‘I know what they think about me here.’ Shirley suddenly managed to hold eye contact. ‘I was away too long. I was only married to a Laskin. In a small town, newcomers don’t matter. I might as well not exist.’

Shirley and I understood each other at that moment. Her gaze took in the keys Jack had discovered. ‘This is my home,’ she said again. ‘Part of my home. Where’s my house?’

‘I’ll bring you here whenever you ask,’ Jack promised.

‘Why should I ask?’

I stepped away. Jack’s dinner preparations still occupied most of the bench, but I found room for his kettle and a few cups. When I returned with more tea, Jack’s arms supported his mother’s frail shoulders.

She sobbed. ‘I want to stay, Jacky.’

There was nowhere here for her to sleep. Jack sometimes used a rolled out foam mattress on the floor, or just a sleeping bag on the sofa. Shirley had no choice. Jack wrapped her in a spare blanket and settled her into his ute. I sat beside her and tried to look comforting.

‘Are we going for a drive?’ she asked. Jack’s headlights cut smoky lines through the darkness. ‘It’s late for a picnic.’

Soon, she was asleep, her fingers still clutching that black bag.

‘Is that your laptop?’ I asked Jack.

He nodded grimly. ‘God knows what she was thinking. A computer! She couldn’t even turn it on.’

They were suitably sheepish at Shirley’s home. Care facilities weren’t supposed to lose people. Jack checked that security had been tightened, supervised Shirley being tucked in, and we returned to his ute. I watched him drive. This kind man, who was good at everything he tried. This kind, observant man who might well know the meaning of Caleb’s white smudge.

How long since I felt like this about anyone? Not since those early days with Stephen, first being introduced to Brunton. Maybe not even then. Maybe not since Marco, in Rome.

I’d been eighteen then. Through the kindness of memory and the blur of Skype and distance, likely I was eighteen still to Marco. At eighteen, I’d hoped I was pretty, sometimes even thought I might be. Now I knew all eighteen-year-olds were pretty. No bad eating habits or ugly attitudes have hardened eighteen. But that happens quickly. Ivy was one example, already tanned like leather at twenty-something. Frowning wounded the skin between her eyes and around her lips like scar tissue (though who was I to judge?).

We reached my place. I brought my thoughts back inside Jack’s ute. ‘Will you come in with me?’

In the sitting room Jack accepted more wine. ‘She was a good mother.’

I sat close to him. ‘Dementia could happen to anyone. She raised a good son.’

‘She did it on her own.’

I considered this. ‘You never mention your father.’

‘You don’t either.’