No Cure for Death E-Book

Hazel Holt

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 292

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

Something peculiar is going on at the Group Medical Practice in Taviscombe. Sheila Malory can't help but feel it may be linked with the unexpected arrival of Dr Morrison. Arrogant and cold-mannered, his alleged misdiagnosis of a local patient who later died has made him the focus of village rumour. When Dr Morrison is found dead, apparently murdered, it is assumed to be a random act of violence. However Sheila Malory is not convinced. Had Dr Morrison been involved in some sort of dangerous business in London. Or did someone local have a motive for wanting him out of the way? A twisting mystery, No Cure for Death should not be prescribed for the faint-hearted.

Leseprobe

No Cure for Death

HAZEL HOLT

For

Dr Jan Fergus and Fr Gabriel Myers OSB, dear friends and fellow CMY enthusiasts.

Contents

Title PageDedicationChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyAbout the AuthorBy Hazel HoltCopyright

Chapter One

“I must say I do feel a fool,” I said to Rosemary when she came round to sympathise. “It was such a stupid thing to do.”

“What happened?” Rosemary asked.

“I suppose there was some water on the floor – I’d been draining the potatoes – and I was wearing an old pair of slippers and the soles are a bit shiny, so I simply skidded across the kitchen floor and crashed into the worktop and banged my wrist really hard.”

“How awful. It must have been very painful.”

“It was, dreadful. I thought I’d just bruised it and put some arnica on but it was still pretty miserable the next morning. Anyway, Michael came round to bring me some early peas from their garden and, being a dutiful son, insisted on taking me to casualty to have it X-rayed. They said it was fractured and put this horrible plaster on.”

“Oh poor you, how wretched.”

“It’s not as bad as it might be. They left my fingers free so I can pick things up, but I can’t move anything heavy.”

I moved over to put the kettle on but Rosemary forestalled me.

“No, let me.” She plugged it in and took out the cups and things. “How are you managing?”

“Not too bad. Michael and Thea wanted me to go and stay with them until the plaster’s off, but I said no. I can cope, more or less, and it would be difficult with the animals. Which reminds me, can you open a couple of tins of food for them. I forgot to ask Thea when she was here – she comes in every day, bless her – and I do find those ring-pull cans awkward.”

“Of course. How long have you got to keep the plaster on?”

“I’ve got to go back in a fortnight and they’ll see how it’s going. Thank heavens it’s my left wrist – I’m dreadfully right-handed and I couldn’t have coped if that one had gone.”

“Well, for goodness sake let me know if I can do anything. What about shopping?”

“I can drive short distances so I can get to the shops.”

“What about taking Tris for walks? I can easily take him when I take Alpha – they get on perfectly well together.”

“It’s sweet of you to offer, but he’s getting on a bit and doesn’t need a lot of exercise so he’s all right running about in the garden while the weather’s fine.”

“Well, just say, won’t you.”

“It’s Foss who’s the trouble. He refuses to believe that I could have anything wrong with me that might interfere with his comfort!”

As if on cue, there was a thump as of a cat jumping off a bed, the sound of a little light claw sharpening on the stair carpet and Foss strolled into the kitchen demanding food.

“You see!” I said.

Rosemary smiled and opened a tin of cat food, spooned some out into a dish and put it down for Foss who cleared the dish rapidly and looked up for more.

“He’s pretending to be starving because you’re here,” I said. “Normally he only picks at that particular cat food.”

“Shall I pour the tea?” Rosemary asked.

“Oh yes please. And there are some biscuits in that blue tin.”

Foss, seeing that he had lost our attention, moved off into the sitting room.

“So,” Rosemary said. “What exactly have you broken, did they say?”

“Oh it’s not bad – a hairline fracture of the radius apparently.”

“Oh yes – the ulna and the radius, I remember them from biology!”

“How clever of you. I don’t remember anything from biology. I was terrified of Miss Udall; she was so sarcastic. I always sat at the back and tried to keep my head down and out of her sight! Thank goodness I only had to do it for one year – I simply couldn’t have got to the stage where you had to cut up frogs.”

“Mmm, she was formidable wasn’t she? Mind you, the science people said she was an absolutely brilliant teacher.”

