After a bit, Dad reappeared, looking uncharacteristically sheepish. I got to my feet. He glanced around warily, but the reception area, despite my mother’s dire warnings of hordes of people, was empty.

‘Maggots,’ he said shortly. My jaw dropped. I stared at him, aghast. ‘Which actually, she said, is not unusual. Nature’s way of getting rid of diseased flesh. I remember once one of my lance sergeants had them in North Africa. But not ideal.’

‘No, not ideal,’ I breathed, horrified. ‘And we’re not in fucking North Africa now, Dad.’

‘No need to swear,’ he said mildly, another expression I was to hear a lot, as my language got increasingly colourful. In direct correlation, in fact, to the increasingly apparent state of affairs.

At that moment the door directly opposite us, with ‘Dr Gupta’ engraved on a plate, opened. A young woman stuck her head round. ‘Mr Hartley?’

‘The nurse thought I should see a doctor,’ he muttered to me. ‘And Mike Bond’s away.’

‘Yes, of course! Can I come in too?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Yes, please,’ said Dr Gupta. ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

Try stopping me. I’d sprinted past my father, who, for once, was outnumbered, and sat down firmly by her desk. Dad shuffled in and sat beside me.

‘I’ve written you a prescription for antibiotics for your ulcers and we’d like you to see the nurse again in three days’ time. The penicillin should start to kick in soon and you’ll be in less pain. Which must have been excruciating.’ She eyed him carefully. ‘Please don’t drink on the antibiotics, and please come and have your dressings changed regularly. I see from your notes you haven’t been for two weeks. I also see that you missed the carpal tunnel operation Dr Bond arranged. Was there any particular reason?’ she asked gently.

‘I was busy,’ Dad said petulantly. He hid his gloved hands.

‘Right, well, I’ve booked another one at the same hospital for three weeks on Thursday. I see, too, that Mrs Hartley missed her cataract operation. Any idea why that was?’ She looked at me.

I opened my mouth, astonished. Cataracts? Carpal tunnel? I closed my mouth. ‘No. But rest assured I’ll get to the bottom of it.’

‘Are you the carer?’

‘Yes,’ I said firmly as my father simultaneously roared ‘No!’

‘I mean, I’m their daughter. But I certainly will be—’ Dad glared at me but I held my nerve, ‘caring for them.’ He went a bit purple.

‘Right,’ said the frightfully efficient Dr Gupta who was fast becoming my new best friend. ‘Well, we have a cataract cancellation on Wednesday next week, at the same hospital. Shall I book your mother in for that?’

‘Yes, please.’

After we’d collected his medication at the dispensary, my father and I walked to the car in stony silence.

‘Interfering busybody,’ he said as we got in.