Maxwell jumped back from the bed as if Patrick had just poured boiling water into his ear. He watched with a shocked expression as Patrick let the mask plop back onto his face and then moved his hand slowly, but without faltering, towards the bell. He pressed the button and the buzzer sounded noisily around the ward. The staff nurse was at his bedside in a matter of moments. She could tell by the flick of Patrick’s hand that visiting time was over. As she led Maxwell to the exit, he turned and glanced once more over to where Patrick lay. He was staring at the ceiling, and although most of his face was hidden beneath the oxygen mask, Maxwell could tell by the wrinkling of his eyes that he wore a smile of utter contentment. It was almost as if he had just been informed that his illness had been vanquished and that a full recovery was now a certainty.

27

As Dan had suspected, Josh had no wish to leave Fort William. They had talked about it as they drove back to the cottage, and Josh had made it plain that he never wanted to live in London again. His new life was in Scotland with friends the like of which he could never possibly meet in the seething mass of the metropolis. And so Dan had left him, with the dogs and with the Saab, and headed back to London on the overnight sleeper alone.

The taxi dropped him outside the house in Clapham at ten o’clock the next morning. Having paid the cabbie, Dan stood on the pavement, staring at the stained-glass front door and wondering if he was pleased to be back. And then he heard the sound of Mrs. Watt coming out of her house and he made a bolt for the gate to avoid meeting her. He let himself into the house and slammed the door shut, dropping his suitcase to the floor. He leaned his back against the stained glass and shut his eyes, taking in the familiar smell of his own home. Yet, this time, it seemed alien. In the past it had given him comfort and a sense of security, but now it just seemed old and stale. It was as if he didn’t really belong to the house anymore.

But it was his home, and it was his family, and he had made a commitment to the girls to let them finish their schooling at Alleyn’s. He had to be thankful for everything he had achieved because, by God, it could have turned out so differently. He could have been stuck in Tottenham Hale with Sharon or Janice or Kathleen, and their one child, working in that bloody fabrication shed. But he had made it to here, to this fine house in Clapham, where he lived with his wife Jackie, their three wonderful children, and two deranged dogs. He was, indeed, a lucky man.