“Possibly, but details of the ulna and radius have passed me by. I was only glad to know it wasn’t serious. Which reminds me. I saw poor Alan Johnson when I was at the hospital. He was just going in to have some more tests – his heart’s playing up again. He looked awful, so I really don’t think I should complain about a hairline fracture, however inconvenient.”

“Anyway,” Rosemary said, “let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

It’s funny the sort of things you can’t do with only one useable hand, things you’ve always taken for granted. I couldn’t get into certain garments (trousers and tights were a problem so I was glad the weather was warm), I found I was using the microwave quite a bit since preparing food was difficult and I found it very tiresome to have to remember to put a plastic bag over my hand and wrist when I was washing or washing up. And all the things everyone has always said about the misery of itching under the plaster (scratching with a knitting needle was absolutely useless) were only too true. But I managed, and really got quite good at coping with a one-handed life. Still, it was with considerable relief that I went back to casualty when the fortnight was up.

I’m a member of the Hospital Friends Committee and know most of the staff at the hospital, so Sandra Bradshaw, the sister on duty, greeted me with the easy familiarity of an old acquaintance.

“Well Sheila, what have you been up to? That plaster looks a bit the worse for wear!”

“I know,” I said guiltily. “I knocked over a tin of soup and it went everywhere. I did try to clean this wretched thing, but I only made it worse!”

“Tomato?”

“Carrot and coriander.”

“Very colourful anyway. Right then.” She produced a pair of shears and I shut my eyes while she cut the plaster away.

“Goodness, that’s better,” I said. “Just to feel the air on my arm again!”

“Don’t get too excited, we’ve got to see how it’s mending. I’ll send you into X-ray and then Mr Wheeler can see how it’s getting on.”

While I was waiting my turn in the X-ray department I thought how lucky we are to have such a good hospital in Taviscombe. It’s a Cottage Hospital, which means that our local GPs take it in turns to be the doctors on duty, but we also have clinics on certain days taken by specialists from the main Taunton hospital. Best of both worlds really. An old fashioned way to run a hospital – perhaps that’s why it works so well. And because most of us, staff and patients, have lived in Taviscombe all our lives, there’s a sort of family atmosphere that you don’t get in big city hospitals.

Someone came and sat down beside me. It was Susan Campbell, Alan Johnson’s sister.

“Hello,” I said, “Are you all right? What’s the matter?”

“Oh, my knee’s been giving me a lot of trouble so they’re going to see if there’s anything wrong or if it’s just arthritis.”

“I’m so sorry. I thought I hadn’t seen you about for a while.”

“Well, it wasn’t just that. Alan’s been quite ill and I haven’t been able to get about much anyway. He’s still pretty bad. Fiona’s with him today while I’m out – I don’t like to leave him alone.”

Fiona is Susan’s daughter.

“He’s very lucky to have you both living with him, I can’t imagine how he’d cope otherwise.”

“That’s really why we came back from Montreal when Mary died,” Susan said. “I didn’t like to think of him trying to cope all alone.”

“I think it was very noble of you to give up your life there.”

“Oh it wasn’t a big deal. I had thought of coming back when Jim, my husband, died, but Fiona was still a teenager and I didn’t want to upset her schooling, so we just stayed. But I’ve always wanted to come back to Taviscombe.”

“Well, give Alan my kind regards,” I said as I got up to take my turn.

I was sitting on yet another bench, clutching the envelope containing my X-ray when Dr Macdonald, my own GP, came by. He greeted me absently and I thought he looked unusually upset and worried. He went into the office next to where I was sitting and was joined soon after by Dr Howard, one of the members of Taviscombe’s other group practice. There was a low murmur of conversation, but then I heard Alec Macdonald’s voice rising and saying, “It’s quite impossible! I’ve spoken to him about it very strongly and told him that it’s absolutely the last thing the practice needs just now.” His voice dropped again and, as I was straining to hear more, Sandra came and called me in to see Mr Wheeler.

He was tall and thin, with his hair, surprisingly, fashionably spiky and en brosse. Like all figures in authority (not just policemen) he seemed, to my elderly eye, very young. However, he dealt most competently with my wrist.

