There’s an ancient, framed tapestry above the fireplace: white camellias in bloom. I’m sure Mae’s grandmother was a babe in arms when the last thread was tied and the tapestry hung on display; now, Mae is ninety-three, bowed with scoliosis, and the camellias have faded almost to nothing behind the glass.
Beneath the tapestry are two black and white photographs: Mae as a young woman – three-quarter profile, looking stage left with a Margaret Lockwood wistfulness; and opposite, a young airman, leaning in, laughing, a pipe in his hand.
‘Mae used to be an actress,’ says Leonora, the carer.
‘Wow!’
Mae grunts.
‘What was your favourite role?’ I ask her, bunching up her dressing gown to make room for the blood pressure cuff.
‘I was glad when anything came my way,’ she says. ‘Look – are you sure this is absolutely necessary?’
‘I won’t do it if you really don’t want me to, Mae, but the doctor said to keep an eye on you. Especially after all these falls you’ve been having.’
‘Oh, very well…’
The Velcro of the cuff gets snagged on the fluff of her dressing gown, which doesn’t improve her mood.
‘So you were an actress? How wonderful!’ I say, pressing on. ‘What did you prefer? Tragedy? Comedy? Musicals?’
‘It’s all the same.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Do you?’
‘Well I don’t really know.’
‘Don’t you? Hmm.’
Her observations are quite good, considering her age and health. There are several trip hazards in the flat, but Mae doesn’t want any alterations that might make it safer for her to get about. When she’s eventually persuaded to try a zimmer frame, she ignores my instructions on how to use it, swinging it about instead, wilfully demonstrating how it will get caught in various cables and table legs, insisting on carrying-on with her old kitchen trolley. (As soon as Leonora saw the frame in the hallway she told me there was no way on earth Mae would use it. She raises her eyebrows when I look at her, but doesn’t say anything.)
I help Mae back into her chair and start writing out my notes.
Leonora goes into the kitchen to get started on lunch.
‘Were you born here?’ I ask Mae.
‘No.’
‘London? Further north?’
‘Moscow.’
‘Moscow? How come?’
‘My father was in the diplomatic service.’
‘How interesting!’
She shakes her head, and starts fussing with the sleeves of her dressing gown.
‘And how old were you when you came back to England?’
‘I was three years old.’
‘I’d love to go to Russia,’ I tell her, leaning forwards on the folder a moment. ‘It’s such an interesting place.’
‘It isn’t!’ she says. ‘It’s monstrous! I’d never go back.’
I want to ask her more about it. She surely can’t have any direct memories of Russia if she was just three when they left; her reaction must be more to do with something that happened to the family. Given her age, I wouldn’t mind betting it was the Revolution. But now Leonora is coming into the lounge with Mae’s lunch, and there isn’t time to ask anything else.
‘I’ll be off then,’ I say, closing the folder and gathering my stuff together.
Mae is already tearing in to a quiche.
‘It’s been lovely to meet you, Mae.’
She dismisses me with a wave of her fork. A glob of quiche flies off and lands on the carpet.
Leonora goes to fetch some kitchen towel.
I thank her for her help, and see myself out.

I knock first, then let myself in to Olive’s flat using the key from the key safe. She’s in the galley kitchen off to the left, her slippered feet just visible below the edge of the cupboard she’s rummaging through. I know from her notes that she’s deaf and suffers from dementia, and I’m worried that my sudden appearance when she closes the cupboard door will give her such a jump-scare she’ll have a heart attack. But there’s no easy way of making my presence known. As gently but as clearly as I can I call through to her. She closes the cupboard and stands there, sniffing the air rather than seeing me directly.
‘Make us some toast,’ she says.
‘Of course. Shall I help you back to your seat first?’
‘And some tea,’ she says, reaching for my hands. ‘Two sweeteners.’
Her mobility is terrible, and her chest sounds as rough as a tractor left in a barn for years and then dragged out and cranked.
On the way through to the living room, she seems to come alive, though, squeezing my hands, shuffling her slippers and singing Dah dee dee daaah! But then the coughing overtakes her again and she has to stop.
It takes an age to get her safely back to her armchair. When eventually she’s settled and I’ve figured out how to turn the TV on, I go back into the kitchen to make breakfast. It’s a dismal scene. Sometime around nineteen fifty these kitchen units probably featured in a glossy spread; now, the only colour is a yellowing patina of sticky ghastliness on every surface,. The fridge is so filthy it would make more sense to cast it in concrete for a thousand years rather than open it and look for butter. But at least the toaster works. Whilst I wait for it to pop up, I notice a small, black and white photo propped up against an ancient biscuit tin. It’s Olive, sometime in the late thirties, I would guess, tightly buttoned in a WRAF uniform, her eyebrows plucked and pencilled, her lipstick just-so, her hair expertly gathered in a bunch.

