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When he comes back in he is wearing an overcoat. ‘I have to leave for work,’ he says. I feel myself tense. 

‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘You’ll be fine. I’ll ring you. I promise. Don’t forget today is no different from every other day. You’ll be fine.’

‘But—’ I begin.
‘I have to go,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll show you some things you might need, before I leave.’

In the kitchen he shows me which things are in which cupboard, points out some leftovers in the fridge that I can have for lunch and a wipe-clean board screwed to the wall, next to a black marker pen tied to a piece of string. ‘I sometimes leave messages here for you,’ he says. 

I see that he has written the word Friday on it in neat, even capitals, and beneath it the words Laundry? Walk? (Take phone!) TV? 

Under the word Lunch he has noted that there is some leftover salmon in the fridge and added the word Salad? Finally he has written that he should be home by six. 

‘You also have a diary,’ he says. ‘In your bag. It has important phone numbers in the back of it, and our address, in case you get lost. And there’s a mobile phone—’
‘A what?’ I say.

‘A phone,’ he says. ‘It’s cordless. You can use it anywhere. Outside the house, anywhere. It’ll be in your handbag. Make sure you take it with you if you go out.’
‘I will,’ I say.

‘Right,’ he says. We go into the hall and he picks up a battered leather satchel by the door. ‘I’ll be off, then.’
‘OK,’ I say. 

I am not sure what else to say. I feel like a child kept out of school, left alone at home while her parents go to work.

Don’t touch anything, I imagine him saying. Don’t forget to take your medicine.

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