I took Ellen back to the hospital this afternoon. She spent the weekend here, at her own house, and I think she enjoyed it. She’s so weak that even enjoyment drains her. I spent Thursday night, once I knew that she was being allowed home, rearranging the house so she could get to her bed easily. I moved her things to the first bedroom upstairs, the one with the huge window that overlooks the valley, with twin beds so I could stay with her. There’s a wash-basin in there and a bathroom across the hall, so I thought it suited. Friday, I cleaned everywhere and ran into town to buy chicken and prawns and scallops, sourdough from the bakery and toothsome morsels from the deli. I sprinted back and drove to the farm shop, where I bought beetroot and curly kale, leeks, parsnips and swede, raspberries and small, bitter strawberries. When I got back to Ellen’s, I staggered round to the kitchen, plastic bags dragging at the skin of my fingers, welting them, and dropped everything on the table. Swedes and kale rolled and plummeted to the floor, to be joined by chancy Braeburn apples and tomatoes on the vine — just at the moment I remembered that I can’t cook. Ellen was coming for two days and I had bought enough food for a battalion of Spanish soldiers. I panicked, found an ancient Katie Stewart cookbook and turned up the Aga, running ineffectually around this shabby old kitchen (neither Ellen nor I have ever felt the need to upgrade). I stuffed a chicken with a lemon, threw some beetroot in a pan and shoved it all in the oven. I had ten minutes to pack away the rest of the food and leave. Ellen had had the foresight to bring with her from America her vast, cumbersome walk-in fridge and drum-like Maytag washing-machine - as I say, she is not sentimental: she knew these would serve her over the years better than photographs of her drowned husband.

I drove too fast all the way to Oxford but, then, I have always driven too fast since I’ve travelled alone. I’ve always bought sleek, swift, expensive cars since John married and I drive them as if possessed. Even so I was late - Ellen was waiting in the lobby, in a wheelchair, her now-thin frame swamped by clothes. She was wheeled to the car and a too-young nurse gently helped her into the low-slung seat.

‘Shit — I should have brought your car. Sod it, I didn’t think.’

The nurse looked at me — astonished that a such a well-groomed, if damaged, older woman would say such a thing.

“Sokay,’ murmured Ellen, settling a rug round her legs. ‘Just drive like fuck as you always do. I want to get home.’

The nurse reeled back as Ellen and I both smiled and the AK Cobra roared out on to the open road. The fishtailing drive must have exhausted Ellen because when she got home she wanted a nap in bed. I helped her out of the car, held her arm as she walked slowly along the path and up the stairs. She made no mention of the change of rooms, simply lay down with a soft sigh and stared at the ceiling. ‘I never wanted this,’ she whispered.