I make her some jam toast, a cup of tea in a delicately patterned but horribly stained china cup, and carry it all through.
‘Lovely!’ she says, tucking in.

It doesn’t take much of an examination to discover that Olive is very unwell. The chest infection she’s had for a few weeks hasn’t responded to the antibiotics, and it looks like she’s sliding into sepsis. I try to explain to her that she needs to go to hospital, but between the deafness and the dementia there’s little hope of making her understand. She finishes breakfast and immediately falls asleep. I phone for an ambulance. The call taker tells me there are long delays, but says a crew will be with us as soon as they can. Meanwhile, I find a carrier bag and gather her medications ready to go, along with any notes the crew might need. Once that’s done, I phone Olive’s daughter to let her know what’s happening. She sounds as decrepit as Olive – which is probably the case. Olive is ninety-eight; her daughter must be in her seventies. She says she’ll rendezvous with the ambulance at the hospital, seeing as it’s that side of town.
With everything done that needs to be done, I settle down to wait.

Olive doesn’t so much wake up as slowly unfold. She raises her chin, puts her hands right and left on the armrests of the chair, and gradually opens her eyes.
‘Five years he’s been gone,’ she says, mournfully carrying on a conversation I wasn’t part of. ‘But I haven’t been with nobody else. We were married seventy years. He was a lovely man. I can’t believe he was took like that. I don’t believe in God no more. Not if he goes and does things like that.’
‘It must have been hard for you.’
She doesn’t seem to hear me, exactly, but orientates herself in my direction like a sea anemone sensing a change in the murky waters around her. She mumbles a few words.
‘What’s that, Olive?’
She waggles a hand in the air, like she wants me to come closer.
I go over and lean in.
‘What did you say, Olive…?’
Suddenly she reaches up with both hands, grabs me by the shoulders, tugs me towards her and kisses me on the cheek.
‘Hey!’
She laughs as I straighten, so wickedly the whole of her face seems to collapse in on itself. But then she coughs, and feels the pain of it deep in the right side of her chest.
‘Ooh – rub my back a little, rub my back,’ she says, leaning forwards. I wonder if it’s another trick, but I do it anyway. ‘Is that better?’
But she doesn’t answer.
She’s already asleep.