“It will take a little while to mend completely,” he said. “I know it’s the last thing you want to hear, but your age is against you, I’m afraid. Still, you should regain the full use of it. You must just be patient.”

“I haven’t got to have another horrible plaster on it, have I?”

He smiled. “No, I think we can get away with just strapping it up, but you must promise to rest it and keep it in the sling as much as possible.”

“Oh yes,” I said fervently. “I promise.”

Sandra gave me another appointment for three weeks’ time and I was on my way out when I saw Alec Macdonald again, on his way to visit the general ward. He was going up the stairs slowly as if it was difficult for him to make any sort of effort, most unlike his usual brisk and lively progress, and I wondered what it was that had upset him so much. Outside, on a lovely early summer day, rejoicing in my freedom from the itchy plaster cast, I ran into Rosemary who insisted that we should go to the Buttery for coffee (“and a nice sugary bun”) to celebrate.

“Well, you look better than when I saw you last,” she said when we were settled in a quiet corner. “I see you’ve got the plaster off.”

“Such a relief. Not that I can do much more because it’s all strapped up and Sandra – you remember Sandra Bradshaw, Molly’s daughter, she’s a Sister there now – made me promise faithfully not to use it much. Still, the bliss of no itching!”

“Well do be careful, you don’t want to set yourself back. What’s this Wheeler person like? Roger came across him in some case or other and said he was very competent.”

Roger is Rosemary’s son-in-law and a Chief Inspector in CID.

“He’s certainly that. Nice, I thought, though he looks a bit trendy – hair spiked up a bit with gel, which looked odd with a suit.”

“Good heavens, what is the medical profession coming to!”

“I saw Alec Macdonald while I was waiting. Now he really looked his age, he was obviously upset about something and seemed as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.”

“Well he is the senior partner of that practice and that must be pretty stressful. Besides, he’s getting on a bit – I should think he’ll be retiring soon.”

“Oh dear, I hope not. He’s been our doctor for ages. I’d hate to have to get used to someone else.”

“Jilly says that Joanna Stevenson is very nice.”

“I suppose there’s a lot to be said for a female doctor, at least they have some idea of what one is going through.”

“Though I gather she seemed a bit upset last week when Jilly took Delia in about that poisoned finger she has. Anyhow, Jilly said that although Dr Stevenson was perfectly good with Delia – she’s finally put her on an antibiotic – she was very distrait and not her usual self. I wonder what’s going on there.”

“Oh well, if there’s any sort of scandal it’ll turn up on the front page of the Free Press.”

“Which reminds me,” Rosemary said, “did you see that article last week about the new traffic system in the town at the bottom of West Street? It’s really dreadful.”

“I know,” I agreed. “There’s going to be a bad accident there. Just painting white lines in the road like that – nobody knows who has right of way and as for the poor pedestrians! I nearly got mown down the other day by a car turning left without indicating.”

“It’s bad enough for the locals who know it’s a death trap, but all the visitors just drive blithely on not knowing what they’re supposed to do. And it’ll get worse as the season goes on.”

Taviscombe was beginning to fill up with summer visitors. The amusement arcades on the sea front opened up, boards advertising “All-day breakfasts” and “Cream teas” appeared outside the cafes, and racks of cheap clothing from the shops in the Avenue obstructed the pavements. There were fewer places to park the car along the sea front and, because of the summer Council regulations, I could no longer walk Tris on the beach. Like most residents, I regard the summer invasion with dismay, irritable at the crowded pavements, the longer queues at the supermarket checkouts, the general feeling that the town had been taken over by strangers, but, then, I feel mean at wanting to deny everyone those delights of our coast and hills that we residents so often take for granted.

This day, however, the crossness predominated when I went into Woolworth’s to get some shoe polish and found the place full of dawdling holiday-makers and over-excited children (who should, surely, have been in school) blocking the aisles when I was in a hurry. I’d come to a halt in the garden section when a voice behind me said:

“I don’t know why it is, but it seems to me that the holiday season starts earlier every year.” I turned and found Alec Macdonald standing behind me, awkwardly burdened by a brightly packaged flowering cherry tree. “How are you, Sheila?” he went on. “I saw you in casualty – sorry I didn’t have time to say hello properly.” He indicated the sling that I was dutifully wearing. “What’s all this?”

