Mr Collingwood knows his flat is cluttered. I’m afraid it happened by degrees, he says, as mournfully as the captain of a ship who had the sextant upside-down and ended up beaching in a strange and unmanageable part of the world.
‘Have a pew,’ he says, although his is the only one not covered with books.
‘That’s okay. I’m happy to stand.’
I put my bag down and look around.
‘Can I have a look at your yellow folder?’
‘Be my guest,’ he says, waving me in the general direction of nowhere in particular. ‘A sorry tale, but no doubt you’ve heard it all before.’

At every stage of the assessment he makes variations on the same, grim joke. When I take a SATS reading he says So there’s air in the old bellows? When I feel for  his pulse he says I’ve got a heart? When I take his temperature: I’m not stone cold, then?
As a change of subject, to lighten the tone, I flip the disposable plastic probe cover from the tympanic thermometer and hold it up between my finger tips.
‘See this?’ I say. ‘You see them dotted around patients’ houses all the time. If you didn’t know what it was, you’d think the pixies had been out. The little health pixies.’
‘Let me see…’
I hand it to him.
He places it in the centre of one great, fleshy palm, and holds it up to the light.
I wait for him to say something, but he seems transfixed. After a full minute, I wonder if he’s being incredible mindful, or simply fallen into a cataleptic trance. Suddenly he takes a big, sighing breath, like a whale coming up for air.
‘It reminds me of something,’ he says. ‘A hat, made of straw, that I saw somewhere once…’
‘Wales? Thailand? In a film, was it…?’
‘No-oo. Not that.’
He leans in, moving his great, barnacled snout closer to his palm.

I lean in, too.

Sheila is a square-cut, no-nonsense woman in her seventies, armoured rather than dressed in a stout tweed two piece and a pink turtleneck sweater. With her hair lacquered up into something approaching a helmet, and her substantial breasts impressively coned and cantilevered, she looks less like a Scheme Manager and more like a specialised assault wagon.
‘I’m dead worried about Alfred,’ she says. ‘C’mon. I’ll take you down there.’
She locks up the broom cupboard that serves as her office, and leads me through an endless series of corridors, turning right and left and then right again, to the point where I completely lose track of where we started from, with only the angle of the light and a different picture on the wall now and again to show we’ve made any progress at all. In fact, if it wasn’t obvious that Sheila knows her way to Alfred’s flat without having to look, I’d be tempted to think someone was playing tricks, changing small details here and there after we’d passed, just to see how long it might take before I stop and say Now, just hold on a minute…
‘I don’t understand how this can happen,’ says Sheila, swinging her keys like a jailer, the soles of her pumps squeaking on the lino. ‘He’s from a big family. They’re not all dead. I don’t understand how things can get like this. You see he’s a very private man. He doesn’t like anyone poking around. And that’s half the trouble. You could tell things were going off because his clothes started to get that shine, d’you follow? There was a bit of a haze about him, and not in a good way. He didn’t look well fed. He didn’t look good at all. But everytime we asked if there was anything we could do he said Oh, no! Everything’s fine! I’m all right! But then he started to fall, you see? And we had the ambulance round a few times. And it was only then I got a peek in his room, and – honest to God – I suppose you’ve seen this kind of thing before…’
‘Self-neglect? I’ve seen quite a lot.’
‘Have you?’
‘Yep. A fair bit. And it often comes down to capacity. You know – if someone has the capacity to make decisions for themselves. So long as they understand the consequences. It’s surprising how far things have to go before you can step in.’
‘I don’t pretend to understand.’
‘It’s a difficult area. I struggle with it. I remember going to one woman who lived in the wreck of a car in a ditch.’
‘A ditch?’
‘A ditch. The wreck was on its side in a bank of hardened mud, under some brambles. And that was her registered address. She lived like that for years. Just her and the cats. She had a husband, but he disappeared after a while. Probably into the mud. It was years before anything was done. And then it was only because of the cats. She got too sick to look after them. They went to a place of safety before she did.’
‘In a ditch?’
‘Yep. The neighbours were brilliant. They tried really hard. They used to bring her carrier bags of food and things, and they called everyone they could think of to get her properly housed. But she just didn’t want to know. It was a shock to see her, lying on her side in all that debris. She was holding a torch. And it freaked me out because I used to have that torch when I was a kid. An Ever Ready, red and white plastic torch. I remember how excited I was, using it one bonfire night when we were setting up for the fireworks. And now here she was, holding the exact same torch, with her fingernails all corkscrewing out.’
We stop outside what must be Alfred’s door. Sheila gives me a sharp, appraising look.
‘Hmm,’ says Sheila. ‘Well I don’t know about that. He’s bad, but he’s not in a ditch.’
‘No. Thank goodness.’
She knocks.
Puts her ear to the door.
After a while there’s a feeble sound from inside.
She shakes her head at me, straightens up, calls out It’s only Sheila, Alfred.
She unlocks the door, and we go in.