Harry’s daughter Rachel opens the door with her father’s Yorkshire terrier Sammy tucked under her arm.
‘Are you all right with dogs?’ she says, Sammy squirming so violently she’s forced to set him down.
‘Absolutely!’
It’s immaterial whether I am or I’m not. Sammy has already launched himself nose-first into my trousers, huffing and sneezing. He’s so emphatic about the whole thing I wouldn’t be surprised if he threw me against the wall and started patting me down.
‘Have you got a dog?’ says Rachel.
‘Not on me.’
‘What sort of dog?’
‘A lurcher.’
‘Lovely!’ she says. ‘Come in!’
Sammy trots shotgun down the hallway as Rachel shows me into the living room and quietly shuts the door.
‘I need to let you know the situation,’ she says. ‘Have a seat.’
I put my bags down, take off my coat, and by the time I’ve turned round to sit down on the sofa. Sammy’s already there, bolt upright, watching me closely. Rachel settles down in an armchair to tell me about her father.
‘He’s terrified of hospitals. Well – doctors, nurses, anyone clinical, actually. When he got stuck in the bath the other day he absolutely would not let us call the paramedics. We had a hell of a job to get him out. Luckily the gas man came to read the meter and we roped him in. It was like one of those Carry On movies. Carry On Being a Stubborn Old Bastard.’
‘So when was the last time Harry was seen by a doctor?’
‘This morning.’
‘Oh! Okay. That’s good, then.’
‘Hmm. It was all a bit of a deal. He wouldn’t let him do anything. Certainly wouldn’t let him look at his leg, which is the main issue. I know the doctor wanted him admitted there and then, but he got so upset the doctor had to go. We’re all so worried about him. He won’t agree to anything. None of us live local. We just can’t cope.’
‘Why’s he so scared of hospitals?’
‘He had a bad experience. He had this infection in his leg and the doctor was late picking it up. Not this doctor. Another one. From that surgery that closed. By the time he went in it was gangrenous and he lost a few toes. Ever since then he’s not wanted anything to do with anyone.’
‘Do you think he’s got an infection now?’
‘I’m sure of it. I just don’t know if he’ll let you in the bedroom, let alone lift the covers.’
‘I can have a go. The doctor’s asked me to come and take some urgent bloods.’
‘Good luck with that. But hey – I’ll go on up and smooth the way, and see if he’ll agree to see you.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Wait here a minute.’
She goes upstairs, leaving the sitting room door open. Meanwhile, Sammy adjusts his position on the sofa next to me, squaring up a little, pre-empting any move on my part to reach out for my bag or do anything suspicious.
I can hear Rachel talking to her dad.
There’s a nice man from the hospital come to take some blood, pops.
– I don’t want to see him.
He’s got a dog. A lurcher.
– A lurcher?
Yeah.
– I didn’t hear Sammy barking.
No! So that’s a good, isn’t it? Shall I bring him up?
– All right. But I’m not going to hospital.
Sammy flicks a look over his shoulder as Rachel comes back into the room, then continues to scrutinise my intentions.
‘He’ll see you now,’ she says.
‘Great.’
Sammy leaps off the sofa as I stand up, then spins round and round on the rug.
‘This way!’ says Rachel.
Sammy bounds on ahead of us.

*

By the time I make it up into the little attic room, Sammy’s already up on the bed, his paws spread, his shoulders set, just the other side of the Harry-shaped lump in the duvet.
The room is insulated by shelf upon shelf of books, except for a space on the wall above the bed for an oil painting of a sailing ship battling through heavy seas. The light from the window opposite, set at an angle, illuminates both the bed and the painting so softly and so directly it’s like I’m walking into a painting myself: The sick man and his dog.
‘Hello Harry,’ I say, quietly setting my bag down. ‘How are you feeling today?’
‘How am I feeling? Not good.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘Jim’s come to take some blood,’ says Rachel, taking hold of the rails at the foot of the bed. ‘And maybe take a look at your leg.’
‘No thank you,’ says Harry, pulling the duvet over his head.
Sammy stares at me to see what I’ll do next.
‘Well. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,’  I say. ‘It’s always good to hold onto that, even when you’ve got people like me marching in and out with official looking folders and stuff. But at the same time I think it’s really important you understand what it is you’re refusing to do – you know, what the consequences might be. Rachel told me about your bad experience at the hospital a few years back, and I’m sorry to hear about that. That’s why I think it’s even more important we make sure nothing like that happens again, and you get the treatment you need nice and quickly. Because of course, if you do have an infection, the sooner you act the better it’ll be. You know what Rachel wants you to do. And Sammy.’
Harry groans, but pulls the duvet away from his face a little and peeks out. He doesn’t look well, a sallow puffiness to his face, chapped and peeling lips, and when he puts an arm outside the covers, I can see a generalised, pruritic rash.
‘How about I do something easy first, like your temperature?’ I say, slowly unzipping my bag.
Sammy straightens.
Rachel holds onto the rails even tighter.
‘Oh for God’s sake, go on, then,’ says Harry, and closes his eyes.