I told him about my fractured wrist and said I’d just been in to have the plaster off and to see Mr Wheeler.

“Oh Wheeler’s a good man, he’ll see you all right.”

“He seemed very nice. I’ve got to see him again in three weeks’ time.”

“Splendid. You’ll be fine.”

He nodded benevolently and made his way through the throng towards the door. He seemed to be his normal cheerful self again so presumably whatever had been upsetting him had been resolved. As Rosemary had said, being the head of a large practice was a stressful business. I found my shoe polish and on my way out I passed the videos and couldn’t resist browsing through the children’s section to see if there was something suitable to take with me when I went to have supper with Michael and Thea.

“I don’t think she’s got this Teletubbies one, has she?” I asked when I arrived.

“Alice,” Thea called, “come and see what Gran has brought you.”

A small sturdy figure came hurtling into the room and hugged me round the knees.

“Alice, careful!” Thea admonished. “Mind poor Gran’s wrist.”

“She’s fine,” I said embracing my granddaughter with one arm, “aren’t you my love?”

“Present!” Alice said, going straight to the point as small children do.

The video was a success, though the grown-ups felt that seeing it through twice was quite enough. Alice reluctantly went up for her bath on the understanding that I would come and read to her (“How did the cow jump over the moon, Gran?” “What’s a cockle shell?”), so that by the time we all sat down to supper I was quite tired.

“So how did you get on at the hospital?” Thea asked as she spooned out a generous helping of fish pie. “I thought I’d do something soft that you could eat one-handed.”

“Mm, it’s lovely,” I said, “the smoked haddock makes all the difference. It was wonderful to get the plaster off. The strapping’s a bit uncomfortable but at least it doesn’t itch!”

“Well, you be careful,” Michael said severely. “Don’t go mad.”

“As if I would.”

“I know for a fact,” he continued, “that you’ve got all those plug plants that need potting on. Now promise me that you’ll leave them till the weekend and I’ll come round and do them for you.”

“There’s no need, really. I can do them a few at a time…”

“No!”

“Well, if you’re sure. You both have such busy lives and I really must do what I can.”

“I tell you what you can do,” Thea said. “You can come with me to the open morning at Alice’s nursery school. It’s on Friday.”

“Oh yes, I’d love to. Goodness, though, isn’t it terrifying how time flies. Nursery school already – it’ll be proper school next.”

“Then university,” Michael said “then a job, then marriage. Should I start saving up for the wedding now? I believe it costs a fortune.”

I laughed. “All right, I know I’m being silly, but time does whiz by. Rosemary was only saying this morning that Dr Macdonald’s going to retire soon.”

“Well he must be getting on,” Michael said.

“I suppose he must,” I said sadly, “but I still think of him as the young man who took over the practice from old Dr Milner. Oh well, we’re all getting old.”

“You can’t get old,” Michael said. “With all you’ve got to do there simply won’t be time.”

Chapter Two

“Have you heard about Kenneth Webster?”

I was resentfully spooning instant coffee into a tray full of cups under Anthea’s watchful eye. I usually manage to avoid the weekly coffee mornings at Brunswick Lodge but Anthea had said it was an emergency (“Marjorie Read’s daughter’s had her baby early so she’s had to go up to Leamington to look after the twins. I tried everyone else – you were the last resort.” Anthea is not known for her diplomacy).

“No, what about him?”

“In hospital in Taunton,” Anthea said. “Taken in as an emergency last Friday. Moira is very upset.”

“How awful. What is it?”

“Heart attack. He’s in intensive care, it’s touch and go.”

“Oh dear, how dreadful. I’d no idea he’d been ill.”

“Nor had he,” Anthea said, filling up a milk jug from the bottle. “He’d had these pains for a long time and they said it was just mild angina, and then he collapsed like that.”

“But surely…”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you, but no, Dr Morrison would have it that it wasn’t anything serious, and now look what’s happened.”

“That’s terrible!”