Jack is dying. Although he’s been in decline for a few months now, this marked deterioration has taken everyone by surprise. The doctor is arranging anticipatory meds, the District Nurses are case managing, and we’ve been asked to put in whatever extra equipment might be needed, especially a hospital bed and dynamic mattress. By the look of him, though, there won’t be time even for that.

Jack is dozing in his favourite recliner chair in front of the snooker, both feet encased in inflatable plastic boots to ease the ulcers on his heels. He doesn’t so much wake up as slowly unfurl, turning his preternaturally large eyes upon me as I come into the room.

And suddenly I remember what we talked about the last time I saw him.

Jack used to be a coal merchant. He spent much of his working life carrying hundred-weight sacks of the stuff, from yard to cart, from cart to house, all weathers. ‘It was a hard life,’ he said. ‘But we had a laugh and a joke. Waa’ll – you ‘ad to keep going some’ow.’ And then when that trade finished, he worked in a builder’s merchant, this time using a fork-lift to load the trucks. It was dusty work, and no doubt that played a part. But he loved the life, and carried on as long as he could till ill health forced him to quit.

‘It’s funny what we used to get delivered,’ I say to him as we pick up the conversation where we left off. ‘Coal. Milk. Corona lemonade. We even had the fish man come round on a Friday.’
‘Fish? I don’t know I could’a done that round,’ he says, rubbing his chin.
‘Why’s that?’
‘Waa’ll. It’s like everything else. You gotta know ya plaice.’

‘We used to watch sports together,’ says Mr Challoner. ‘She’d always have something to say, some funny little comment. Not now. Not anymore. You’d be lucky to get a sensible word out of her now. She’s unrecognisable, really.’
He pauses, surrendering to another wave of facial tics and grimaces. When they’ve passed, he adds: ‘She stopped being mum some time back.’ And then folds his arms.

Mrs Challoner is ninety-eight. She’s been on our books a few times in the past couple of years. Falls out of bed, falls off the commode or in the wet-room, chest or urine infections to a greater or lesser extent, her legs too swollen and her diuretics increased, her kidneys punished by the diuretics and her electrolytes up the spout. When she’s medically stable she’s not too bad, though. Independently mobile with a zimmer frame (more or less), from the bed to the chair in front of the TV and then back again. She has all the equipment she needs, carers four times a day, community health teams stepping in when required. It’s hard to think of much more that could  be done to keep her safely at home. The only option now would be to find her a place in a residential care home.
Mr Challoner is obviously depressed about the whole situation.
‘I’m seventy-five myself,’ he says, wiping his face roughly with his hands, as if he were trying to erase himself from the picture entirely. ‘I shouldn’t have to be dealing with all this.’
When I mention residential care, though, he bridles.
‘Do you know how much that costs?’ he says, folding his arms. ‘You’re looking at a thousand pounds a week. Where am I supposed to get that kind of money?’
I make a sympathetic face, but at the same time I can’t help glancing round the flat – a neat, well-founded apartment just off the park, with a warden, services, allocated parking. I don’t doubt Mrs Challoner owns the property. At a rough calculation, I reckon if she sold up she’d be able to buy herself at least six years of good residential care, which – to be blunt – should see her out. I turn back to Mr Challoner.
‘Well! That’s probably a conversation you should have with one of our social workers. They know all the facts and figures.’
‘So do I,’ he says. ‘A thousand pounds a week.’
‘I suppose the other thing to think about is a live-in carer. But I think in the end that’s actually more expensive, because you’re paying for them on top of all the bills for the flat. A care home would cover everything. But like I say – the social worker’s the person you need to speak to.’
Mr Challoner stares at me, his face jumping and glitching.
‘ Now – there’s just one more thing I need to do before I go and that’s weigh your mum. Have you got any scales I can use?’
‘No. I can’t afford them.’
‘Oh. Not to worry. There’s another way of estimating the BMI by measuring the mid-point of the arm…’
‘What on earth for?’
‘It’s just one of those things we’re supposed to do. To monitor your mum’s weight over time.’
‘She’s ninety-eight. She’s off her food. Have you never had a cat? When they get too old they stop eating. It’s a fact of nature.’
‘You’re probably right. I still need to do it, though. I promise I’ll be quick…’