There’s an ambulance parked outside Mr Fenway’s house and I can’t help thinking it’s for him. I’m just taking my stuff out of the car when one of the paramedics comes out to put the ramp down and fetch a carry chair. It’s Stan, an old colleague of mine I haven’t seen in a while.
‘I thought you might’ve been called to Mr Fenway,’ I tell him, pumping his hand and slapping his shoulder. ‘It’s really nice to see you!’
‘Nah. You’re all right there, Jim,’ he says. ‘How’re you keeping, mate?’
It’s great to catch up, swapping gossip in that intense way you do when you see someone after a long gap and immediately want to know everything.
‘’Course, I’m retiring at the end of the month,’ he says, folding his arms and rocking back on his heels.
‘No!’
‘Waaalll – the job’s changed, Jim,’ he says, sliding into that doom-laden, front-line voice I know so well. It’s surprising what you miss.
‘It’s not what it was. You see – the problem is – what happens is – you get a management team come in with a certain point of view, and of course, it stands to reason! It’s only human nature! They’re only going to hire people who support that point of view. So nothing gets challenged, mistakes get made, and everything tips along very nicely thank you, until something happens and they all get cleared out. And then the next lot comes in – slightly different point of view, slightly different set of slides on the old laptop – and the whole thing starts again.’ He shakes his head at the madness of it all. ‘The only reason I stuck it as long as I did was the patients, Jim. You know where you are with the patients. They make the job. You just have to keep your head down the rest of the time and not draw attention to yourself.’
‘How long have you been in the ambulance, Stan?’
‘Thirty-nine years,’ he says. ‘I would’ve seen forty, but another year would’ve killed me.’
‘It’s great to see you again. And if I don’t see you before – happy retirement!’
I shake his hand and ask him to send my love to Jane, the paramedic he’s working with today.
‘See you around,’ I say, as he heads back into the house with a carry chair and a rolled blanket.
‘Righto!’ he says, raising his free hand and bowing his head, like he’s making a pledge.
I go next door to see to my patient.

Mr Fenway is sitting in an armchair by the front window, his long, thin legs stretched out in front of him, his arms on the arm rests, his pale skin almost translucent in the warm afternoon sunshine. Mrs Fenway watches him from the opposite chair, as rapt as a disciple witnessing The Transfiguration.
Mr Fenway finished his treatment for cancer some months ago, but he suffered a bad fall recently, and the trauma of it all has set him back. We chat about different things as I tap around for a serviceable vein – how they met, where they lived, what they did.
‘This is a lovely spot,’ I tell them.
‘What – the vein?’
‘No – although this’ll do fine, I think. No – I mean the house. How long have you lived here?’
‘How long is it, June?’ he says, turning his head slowly to the side.
‘Ooh – I should think about thirty-nine years,’ she says.
‘Thirty-nine? That’s funny! I just met an old ambulance colleague of mine outside. He says he’s retiring after thirty-nine years!’
‘Can’t he see forty?’
‘He says that last year would finish him off.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ says Mr Fenway, slowly bringing across a finger to press on the square of gauze I’ve put in the crook of his arm. ‘I don’t doubt it for a minute.’

Mr Francombe’s hair is sticking up so outrageously it’s like he’s spent the night hanging from a rail.
‘It often goes like that,’ he says, licking his palm and attempting to paw it back into place. ‘That’s what happens when you get old, you see. Your hair takes over. Amongst other things.’
No-one could say that Mr Francombe hasn’t embraced technology. Apart from his TV and radio, he has a laptop on his over-chair table, a mobile phone, and a Kindle, in a smart, red fabric case with elastic strap.
‘What are you reading on the Kindle at the moment?’
‘Oh, nothing much,’ he says, giving it a shake. ‘We-ell, I downloaded a couple of things the other day. There’s this one about a guy who runs a small island, like one of them criminal masterminds, you know? And this family’s sent there to basically kill him and everything, but then they’re captured, and they have to try and escape. And then there’s this other one about this guy that’s had this implant in his brain, so he becomes like a plaything in a rich man’s game, hunted all over the island, like – you know? – like an animal or something? And he has to figure out what he’s going to do, and how he’s going to escape.’
‘Same island?’
‘Different island. And then there’s this other one, a bit more life-like, where this young kid from Carlisle has to move south to look for work, and then this terrible thing happens. Which is why I thought I’d download it. ‘Cos that’s where I’m from. Carlisle.’
I want to ask him about the terrible thing, but instead, to make conversation, whilst I’m packing my stuff away, something else occurs to me to say instead.
‘Imagine how freaky it’d be if you downloaded a book on Kindle,’ I tell him,’…completely at random, because you liked the cover or there was just something about it. And then you found out it was exactly your life, the things you said, the clothes you wore, everything. Where you lived, the whole bit. You’d be scared to carry on reading it, because you’d worry what it might tell you about the future.’
He studies me quietly a moment.
‘Nah!’ he says. ‘I don’t think I’d download that one.’