“Mind you, I’ve never liked the man. I had to see him once when Dr Macdonald was away and I thought he was downright rude. Refused to give me an antibiotic for my bad flu and gave me the most impertinent lecture about bacteria and viruses – some such nonsense, I didn’t take in half of it. I’m not in the least surprised he got it wrong in poor Kenneth’s case!”

“I wonder if that’s why Dr Macdonald was looking so worried,” I said.

“Worried?”

“Yes, I saw him at the hospital when I went to have my plaster off.”

“He might well be worried with mistakes like that being made in his practice,” Anthea said severely. “That’s what happens when you have these group practices. Now when I used to go to Dr Milner things were quite different. A proper family doctor, someone with a real sense of vocation, not like these young things off on courses whenever you want them!” She poured sugar into a bowl and brought out a collection of teaspoons. “Now then, Sheila, we’ll have those cups over there by the urn. Oh no, of course, you can’t manage the tray with that wrist can you? I’ll do it, you just bring the spoons, I imagine you can manage that.”

“You know Anthea,” I said to Rosemary when she rang to see how I was, “she made me feel that having a fractured wrist was all my fault – though I suppose it was if you come to think of it – but done on purpose to make life difficult for her.”

Rosemary laughed. “She doesn’t mean it – well you know that – she’s a kind-hearted soul. She’d do anything for you, but I do agree that she can be maddening! But poor old Ken Webster though, what a dreadful thing to have happened!”

“It does seem a bit off. I mean, if he’s been complaining of pains for some time then I would have thought that Dr Morrison might have done something about it.”

“I believe angina’s a bit tricky,” Rosemary said. “Jack’s Uncle Gerald had it for ages and then went, just like that.”

“I suppose. I just hope poor Ken’s all right – it would be pretty awkward for Dr Morrison if he died.”

“I’ve never seen him – as a doctor I mean – what’s he like?”

“I only saw him once,” I said, “about a year ago, when I had a chest infection. He seemed all right. A bit morose, I thought, definitely not chatty.”

“Morose isn’t really what you want in a doctor,” Rosemary said thoughtfully. “Chat does ease things along somehow.”

“And he was very uncooperative about an X-ray, now I come to think of it,” I said. “I felt he was counting the pennies in a rather grudging way. I mean, I know they’ve got to work to a budget but he seemed to me to be carrying things a bit far! Anyway, I think he’s the sort of person who thinks he’s always right – a bit arrogant and sure of himself.”

“Perhaps that’s what happened with Ken.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. That’s probably why he put off consulting someone else until it was too late. Well, certainly Anthea doesn’t think much of him, she was very scathing. Oh yes, that reminds me, she asked if I’d put my name down for the theatre party to Bath that she’s organising. Are you going?”

“I’d have loved to but Jilly has to take Delia to the dentist that day and I promised I’d fetch Alex from school. Are you going?”

“I wasn’t sure – I seem to have seen The Seagull so many times, but it is a pre-London production and it is Sonia Marshall and she’s always worth seeing. Anyway, I didn’t really have a choice. Anthea said they needed some more people to fill the coach so that was that!”

“I expect you’ll enjoy it,” Rosemary said. “And it’s always nice to go to Bath.”

I arrived at the coach stop rather late (trying, unsuccessfully, to get Foss in before I left) and the only remaining seat was the one next to Anthea, who spent the journey complaining about the difficulties of organising anything (with special emphasis on the problems of block booking for a matinée and the vagaries of the coach company) and vowing she would never take on such a thankless task ever again. Since this was standard procedure for such occasions, I let it all flow over me, simply saying “How awful” and “Poor you” at intervals and occupied the journey with my own thoughts and anticipation of the treat to come.

I do love what I always think of as a Proper Theatre. Modern provincial theatres are splendid and give those of us who live outside the big cities a chance to see some sort of dramatic entertainment. But I do miss the plush, the gilt and the brilliance of the chandeliers, the atmosphere, in effect, of an old theatre. The Theatre Royal in Bath is so full of history that you feel it would be quite natural for the curtain to rise on Kean’s Othelloor Mrs Siddons’ Lady Macbeth. In the old days Peter and I used to have what we called Theatre Week, when we’d have a glorious splurge and spend a whole week in London, going to a matinée and an evening performance every day. We ended up with a sort of cultural indigestion, but it was wonderful, and now that I get up to London so rarely – and even then for more mundane reasons than theatre-going – I do miss the sheer pleasure of just being there and watching the curtain (provincial theatres often don’t have a curtain) slowly rising, a thrill that takes me back to those magic moments in my childhood when I could hardly breathe for excitement.

