Mum tried to keep cheerful as we walked along the hospital corridor. A cleaner bot was working its way towards us, polishing the floor.

‘Look!’ Mum said. ‘A Tiggy-Winkle. That’s the same as our DustUrchin, but it has polishing skills too. I’d love one of those.’

‘Happy anniversary of the invention of the television,’ said the Tiggy-Winkle for something to say.

‘Thank you,’ said Mum.

A few seconds later, Father Mangan came round the corner. He’s our parish priest, but he also does all the priest-things that need to be done in the hospital. He’s good, but his suits are always too big for him – like he has shrunk in the wash, but his clothes haven’t.

‘Alfie!’ he said. ‘We don’t see you here very often.’ He put his hand out to shake mine. He had to pull his suit sleeve up a bit to get enough of his hand out to shake.

‘How’s your hand?’ he said.

I held it up for him to see.

‘State of the art,’ he said. ‘You look well. When you think . . .’

He looked at Mum. She nodded. There were more holes in this conversation than in a cheese grater.

‘It gives you hope,’ he said.

Mum nodded again.

‘I’ve just been in to see Arty,’ he said.

Mum looked worried.

‘I was just passing. We had a nice chat. Well, I did the talking. We have to have faith that he can hear us. The more you talk to him, the easier it is to believe, eh?’

‘Yes,’ said Mum.

‘Well, I’m around all morning, if I can help at all. Keep believing, eh?’

Once he’d gone, I said, ‘Why would I think Arty couldn’t hear me?’

Mum didn’t answer.