Malcolm has Alzheimer’s. To add to his problems, he suffered a bout of gastro-enteritis last week, had a fall, fractured a rib, and is laid-up on the sofa. Still, his wife Carol is taking good care of him. She’s helped him dress this morning – check shirt buttoned at the cuff, cable knit jumper, combed white hair – and he lies on the sofa, dozing, hugging himself like a child caught in a dream.
A tall, generously proportioned woman in her seventies, the seams of Carol’s coral-pink sweater strain to keep her in. She was about to vacuum the apartment when I arrived. She stands there with it resting against her side – an intimidating machine, straight out of the 80s, as big as a floor sander, with a headlight on the foot for running down the dirt.
‘I won’t start just yet,’ she says, dragging it over to set against the wall. ‘It’s a bit noisy.’
She comes to sit down in an armchair opposite Malcolm whilst I carry out my examination. She still has the plug in her hand, though. She turns it round and round, unconsciously exploring the prongs, the edges, the plug-ness of it.
‘He used to be so mobile a couple of weeks back,’ she says. ‘We’d go for a walk round the park every day, trips to the cafe.’
After a while she says:
‘Carol ordered the bed sides, but they still haven’t come.’
‘Sorry – who ordered the bed sides?’
‘I did.’
‘You did?’
‘Me? Yes.’
‘And you’re Carol?’
‘Yes. I’m Carol.’
‘Sorry. I’m terrible with names.’
But I’m confused. Was she referring to herself in the third person? Did she mean to say someone else but used her own name instead? Are there two Carols? I’m on the verge of asking, but duck out as I can’t think of a tactful way to do it. She saves my confusion with another question.
‘Can Alzheimer’s progress that rapidly?’ she says.
‘I don’t know. I thought Alzheimer’s was pretty gradual. It’s probably a good sign Malcolm was out and about walking just the other week. I think the tummy bug and the fall have set him back, but that’s just a guess. His obs are good, though. I’ll take some blood, see what they show, and then liaise with the GP.’
Taking blood from Malcolm is about as easy as it could possibly be. I roll up his sleeve, his veins are defined, and when I introduce the needle he’s as indifferent as if I’d punctured one of the cushions instead. I draw off a couple of tubes, and tape a square of gauze to the wound.
‘Look!’ says Carol, suddenly waving at the patio window behind me. ‘There’s Brains!’
I turn round. Through the patio window behind me, slightly off to the left, is a tall wooden bird table with a little house on top, elaborately covered with chicken wire. On the roof of the house is a squirrel, standing on his haunches, looking around, his tail twitching.
‘He’s so clever. That’s why we call him Brains. He knows Mrs Flaxman’s away today, otherwise she’d be out there with her broom. It doesn’t matter what she does to protect her nuts, he always manages to find a way in. You watch!’
Sure enough, after a second or two, Brains begins running around the wired house, stopping every now and again to probe for weakness. At one point he’s underneath the table, reaching up through a gap – and then just as suddenly he’s back on top of the house, on his haunches, a peanut in his paws, munching it furiously.
‘He wouldn’t have done so well in our last house,’ says Carol. ‘We downsized, you see. It was all getting too much. Back then we had dogs. The last one was a border terrier, Teefa. That’s him, there…’
She gestures with the plug to a painting above the fireplace. And then I notice for the first time all the border terrier-related stuff around the place, ceramics, photos – even the fob of the keys on the table between us.
‘Oh he was smart, was Teefa! Such a wise old expression. You always had the feeling he could’ve talked if he’d felt the need. He’d just stare at you, like this…’
She leans forward with her head on one side and her eyes wide.
‘…you know – using the power of his mind. He was such a character.’
‘He sounds cute. Teefa. What’s that – German?’
‘Teefa?’
‘Yeah. What is that? Where does that come from?’
Carol stares at me in much the same way that she had a moment before, her eyes wide again, her head on one side.
‘Teefa,’ she says. ‘T for Terrier.’

