‘Mrs Harpy,’ and I’m trying, here, to modulate my voice, to calm her but I have no idea how I’m speaking: when my bones ache my voice slips, ‘when I gave you my quotation, how long did I estimate we’d be here for?’

‘Four weeks, although I fail to see how—’

I reach out and touch her arm again. ‘How long have we been here?’

‘Six days. But I still don’t know why—’

‘In four weeks time this house will look delightful. I promise you. In four weeks time, you can point out any problems you have with the job, if any, and they will be addressed. But, for now, please trust me and let us get on with the job.’

‘But—’

‘Please.’ I hand the coat to her, sad to relinquish its touch, and walk out on to the deck, my hands aching with loss of one sort or another.

When I got home that night my right ear was aching, sending bolt lightning to my skull, beating it Thor-like. I went to bed and Sonja brought me water, Ibuprofen, lay next to me and stroked my forehead. For a while I imagined that nothing had changed as I wrestled with the fears that earaches reanimate, bolstered by her presence, warmed by her body heat. I fell asleep, my head throbbing, my heart heavy with the knowledge that everything had changed.

The next morning Sonja phoned Ian, her eyes still slow with sleep, and told him I’d be late, that I was going to see the doctor. She bundled me into T-shirt, padded shirt, jeans, thick socks, DMs and donkey jacket and drove me to the surgery. She sat in the waiting room, flicking through a magazine as I went in. It wasn’t Dr MacNeill but a young, unknown locum. I sat in the chair and watched his profile while he glanced through my file. It was as thick as the Bible. He turned to me and I saw fear in his eyes. ‘Just send me to St Michael’s,’ I said. ‘Just call and ask for an appointment with Dr Laws.’

He cleared his throat - I could tell because his shirt collar moved — and gestured for me to turn in the chair. He picked up an aural light and replaced the black plastic beak-head of it with another, sterile beak. I turned my head and tensed as he caught my pinna between finger and thumb and began to search my canal. He tried to be professional, tried to be calm, but the maze of scars beneath his fingers, the unending darkness of my ear canal, the feel of my ridged, damaged jaw undid him. He knew then that I was held together by cat gut. His hands were shaking as he wrote a short note on my files. He gripped the edge of the desk and turned to me. ‘I’m going to call St Michael’s right now.’

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

‘It looks like a slight infection. Nothing much. But, you know, best to be on the safe side.’ He tried to smile, best bedside manner, and his lips twitched.