5.
A small Kia is parked on the drive outside the bungalow. I’ll go in and introduce myself in a minute. Or maybe it’s a carer I already know. I need to catch the five o’clock news first. Someone’s been setting fire to celebrities’ cars and the police have promised an update.
The carer emerges as I’m getting out the car. She puts the front door key into the little safe box on the wall and only as she turns around does she notice me. She waves and I wave back.
‘Hi, I’m Robin. The son.’
‘Hi,’ she says. ‘Can you move back?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Your car. I won’t get round you.’
‘Sorry. Yes.’ I get back in, reverse, and she speeds off.
Not the best start, but not my fault. From what I can work out, the carers’ shifts are six hours’ pay for eight calls of forty-five minutes each. All travel is done on their own time. What’s even more sickening about the Staying Put agency is that it’s run by my old classmate Paul Rogers, a rugby player who never showed any flair for business studies nor understanding of demographics. Now he’s getting rich off the sweet cocktail of ageing homeowners and cheap labour.
‘I’m here, Dad,’ I announce from the front door. I knock my heels together and sand drops onto the mat.
The TV is playing to itself, quiet but not muted. Dad is in his chair. He’s thinner again. The flaps of skin around his neck are like the tree roots Gemma photographed from every angle at Angkor Wat.
‘There you are. Journey down was hard work. Need to unload the car, but let’s have a cup of tea first. Have you had the news on? He burned another one – Porsche, the guy off that morning show, on his drive, behind a locked gate, down the road from here.’ I babble and worry how much more there is to relay about the car arsonist. I need more topics. Time spent with Dad is time that needs scripting. ‘Anyway, good to see you, Dad. Exciting new chapter. And boys’ night every night, until Gemma gets here. I was thinking Chinese later, something with lots of sauce, or put yours in the blender.’ A liquefied version of normal.
The corners of his mouth twitch and I squeeze his hand. It’s the best his face will let him do. I watch him watch the TV and imagine what he’s saying in his head. It’ll be about the perfume advert that’s on