A tough round of calls, tight but do-able.
As always when the schedule’s busy like this, I’ve annotated the list in my diary, marking the addresses with circles or shaded circles, triangles or squares, or shaded squares with arrows, to group them according to proximity and time of day (a system that makes sense to me but would take Bletchley Park a month to crack). The last call is a simple one: drop off two tall, narrow wheeled zimmer-frames (code-name: TNWZFx2) to a John Canning at number fifteen, Arnold Avenue.
I’ve been to Arnold Avenue any number of times. I figure that a drop there will leave me well-positioned for the run back to hospital, given the flow of traffic, so I leave John and his TNWZFx2 till last.
Everything goes smoothly to plan. I’ve assessed patients, taken bloods, delivered equipment, made referrals – reaching a pitch of efficiency that’s a terrifying hybrid of expediency and hysteria. Last call –  the shaded square with the arrow: fifteen Arnold Avenue.
I pull up outside, take the frames, go to the front door. A handwritten sign taped to the knocker: Please come round the back. Through a rusted, filigree iron gate so narrow and overgrown it’s a job to fit through with the frames. Eventually I’m in the back garden. I can see John in the kitchen, just about to take his kitchen trolley through to the gloomy interior. I rap on the window. He struggles to turn round, bobbing his head in an effort to see who it is. I hold up one of the frames and point to it. He paddles the air with his hand miming Come in! Come in! I go round to the kitchen door and step inside, struggling to find space and getting horribly tangled up.
‘Hello, John!’ I say, when I’ve sorted myself out and put my diary on the draining board to shake his hand. ‘I’m Jim, from the hospital community team, come to deliver your frames.’
‘I don’t need any frames. I’ve got this.’
He gives his kitchen trolley a little shake.
I push my hair back and put my hands on my hips.
‘Yes. Well. They’re great, of course. But the thing with those trolleys is they haven’t got any brakes and they tend to run away with you. A zimmer frame is a little more steady.’
He doesn’t look convinced.
‘Who sent you?’ he says.
‘I’m guessing you must have had a visit from an occupational therapist recently?’
‘Ye-es.’
‘So they must’ve ordered these for you because they think you needed them. One for downstairs, one for up.’
‘But I’m happy with this.’ He gives the kitchen trolley another little shake. ‘It’s nice of you to come, but I really don’t want anything else. You can’t carry anything on those frames, can you? You need both hands. The trolley’s got a shelf for all my bits and pieces.’
He edges the trolley forward so I can see: tissues, newspaper, empty cup, teeth.
‘You are John Canning,’ I say, flipping open the diary.
‘Ye-es.’
‘Well. I mean – you don’t have to take them if you don’t think they’ll be useful.’
He repositions his glasses.
‘One for downstairs and one for upstairs, did you say?’
‘Yes. I think that’s the idea.’
‘But this is a bungalow.’
‘Is it?’
He straightens.
‘I think you want Arnold Avenue,’ he says.
‘I do! Why – what’s this, then?’
‘Arnold Way.’
‘Oh. I thought you said you were John Canning?’
‘Yes. Tom Kenney, ye-es.’
I stand there helplessly for a moment. Arnold Avenue. I can see it on the map as clearly as if a ghostly A to Z had appeared in front of me open at page twenty-nine: a cheeky little stub of road three miles further west.
‘Don’t worry,’ he says, reaching out and patting me on the shoulder. ‘Lots of people have made that mistake. You wouldn’t believe all the things I’ve had coming through my gate over the years.’
He holds out his hand for me to shake again. ‘But never mind. Thanks for dropping by. Always nice to see a new face.’

