, Fair enough, gave it a go.’

‘But if he …?’ But then he just shrugged. ‘I’m lookin’ forward to camping out. It’s been years, remember?’