“Little Peter?”

“The vicar’s boy.”

“That skinny little fairy. ‘Uncle Darren,’ he says, ‘you’ve got to help me.’ Never would have agreed if I’d known what was coming. The guy came at me with a tire iron. If it wasn’t for the kid … The grit in him. You just never know, do you?”

“No,” I said. “You never know.”

We walked back to the manor then. I took Darren’s arm. He didn’t seem to mind. The greenhouses were gone, but they’d replanted the kitchen garden. Onions and potato tops were coming through. We came across a bit of brickwork that needed repointing. Darren scratched at the mortar with his thumb.

“I’ll send someone to see to that.”

At the front door, there was a buzzer and I waited for a moment, looking into the camera till I heard the door unlock. At the desk, a Filipina care worker in a white uniform wanted to know where his nephew had got to.

“His nephew? Marcus was here?”

“Not Marcus. Another one. He took him for a walk, for fresh air.”

I signed us back in. It was overly warm inside, thickly carpeted and with a pervasive smell of kitchens. The interior had been completely remodeled, and I experienced a dizzying sensation. Had the piano once stood over there? Or in the other corner? The shape of the room had changed to accommodate a lift, and where the great staircase had been, there was a smaller set of stairs, boxed in with doors at the foot and glass walls going up.

“Lunch is nearly ready. Darren has it in his room.” She directed me through another set of doors. A sign read LANCELOT WING. I tapped in the code she’d given me. The library was now a sitting room. A flat screen hung on the wall but they’d kept most of the books. In various armchairs, the old and the very old were sat. None reading. One talking to no one. A woman, younger than the rest, was at the window. I had paused in the doorway, and she turned and cast me a furious look.

Outside each of the resident’s rooms, a pinboard displayed photographs and sometimes a few lines of text. I’m Terry. I like football and motorbikes. I was born in Liddington. I was in the infantry in the war, then worked at Lloyds. My glasses are probably in my pocket! It was the photos that got you, the smiling wedding picture, the one of Terry valiantly digging sandcastles with a little girl on a windswept beach, then the ancient in an armchair wearing a party hat, a badge that said 80 TODAY!, and a mystified expression.

We arrived at Darren’s door. Darren went in, but I lingered for a moment. Someone had tried. There were lots of snaps: Darren at school in his football kit, with a mustache and his arm around Marcus’s mum, wearing trunks on a Spanish beach in the early ’80s, next to the bride and groom at Marcus’s wedding, in front of a shiny new Beamer with his dogs. A laminated note read, I’m Darren. I have early onset Alzheimer’s. I like watching sport. Sometimes, if I am confused, I get angry. If possible, I like to do things for myself.