‘And then he collapsed, and Dad said, Leave Doug alone, and Doug said, Na, it’s okay, Ossie.’

I sat up. It would’ve been nice, if it had happened like this.

I noticed Pop come out of the Sutherland wing, stand with the woman who had shown us around, and work his chin in his hand, like he always did before making an important decision. ‘It looks very nice, Ms Smith,’ I said.

‘Call me Fiona, Mr Currie … Doug.’

I studied the woman’s face, her work tunic, with its woven St Margaret’s logo.

‘If I need to share a room, I wouldn’t want a Paki.’

‘You’re so wrong,’ Vicky said.

‘They have this terrible habit of passing wind.’

It’d been Pop’s idea. He’d pulled me aside and said, ‘What you doin’ Saturday?’

‘Studying.’

‘Got an hour spare?’

‘I s’pose. What’s up?’

‘I wanna get your opinion on something.’

‘What?’

But he’d just tapped his nose. Then, on our way, he’d said, ‘A nursing home.’

This I didn’t get. He was a hater of nursing homes. Of order, made beds, people in tunics with woven logos. ‘But …’

‘Just to have a look. Can’t a man be curious?’

Vicky had said, ‘You don’t wanna go in one of those places, Doug.’

‘Didn’t say I was gonna.’

It had ended there. We’d arrived, met Fiona or whatever her name was, had a tour of the Bradman wing, before Pop went on without us.

Vicky watched the woman and said, ‘We have bingo at five every night, Doug. Oh, I like a bita bingo. And the ladies have Feres in to set their hair. Feres, eh? Bit of a poof, isn’t he? Yes, of course, but the ladies like that. Joyrene comes once a month with a selection of frocks, but we can arrange for some gentlemen’s wear.’

‘She’s not saying that,’ I said. ‘She’s saying, You come live with us, Doug, gis yer pension, meat and three veg every day. How’s that sound?’

‘What’s he thinking?’

‘I dunno.’ I really didn’t. Death was better than Doonican (sorry, Ern). Three o’clock charades (she’d already told us about them). Four o’clock bowls. ‘She’s saying, None of us are getting any younger, Doug.’

We watched them talk. Or, her talk and him listen.

‘I can remember,’ Vicky said. ‘His back giving way, and us rolling on the lawn.’

‘He used to like the races.’

‘And us running through the sprinkler, with the clover and the bees and the stings and the Condy’s crystals.’

We could hear the old girl; like a lawnmower.

‘Pity it’s gotta come to this, eh, Clem?’

‘It doesn’t.’

‘But it does. One day you’re talking …’