With the examination finished and the paperwork done, I say goodbye to Mrs Challoner (who despite everything seems pretty content with her lot), and go to shake her son’s hand.
‘I’ll come down with you,’ he says. ‘I’ve got some work to do this afternoon. All this running backwards and forwards…’
In the lift he asks me if I come across this situation a lot. I tell him it’s not uncommon. ‘Variations on a theme,’ I say.
‘I bet!’ he says. ‘That’s definitely what this is – a theme.’ He jangles his car keys and we both watch the floor display.
Doors opening says the recorded voice.
‘Thanks for coming,’ says Mr Challoner, exiting first and then holding the main door open for me.
‘You’re welcome,’ I say. ‘I’ll let our social workers know you’d like to talk to them.’
‘Okay’ he says. ‘See you.’

We separate in the car park, Mr Challoner to his seventeen plate, top of the range, bright yellow sports coupe, me to my tatty blue hatchback.

I wait down in the hallway with Maxine, the daughter-in-law, as Enid descends on the stairlift, footplate up, legs pendant.
‘That’s the way to make an entrance!’ I say. ‘All you need is a little pair of angel wings…’
But I’ve misjudged my audience. Enid returns my smile with a level of contempt one point shy of King Lear. She covers the last three steps in icy silence, and comes to a juddering, beeping halt.
‘Shall I help with the belt?’ says Maxine, coming forwards with a duck of the head like she’s running in to meet a helicopter.
‘Tsch tsch!’ says Enid, batting her away.
‘The lounge, d’you think?’
‘Hmm.’
I go on ahead and line-up with Maxine by the patio window as Enid hobbles in with her stick, turning round a couple of times in front of her armchair before settling herself slowly and magnificently, stick planted squarely between her legs, hands draped on the carved head.
‘They rang last night, you know’ she says.
‘Who did?’
‘The hip people.’
‘Oh?’
‘They wanted to know why I hadn’t returned the questionnaire. I said It’s nine o’clock at night! What on earth do you mean, ringing me at this hour?’
‘It does seem rather late…’
‘Rather late? It’s the middle of the night. I said Questionnaire? I’ll be speaking to your Chief Executive, never mind filling in a twopenny halfpenny questionnaire. The trouble I’ve had! They said We can fit you in on Friday. I said we’re talking about a hip replacement, not putting the car in for a service. Have you had a cancellation? No, he said. We don’t work like that. It’s all very organised. It doesn’t sound very organised I said. But like a fool I agreed. Well – (she stamped her stick). I thought if I said no I’d be pushed to the back of the queue. I’d never get the damned thing done. But let me tell you something. That was the worst decision of my entire life! There must have been a dozen of us, packed in like fish in a canning factory. Nurses running around. I say nurses. I think there was one actual nurse. The rest were pretend nurses, the kind that seem to make up the numbers these days. You cannot be serious I said. You’re not proposing to do us all in one day? Absolutely he said. We run a pretty tight ship. Do you? I said. Well – that’s interesting I said. You do know that’s what they said about the Titanic?’

The front door stands open enough to allow for the power cord leading from the electric buggy out on the front path to the power socket in the hall. I worry what’ll happen if it rains, but Mr Barry seems relaxed about that.
‘That’s just how I do it,’ he says, batting away the prospect of electrocution with a wave of his hand. ‘Take a seat.’

On the face of it you’d think Mr Barry was busy, sitting at the table like this, carefully rummaging through a Tupperware container of meds, drawing things out, pressing them to his nose to see what they are, putting them back again. But he’s surrounded by such a jumble – letters, appointment cards, notes from various people, delivery bills from the local Chinese restaurant held together with a clothes peg – I don’t think he’s made much headway in the last twenty years.
‘I was only discharged from the hospital a couple of hours ago,’ he says, as if that explains it.
It’s clear to see that Mr Barry, soon to be ninety, by slow and steady increments, unrecognised by himself but recognised only too painfully by his neighbours, has wandered off course somewhat, and ended up in a sad zone of neglect. There’s a unifying crust of greasy dust across everything, and the wallpaper, carefully aligned and pasted up years ago, has steadily lifted at the joins and begun rolling down at the corners. Even the light from outside seems hesitant, coming in only as far as absolutely necessary, keeping its beams slightly up from the carpet.
‘How about I make you a cup of tea before I start?’
‘That would be lovely,’ he says. ‘You’ll find some milk in the fridge. It should be all right.’

