I looked out. I could see him, seated at the end of the garden with his back to me. He was on the lawn, under the old pear tree. I went out on to the terrace and stood, watching him for a moment. Then I tiptoed down the garden. He was sitting in what looked like a hospital wheelchair, blankets dripping down from either side. I popped my head around, tentatively. His eyes were shut. His face was very pale and waxy: unshaven and gaunt. He’d tilted it towards the dappled sun which was heroically staging a comeback through the leaves: it made mottled patches on his white face. He didn’t hear me, and I crouched down beside him. Studied him. His cheeks were sunken and he looked dreadfully thin, the stubble of his beard quite grey. I gazed at him for a long moment. I realized it was a face that brought a lump to my throat. Tears to my eyes. I touched his arm gently. He was asleep. I was about to straighten up and tiptoe away when he slowly opened his eyes. I saw some faint shock in his eyes. He gave himself a moment.

‘You.’

‘Yes, me. Hello, you.’

‘Hello back. Who asked you in?’

‘Tilly. She tells me you’re being a difficult patient.’

‘She’s the worst sort of nurse. Hectoring. Bullying. Tell her she’s fired for opening the door.’

‘Why shouldn’t she open the door?’

‘I look like shit.’

I smiled. ‘You don’t. You look pale and interesting. How are you feeling?’

‘Better.’

‘Don’t lie. Peritonitis is serious. Why are you even home?’

‘I escaped. The hospital was beyond dreadful. I couldn’t stay there, not another minute. I thought I’d die.’

‘Well, you probably will, now you’re home. Were you on intravenous antibiotics? Getting fluid through a drip?’

‘What makes you such an expert?’

‘Ned had a burst appendix which briefly became peritonitis. He was in hospital for two weeks. Do you have medical insurance?’

‘Don’t be fucking stupid, I’m a teacher.’

‘Oh well. We’ll manage.’

‘We?’

‘Tilly and me.’

He met my gaze. My eyes were frank and honest and his were too. What was the point of being otherwise? I saw his well up slightly. Realized he couldn’t speak. When his voice came, it was thick.

‘I couldn’t possibly reply to your thank-you text. Not mentioning it would have been lying through omission, and mentioning it … would have looked too much like a cry for help, however cheerily I composed it. “Oh, by the way, I’ve got galloping peritonitis.” I tried a few times and deleted it.’

‘How very British.’

‘Didn’t want you charging up if you didn’t – you know …’

‘What?’ He didn’t answer. ‘Feel it?’ I asked softly.

‘Exactly.’

‘I feel it.’

After a moment he spoke. His voice was blurry with emotion. ‘I feel it too.’