There’s a pause between Helena hearing the question and answering, as if she’s processing the request in a mechanical way, like one of those seaside fortune tellers, a mannequin in a glass booth whose jaw works up and down for a moment before the eyes illuminate and a printed card gets dispensed.
I’m fine, really. There’s nothing the matter. A little bored, perhaps.
She’s as comfortable as you could expect, for someone of such advanced age. The care home is small and personable; her room has windows on two sides, overlooking the garden; she has everything to hand, her fortifying drinks, her remote control, her copy of The Radio Times, a book or two, and around her armchair on the wall, a selection of watercolour sketches she’s painted over the years. The sketches are beautifully observed. A busy French marketplace. A dilapidated barn with overgrown machinery. A fallen tree.
I ask her if she still paints.
I sketch a little she says. Every once in a while they hold an art class downstairs. I didn’t much like it. They’re just copying, really. I need to get out on my own. I need to be there, working from the life, and that’s a little difficult these days, as you can see.
She tells me a little about her life. How she worked as a code-breaker during the war. How she tried to earn a living as an artist but was forced to work in the Civil Service to supplement her income. And when after many happy years together her husband died, she had to move because the house was too big and she felt lonely.
My niece found this place for me she says. It’s perfectly nice. It’s just I feel rather tired and at the end of everything.
I finish the examination, take blood as requested, write out the ticket.
‘I can imagine you as a code-breaker,’ I tell her, packing away. ‘I mean – looking at your paintings. You’ve obviously got such a strong feeling for pattern and design. That marketplace. I mean – everything just hangs together so beautifully. I bet you’re good at crosswords, too.’
Yes she says, after a long pause. The easy ones.

Maud puts her cinnamon porridge aside.
‘That’s enough of that,’ she says. ‘Now then. Where’s my tea?’
There’s only one photo on the mantelpiece. Her brother, Clive, dead these fifty years, in a bow tie and tux, his hair shining, his moustache a dashing pencil line, leaning back in an ecstasy of expression, a violin tucked under his chin.
‘He could’ve played in an orchestra if he’d had the training. Self-taught, you see. Wonderfully musical. Just a little distracted, d’you know? Oh, he played in jazz trios, dance bands, that sort of thing. He did well enough. I made him a violin once. He said it sounded all right. Now look. I can barely hold a spoon.’
Despite her advanced age and extreme decrepitude, you can still see the woman Maud once was. There’s something very pleasing about the shape of her face, the play of light about her eyes.
‘What did you do for a living, before you retired?’
‘I never retired!’ she says, putting the tea back down. ‘But there was the war to begin with, of course. I went to Cardiff of all places, to teach infants in a little school there. I must have been about twenty or so. Poor Cardiff. It was bombed pretty comprehensively. They had the docks, you see? The town hall came through without a scratch, but the docks and the industrial areas took a pounding. The school I worked in was almost completely destroyed after one raid. The smell of pump water on burnt wood… there’s something particularly dreadful about that. You can smell it for days afterwards. It settles into everything. Still – even though most of the school was destroyed, the annexe was still serviceable so we used that. The next day there was a rumour that the King and Queen were coming to visit the docks. To rally the troops and that kind of thing. I wasn’t convinced, but the children persuaded me to go outside and ask a constable who was on duty in the street. Yes, he said, although I don’t know how you heard about that, he said. It’s supposed to be top secret. Anyhow, he said, yes it was true, the King and Queen are coming down to see the docks and the hospital, and he was there because when they were finished they’d be driving out on this road to the station. Well of course as soon as the children heard that they wanted to come out and wave to them on the pavement. They didn’t have flags, but they had their little white handkerchiefs, and they practised waving those. I thought it looked a little like surrendering, but there you are, I kept quiet about that. It was remarkable, though, how optimistic they were, after everything we’d been through. So eventually the constable said he’d rap on the window when the King and Queen were approaching. And sure enough, the signal duly came, like a pigeon, rap-rap-rapping on the glass. So the children all rushed out with their handkerchiefs and stood on the pavement, waving them like mad, and all these cars and motorcycles came round the corner, and then came to a stop, and then the next thing we knew, the King and Queen were getting out to have a chat with us all, which was absolutely marvellous. It made the papers the next day. The King made a point of saying that after all the suffering and destruction he’d seen that morning, it lifted his spirits to see all these smiling children.
‘It’s odd, what stays with you. I remember one particular bombing raid. It was the middle of the night, and the Germans dropped flares to light up the city. They must have been attached to balloons or something, because they drifted down so slowly, in circles, lighting everything up with such a fierce white light it was like daytime. It was so beautiful, but at the same time, so unpleasant, if you see what I mean? To be laid bare like that, with all those the bombers droning towards you in the distance. I’ll never forget those lights. They reminded me of a chandelier in a dance hall Clive played in once. Bigger, of course. Monstrous! And slowly turning as they drifted down. And there wasn’t a damned thing anyone could do about it.’