The kitchen is the worst place in the house so far. I feel like Howard Carter breaking into Tutankhamun’s tomb, if the priests had been a little short on money and inspiration, buried The Boy King in a detached house sometime in the Fifties, tried to fix the strip light with packing tape, given up, stuffed the royal mummy in an old fridge, and then randomly filled the room with newspapers, sprouting onions, junk mail, half a dozen boxes of Weetos and a chipped dog bowl.

I scrub out a mug as best I can, hunt down a passable tea bag, and risk turning the kettle on. I don’t even have to sniff the milk; when I tip it slightly to take it out of the fridge, the level stays put.
‘Milk’s off,’ I say, going back in to the sitting room. Mr Barry has turned his attention from his meds to the discharge summary that came home with him.
‘Impossible,’ he says, and then tears the summary into four pieces and drops it on the floor.
‘I’ll nip out and get you fresh.’
‘Would you? That’s kind. Here – take some money.’
‘No, no. I think I can stand you the price of milk.’
‘I insist,’ he says, and fishing around in the pocket of his cardigan, he pulls out a glass spice jar. ‘Take it out of that,’ he says.
I give it a shake. At a guess I’d say there’s about twenty pence in ones and twos.
‘Thanks!’ I say, and discreetly putting it on the side, squeeze out of the front door.

It’s great to be outside again, everything so wonderfully sharp and clean. Even the clouds look as if they’ve been freshly laundered and pegged out to dry. But even so, I can’t help thinking as I stride along, saying hello to people in an emphatically social way, feeling full of energy and potential, that, bracing as the weather is today, and picturesque as those clouds might be, streaming overhead, if I had to bet on it, I’d say that come evening, it’s almost certain to rain.

Charlie had a fall a few days ago, but despite the pain in his back he seems pretty sanguine. Until I ask him if he has any family living nearby who might be able to help with the shopping.
‘No,’ he says. ‘I don’t. Not any more. I used to have a son. But he died.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘It was a long time ago. Fifty years or more. I still get upset when I think about it. They say Time’s a great healer, but I don’t know. It feels like yesterday.
‘He must have been young when he died.’
‘Eighteen. Coming up.’
‘What was it? Cancer?’
‘Nah. He was murdered.’
‘Murdered? Oh my God!’
‘He was such a good, kind boy, too. So bright and helpful. Everybody said so. He was just one of those people who didn’t have any sharp corners. Do you know what I mean? He’d always put himself out for you, never mind what it was. He’d give you the shirt off his back if you said you liked it. When he was taken, all my faith in the world just up and left. It was like my future had been snatched away and left me with nothing. They may as well have killed me, too.’
‘So what happened?’
‘The funny thing was, everyone kept telling me He’s too quiet. You should let him go out in the world, find his own feet. I shouldn’t have listened. But I did. He started going out a lot, staying out. And he fell in with a bit of a rough crowd. I didn’t like the look of them much, but he said they weren’t as bad as all that. He always did see the good in people. And anyway he was having an adventure. Next thing I know, he’d gone to a party one weekend, and that was that. That was the last I saw of him. He just disappeared. I was frantic, y’know? But no-one had seen hide nor hair of him. I went through the motions reporting him gone and everything, but nothing happened. Anyway, about a year later there was a knock on the door and when I open it there were these two guys in black suits standing there. We’re from the Coroner’s Office they said. And d’you know what I said? I said No thank you. Not today. I didn’t know what a coroner was! I thought they’d come round to sell me insurance or something. Can we come in? they said. It’s about your son. So I let them in, and the first one, he goes over to the mantelpiece, picks up a picture of Ronnie and he holds it up, and he says Is this your son? So I says Yes. And he nods at the other guy, and he says Well in that case, Mr Franklin, we’re sorry to have to tell you that your son has died. His body had turned up in a disused parking lot, stripped of everything, his wallet, his clothes, his shoes, the lot. No-one knew who he was. He was in a bit of a state, and of course, he’d never been to the dentist in his life, so they didn’t even have that. But they tracked me down somehow. And d’you know what? The worst thing about it – I think it was the worst thing – is this little, throwaway thing one of them said. He said We think he probably died of a heart attack, and there are signs of a serious assault, but it’s impossible to say which came first, the heart attack or the assault. And that’s bothered me more than anything. It kind of flips over and over in my head. Because I don’t know what’s worse – someone who’d beat you up leave you to die, or someone who’d watch you die and then beat you up. I mean – why would anyone do that?’
‘I don’t know. It’s a terrible thing.’
‘It is a terrible thing. Which came first? Fifty years, and I still don’t know what it means.’

