Great-gran shakily turns the photo over and over in her hands, and looks up at me slowly.

‘Is this me, Great-gran?’ I ask, and I take it from her gently. ‘Who’s the woman?’

Great-gran is not looking at me. Her mouth begins to move, and she licks her lips. I recognise this: she’s building up the energy to say something.

‘Who are you?’ she says. Her eyes have demisted and they’re looking straight at me.

Surely Great-gran knows who I am? My insides give a tiny lurch as I realise that perhaps she’s finally losing her mind. Not recognising her own great-granddaughter?

Gently, I say, ‘It’s me, Great-gran. Ethel. Your great-granddaughter.’ I add, a little louder, ‘Ethel.’

Her eyes narrow and her lips come together in what could be an expression of impatience.

‘Who are you, hinny?’

I take the picture from her and look closer. It’s definitely me; it’s definitely Dad. I point to the woman with all the hair.

‘Who’s this?’ I ask.

But Great-gran’s eyes have misted over, as if she’s pulled a net curtain across her gaze, and she turns again to the window.

I hold the picture up close to get a better look. That’s when I smell it.

Old tobacco. Sniffing the picture, I confirm to myself that there is a very faint but definite smell of cigarettes on it.

So I’m peering at the picture and sniffing it, which probably looks strange, and I become aware that the nurse from before is looking over my shoulder. She has been listening to our conversation, and I didn’t realise she was there.

‘You know who that looks like?’ the nurse says, as she plumps up a cushion and wedges it behind Great-gran. ‘Aw, you so young. She die years ago. Probably before you are born, even. Is like Felina! Looks the spit. She did that song, “Light the light … dad a dee dee …”’

The nurse sings a line from the same song that Boydy sang that day. I’ve also heard of the name Felina, I think; obviously a stage name.

I nod to the nurse. ‘Oh, yeah. I’ve heard that.’

I feel sure the picture is a present for me, so I put it in my pocket.

Then the nurse says something else. She just chunters on, making conversation.

‘Destroy by show business, that’s what they say.’

‘Who? Felina?’

‘Yes. Drugs, alcohol … the whole lot. Ruin her. Kill her eventually, yes? Let it be a lesson, petal.’ She’s wagging a finger at me, but she isn’t being mean.

‘I know she like the songs.’ She turns to Great-gran and speaks a little louder. ‘You like Felina’s songs, don’t you, Lizzie? You quite the fan girl, aren’t you?’

Great-gran just blinks out of the window. I think she smiles a little.

‘I am in here the other day and one of the songs come on the radio. Hey, I could tell she is listenin’. Her fingers start movin’ with the music, I swear to God.’