‘I don’t like needles.’
‘It’s understandable.’
‘Do you see it a lot, then?’
‘A fair bit. What happens when you see a needle?’
‘I don’t know. I just come over all – anxious.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll be as gentle as I can.’
‘They normally struggle, you see?’
‘Do they? Oh dear!’
‘They struggle like anything. There was one nurse, she kept jabbing me and jabbing me. Rooting around she was, waggling it around, like she was trying to hook a duck at the fair. This other nurse had to pull her off.’
‘Well I won’t do that. If I can’t get it first go, I won’t keep on. I’ll call in the specialists.’
‘They said you were a specialist.’
‘Did they?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh. Well – I’m not bad. I don’t do it all day every day, like the phlebs. But I have a go.’
‘That doesn’t fill me with confidence.’
‘No?’
‘No. I don’t want you having a go. I want you not to hurt me.’
‘I’ll do my best. Let’s just roll your sleeve up and see what we’ve got.’

Reluctantly he unbuttons his cuff and rolls his shirt sleeve up, keeping his eyes on me. Playing on the little portable TV opposite is a re-run of a seventies show, Land of the Giants. Some astronauts have crash-landed on a planet identical to earth, except everything’s much bigger. It’s hard to resist watching some of the show whilst I lay out my kit. Two giant scientists have one of the astronauts sellotaped to their work bench. They prod her with the end of a pencil, making her scream, whilst two of her colleagues hide behind a lunch box, wondering what to do.

‘At least it’s not as bad as it used to be.’
‘What isn’t?’
‘Needles. They used to have these gigantic bloody things. It’d take two of them just to carry it in the room.’
‘A bit like the show.’
‘What show?’
‘Land of the Giants. Anyway – I think you’re right. I think things have improved.’
‘What d’you reckon, then? Will you get any?’
‘I think so. There’s a nice one, look. And there. Maybe last time when they tried you were dehydrated or something.’
‘Hmm.’
‘But don’t worry. I only need to get enough for these two little tubes.’
‘There was this one girl, though. Used to work out of the surgery. She understood me. She’d come round, give me a nice big smile, and before I knew it she was packing up to go. And I’d say to her, I’d say – don’t you want any blood today, then? And she’d say to me I’ve already got it!’
‘Wow. Shame she wasn’t available today.’
‘I’ve already got it! I didn’t even know she’d started!’
‘She sounds amazing.’
‘She was an absolute dream.’
‘I’d like to meet her.’
‘When the surgery rang and said they were sending a specialist round I thought that’s who they meant.’
‘Oh.’
‘And then you walk in.’
‘Okay. Here we go, then…’
‘Christ…’

Behind me in the Land of the Giants, the two astronauts have snuck out onto the workbench whilst the giant scientists have turned their backs. They cut through the tape and set their colleague free. But – the whole thing was a trap! Lights are flashing, klaxons sounding, giants running around.

‘All done.’
‘Really?’
‘Yep. It wasn’t too bad in the end. Put your finger here. I’ll give you a plaster in a minute.’

He keeps his finger on the piece of gauze in the crook of his elbow whilst I write out the form. Land of the Giants has taken a break, just as the giant scientists are about to drop a cage on the astronauts; for now, though, it’s an advert for stair lifts.

‘Right! I’ll run these samples down the path lab and your GP can check the results online in a few hours. And that’s it! I’ll just put a little plaster on there for you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. I’ll see myself out.’

In the lobby, quite unexpectedly, I find that I have to fight a giant spider with one of the lancets in my pocket. It’s touch and go, especially as I trip over and fall flat on my back. Just as the spider veers over me waggling its legs, ready to chaw down, somehow, with my last remaining strength, I manage to hold up the lancet. It lodges in the spider’s abdomen. Spider goo covers me from head to foot – but it’s okay. I’ve got some cleansing wipes in the boot of my car. Only – how the hell am I going to reach them?