Having sliced the grapefruit, Oti watched as I struggled to dissect it without discourteous spray, no easy task when a tablespoon is the combined cutting and scooping implement. “It reminds me of tonic,” she informed me as she sipped the mug of tea flavoured with a dash of lemon juice (having gallantly washed her way through every single sauce-encrusted plate, mug and butter-streaked item of cutlery we possess, she was reading G’s copy of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, borrowed for the purposes of improving her English), “a slight hint of bitterness before you swallow”. From the bedroom, the Hungarian voiced his scepticism loudly. We smiled, knowing that he would wrinkle his nose in disgust if offered even a segment of its flesh. When she was growing up, her family was fortunate enough to be able to grow all their apples, pears, peaches and plums as well as cabbage, potatoes and other staples, sóska (sorrel) the one variety of főzelék she would refuse. Often meat exceeded their budget, so a fried egg on top of the boiled vegetables cooked further in a flour and fat mixture provided a convenient source of protein. Five portions of fruit and vegetables a day was standard, not the luxury it has become or virtuous compliance with an exhortation. “We were never asked what we wanted to eat; we had to make do with what we were given. My Mother might cook us our favourite dish for Sunday lunch, but otherwise we had no choice. The real problem now is that in all the families whose houses I clean the child sets the menu. The parents prepare something else for themselves if necessary. Grapefruit lowers cholesterol, by the way”.

Whilst my Father would soak rhubarb in hot water with his All Bran in the morning, my Mother would share a grapefruit with me. Cutting round the inside edge, carefully running the blade down each compartment of juicy pulp, she would sprinkle each half with sugar to soak in overnight. Most of the granules had long since dissolved, but some formed a crust to crunch between the teeth. The bowl in the living-room was always full of oranges and blushing apples. The bananas slowly browned until THAK gorged on them, lamenting that they would otherwise go to waste.

She did not want to be a burden, but I would gladly have wiped her as she struggled up from the commode, as she once wiped me. In the last couple of years, she occasionally asked me to pull up her tights, leaning to slide them over her feet too difficult. My Father bought her a plastic contraption for the task, but it was never used. Likewise the frame around the toilet and the grab rail and seat fitted into the shower. The towelled emptiness where her constant library books once rested on the box holding spare toilet rolls. He regrets not having invested in an electric adjustable armchair sooner, his current comfort a nagging reproach.

The appetite-suppressing stench of excrement permeating the rehabilitation ward, the repairmen not having arrived as scheduled. Disinfect hands before entering. The bubbling of her nebulizer, the windowsill lined with vases, a view to the Friarton Bridge, the hum of distant traffic. She lay propped against the pillows and if I called her, the nurse would trundle the coin-operated phone to her bedside. Sprightliness and mental alertness assessed by young men, stethoscope-slung, in the white gown of authority. We could pull the plastic curtain round for a semblance of privacy. What could I tell her? The magazines we brought her stacked high on the table, G’s extortionately priced bars of Fudge from the machine on exiting, a ritual to dull the pain. As she appeared to doze, we would fill the words into the grid to while away the visiting hour. Too much leave untaken. Stumped, G would read the clue aloud followed by the available letters. I could not always help. Her murmur would betray that behind her lids she had not been asleep. The answer was invariably correct.

She claimed to have stopped smoking, and perhaps she did for a short while. When he sold her Austin Allegro (nicknamed Syd because of the registration number) behind her back, she never forgave him, gulping down the rage, exhaling it silently through her nostrils. She retreated to the bathroom to light up, camouflaging the odour with frantically sprayed air freshener when our pleas for admittance could no longer be ignored. We were never fooled.

The day after we had left, he called us back. We pretended that the plane had been diverted back due to bad weather and that we had decided we might as well come home. A small lie, not wanting to admit to her that we knew. She did not protest. Her skin was smooth and free from sweat except around her calves and ankles where it was inflamed and oozed. Shelley removed the stains from the carpet. Nobody sat there again; my Father disposed of the three piece suite, replacing it with patio furniture.