‘Oh, and this too,’ said the man. He held out a small envelope with Bette’s name and address typed on the front. I hesitated. He said, ‘You are Hessel’s grandkid, right?’ I nodded. How did people know these things? ‘Take that home for Bette then, eh? Save her a trip.’

On the street outside the post office I filed Bette’s envelope in my pocket then sat down on a bench and looked at my package. The brown paper was folded with hospital corners around the edges. Its neatness was comforting. I wouldn’t open it yet. I wouldn’t reduce it to disordered torn paper and bent cardboard. I wouldn’t do any of that until the right time, after dinner, when I could be alone in the little bedroom and then go straight to bed and curl up.

I looked up to see Basil crossing the street. He was waving wildly at the traffic to stay where it was while he dodged the small trickle, his other hand full of shopping bags. He hadn’t seen me. I peered out and watched him duck back and forth, waving an overly theatrical g’day to everyone who had to slow down for him. He was already making an impression on the world, this long and lanky fifteen-year-old wannabe-actor, starting with every single driver on this street.

Basil was great. The thought popped into my mind unbidden, but it was true. He was great. He was brilliant and funny and bold and gorgeous . . .

Basil arrived on the footpath in front of me, puffing, cars honking and revving behind him, drivers either laughing or cursing. Someone leaned out a car window and yelled, ‘Onya Basil,’ as they drove away.

‘You do like to make an entrance,’ I said.

Basil jumped. ‘Oh, hey,’ he said, and he stepped back on one foot and moved the bags around a little behind him. Then he gestured at the packages in my lap. ‘What you got there?’ he said, and I put my head to the side and looked from the chemist bag and the brown paper package in my lap back up to Basil.

‘From how weird you’re being about those bags, it seems like I should be asking you the same thing.’

Basil held up his shopping bags. ‘What, all this?’ he said. ‘Shopping. I am a reconstructed man, don’t you know? I’m an absolute gun at groceries. No shame here. Okay, your turn.’

‘Well, Basil, are you talking about my new postal-order dictionary of medical terminology,’ I said, lifting the brown paper package, feigning heaviness. ‘Or the maxipads?’ And I held them up and waggled them right in front of his face.

‘You can’t shock me,’ he said. ‘It won’t work. I’m the son of a nurse. Made of tough stuff.’

We smiled at each other, but after a moment it seemed we had run out of things to say. ‘Well, I’d better . . .’ I said, jerking my thumb back at the doctor’s office. ‘We’re waiting to see Geraldine.’