It was a really good production and we all reassembled in the coach feeling well pleased with our day. Determined to avoid a return journey with Anthea, I made my way to the back of the coach and found a seat next to Susan Campbell’s daughter Fiona.

“Hello,” I said, “do you mind if I sit with you.”

“Please do,” she said. “Would you rather sit by the window?”

“No this is fine. Did you enjoy the play?”

“Oh yes. Sonia Marshall was wonderful – I’ve only ever seen her on television before – that hat she wore, fantastic! And I thought the end where the girl comes back was very well done and where the young man shoots himself, that was very sad.”

“Yes,” I said, slightly taken aback by this rather prosaic appreciation of Chekhov’s masterpiece. “It was, wasn’t it? I was so pleased to see you here,” I went on. “I’m sure you deserve a treat after all your splendid work in looking after poor Alan. How is he?”

“It’s good news,” Fiona said. “Dr Morrison referred him to a consultant and they’re going to do a by-pass. They reckon that will make a lot of difference.”

“I’m sure it will,” I said warmly. “I’ve known several people who’ve had it done and it’s completely transformed their lives. When are they going to do it?”

“Quite soon, he’s having it done privately in Bristol.”

“Well, I do hope all goes well. It should make life easier for you and your mother. How is she, by the way? I saw her in X-ray last week. A problem with her knee, I think she said.”

“Oh that’s all right – it was just a pulled ligament. She’s a bit tired and run-down.”

“Not surprising! Well, let me know how the operation goes.”

“Perhaps you’d come and see him when he gets home – he always likes to see visitors.”

“Of course. I’d like that.”

“Well,” Rosemary said, “Dr Morrison’s obviously taken fright after what happened to Ken – so he isn’t taking any chances with Alan.”

“What’s happened to Ken?”

“Haven’t you heard? He died two days ago.”

“No!”

“Another massive heart attack.”

“How dreadful. Awful for Moira. And for their son.”

“Richard? Yes, he came down from London when Ken first went into hospital. He’s in a terrible state – talking about suing the practice, that sort of thing.”

“Oh dear. That will upset Moira even more.”

“I’m afraid so. And, of course, it might have happened anyway – I think they’d have a job to prove negligence.”

“Still,” I said, “they’ll always say it was Dr Morrison’s fault, no matter what, and I must say I don’t really blame them. I wonder how he’s feeling now?”

As it happened I saw Dr Morrison a few days later. I was in the surgery waiting to arrange for a new prescription when he came through on his way out – a tall man though slightly built, really rather good looking if you like that dark, saturnine type, in his early forties I suppose, though he could be any age. He strode through the waiting room, looking straight ahead, ignoring the dozen people sitting there, where the other doctors would have acknowledged their presence with a smile or a nod.

“He’s a funny sort of man,” a voice behind me in the queue at the reception desk. It was Mrs Fielding, an elderly woman I knew slightly from Brunswick Lodge. “I wouldn’t fancy him as my doctor. That Dr Morrison, the one who’s just gone out. You hear all sorts about him.”

“Really?”

“Thinks a lot of himself, won’t ever admit he might be wrong. They say he’s lost several patients through that.”

I saw that the rumours were already flying about and I was just about to ask what she’d heard, when it was my turn at Reception so I had to move on.

Alan Johnson had his operation, and when he was back home again, Susan rang me and asked if I’d go and see him.

“I wonder if you’d mind coming tomorrow afternoon?” she asked. “Only I’ve got an appointment to have my eyes tested and Fiona’s at work and I’d feel better if someone could be here.”

“No that’s fine,” I said. “What time?”

“Oh that is good of you. Would about half past three be all right?”

When I arrived she greeted me warmly. “Thank you so much for coming. He’s been really looking forward to seeing you. He gets very fed up just sitting about watching TV and it’ll do him the world of good to see an old friend.”

