My mother helps by giving directions and by putting small things on the trolley. I offer to help but she tells me to sit and wait by my suitcase in case errands need to be run. ‘Like what?’ I ask. ‘Like fetching somebody a cup of tea or a glass of water when they need it.’ I sit on the kerb with a packet of plasters. I put one on below my knee, leave it for a few minutes, and then peel it off again. The pain is good when the plaster is ripped away and I like the way it pulls at the hairs and leaves a clear, soft patch of skin. Uncle Gerald sees what I am doing. He wags his finger at me, making a cross face. I smile and wag my finger back and, as usual, he doesn’t know what to do. He stands back and looks at me, his hands by his side, and then he turns and goes back to the truck and moves a chest of drawers a few inches for no good reason. Sometimes it is as though Uncle Gerald doesn’t take life very seriously; he tries things out, sees that nobody has noticed him, changes course, does something else, and seems not to care about the difference.