‘But dash it all! We haven’t even been introduced!’
I shake Ken’s hand, for the fifth time.
‘I’m Jim. From the hospital. How d’you do?’
‘Jim, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘Welcome, Jim!’
‘Thank you!’
‘Now – Jim. Can you tell me something?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why am I here?’
‘Well – this is your home, Ken.’
‘Yes – but why am I here?’
‘This is the best place to look after you.’
‘If you say so,’ he says, leaning back in the chair, suddenly unimpressed with the whole affair.
He watches me unpack my kit.
‘What are you proposing to do now?’ he says.
‘Take your blood pressure and temperature and what have you. If that’s okay.’
‘Be my guest!’ he says, waving a hand in the air. ‘It’s all the same to me.’
‘Thanks!’
His live-in carer Yasmina comes in with a tray of tea.
‘You want different war film on, Ken?’
‘Do what, y’say?’
It’s Where Eagles Dare, the bit where Clint Eastwood knocks on the door of the radio room, says hello and then shoots everyone in it. The TVs up loud anyway, but with the machine gun and the AAAIIIIGH screams, I’m wincing and flinching as much as Clint.
‘Some war film different to this one,’ shouts Yasmina, going over to switch it off. ‘You’ve seen this one too many time, Ken. All the Germans they are killt by now.’
The way she says killt – somehow even more emphatic for the severely sculpted lines of her makeup.
‘As you wish’ he says.
‘Look. I have new one for you, Ken. World at War. You like World at War?’
‘Spoiler alert. We win!’ I say.
‘What means, we win?’ says Yasmina, kneeling down to operate the DVD player, poking one finger through the hole, drawing Where Eagles Dare out like a donut, switching it with the other, jolting the DVD tray back into place and hitting the right sequence of buttons on the control, all in one fluid movement.
‘The war. We won the war.’
‘Which?’
‘I don’t know. Either. Both. I think.’
‘Oh. This is good news.’
She turns to Ken.
‘Ken! We won war!’
He frowns at her, then at me, and then smiling, reaches out his hand.
‘But dash it all! We haven’t even been introduced!’
The sepulchral tones of the World at War theme tune begin to play.
‘Great,’ says Yasmina, standing up and brushing the front of her uniform down. ‘Now I have this song in my head all day.’

‘I don’t believe in washing-up liquid. It’s a western bourgeois chemical fallacy. It’s a myth, darling, to make you buy more crap.’
‘What do you use to clean up with, then?’
‘Water, like the rest of the planet. And they’re okay. Don’t you think?’
‘Sort of. Some of them.’
‘I don’t need much for breakfast. Can you cut the skin off the apple? That’s the fruit’s lifejacket. That’s the thing that soaks up the toxins. Quarter it up and put it with the banana. Thanks, darling. There’s some natural yogurt in the fridge. Two spoons of that would be wonderful. And two glasses of water. Down there on the floor where I can reach it.’

He moans softly whilst I work. It’s  hard to resist the idea he’s doing it for my benefit, to illustrate how ill he is, but he really doesn’t need to. Anyone could see he was mortally ill, his flesh shrink-wrapped to the frame in that brutally anatomical way some cancers have.

‘I’ve got someone coming round later,’ he says. ‘An old lady friend of mine. From Thailand.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘She rang me up. She said I can’t believe you’re still alive, you old bastard. She’s fantastic, darling. Very educated.’
‘Staying long?’
‘As long as it takes.’
He winks, in such a stagey way I wouldn’t be surprised to see a caption.
‘Is she going to be helping? You know – with meals and what have you?’
‘What have you?’ he says, adjusting his position in the chair. ‘Well – darling. If by what have you you’re  talking about a world-class blowjob, then – yes, what have you…’
And he winks again, and takes the bowl of quartered apple, banana and yogurt in both hands, with his eyes closed, and a ceremonial nod.

‘You won’t find a vein.’
‘Let’s have a look’
‘I should know my own body, darling. I’ve done enough drugs in my time. I’ve stuck needles in just about every place you could mention. My arm, my hand, my foot, my groin.. I melted some LSD and shot it in my neck.’
‘In your neck?’
‘To get more of a trip.’
‘Where in the neck?’
‘The jugular. What a ride, man. It blew me off the planet.’
‘I bet. Where d’you wake up? Venus?’
‘Somewhere like that. Croydon, I think it was.’