Susan was wearing her coat when she opened the door to me.

“Forgive me if I dash off straight away, won’t you,” she said, “only I’d like to do a bit of shopping before my appointment. I’ve only just made the tea and I’ve left it all ready in the sitting room if you wouldn’t mind helping yourself…”

I found Alan sitting in front of the television watching a garden make-over programme.

“No don’t try to get up,” I said as he cast aside the rug over his knees and made as if to rise. “How are you?”

“Better I suppose,” he said grudgingly. “No, that’s not fair – I’m much better – just that I get bored hanging about the house like this watching rubbishy television programmes. I ask you – fancy covering your garden with gravel and planks of wood – decking,” he pronounced the word with loathing. “What’s wrong with a nice bit of grass, that’s what I’d like to know!”

I laughed. “Oh I do agree. I can’t bear to think how many creepy-crawlies might be living under all that wood! Never mind, you’ll soon be out and about. You’re looking so much better.”

“Yes, well,” he said reluctant quite to relinquish his invalid state. “I’ve a way to go yet, but they’re pleased with how the operation went.”

“It’s a pity you couldn’t have had it before.”

“Dr Morrison said it was the last resort, he wanted to try medication first.”

“Still…”

“I know some people don’t like him but I’ve always got on well with him. Doesn’t say much but he knows what he’s doing. He explained a lot about heart conditions. Of course, there’s always been that problem in my family. I told him, my father and his brother both died of heart and then there’s Susan.”

“Susan?”

“Yes, she’s had a problem for years. She had to have a pace-maker fitted when she was in Canada.”

“Really? I never knew that.”

“Well, you know Susan, not one to make a fuss. Anyway, Dr Morrison was very interested – he’s doing some sort of research for a pharmaceutical company about genes or something.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Oh yes. That’s why it’s more difficult to get an appointment to see him, he’s only in two days a week.”

“That’s not very satisfactory, surely.”

“Oh a lot of them are doing it now. I suppose it’s all extra money. Mind you, I think some of the other doctors in the practice are a bit annoyed about it.”

“I’m not surprised if it’s all extra work for them.”

“I suppose so, or else they’re jealous that they didn’t get in there first!”

I laughed. “It could be that. Now then, shall I pour the tea?”

Susan had laid out the tea things on one of the small Oriental tables that were scattered about the room. In his young days Alan had worked as an engineer in India and the Middle East.

“Such a pretty table,” I said as I put milk into the cups and cut slices of the ginger cake that Susan had left. “You have some lovely things.”

“Yes, some of the high-ups in the Gulf were always giving us presents – quite embarrassing sometimes. I remember, one of our chaps was presented with a couple of hawks – it was considered a tremendous compliment and a deadly insult to refuse. Poor Trevor had an awful job getting out of that one! I came back with all that lot,” he said, indicating a cabinet full of gilt bowls and various other objects richly decorated and enamelled. “I had to get a cabinet to put them in, poor Mary got fed up with dusting them and Susan has never really liked them – too showy she says!”

“They are rather exotic,” I said, getting up to examine them more closely, “but very beautiful. Do you miss that life?”

He thought for a moment. “Not really,” he said. “Certainly not now. It’s a young man’s life – no, give me good old England any day.”

“I gather Susan feels the same, or do you think she misses Montreal?”

“I don’t think so. She doesn’t talk about it much. Nowadays we talk a lot about the old days, when we were children and things like that.”

“I suppose we all do that as we get older,” I agreed, handing him his tea.

“It’s been very good the way she’s settled back here, and Fiona too. She’s a lovely girl, more like a daughter to me than a niece. Poor Mary would have loved her – it was always a sadness to her that we never had children of our own.”

“She seems very happy in her job,” I said.

“Took to it like a duck to water. I knew that George Lewis – he’s my solicitor – was looking for someone for the office and Fiona is marvellous with computers and things like that. Anyway, she’s fitted in wonderfully well there and they want her to train as a legal exec.”

“That’s splendid.”

“Yes, we’ve got a lot to be thankful for – especially me. Do you know, I think I could manage another piece of that cake!”