Time

"I think it’s spitting, Chris."

"Right you are," he says, unfurling an enormous green umbrella, which easily covers Dad’s wheelchair.

Cathy joins me on the bench. "I hope Dad’s enjoying himself," I say, pulling up the hood on my parka.

"I think they both are," Cathy says. "We had a young chap with a guitar last week, and some of them were up and singing, clapping. Lovely, actually."

Cathy chatters away. Chris reels in a small fish and holds it up for Dad to see.

Before long, matron is shuffling along the path towards us.

"Time’s up," Cathy says, standing.