Dermot, looking out of his window after Shona, saw an elderly man tottering by the trees. Another neighbourhood drunk, he thought prosaically; Clapham hadn’t become half as gentrified as most people thought. He saw the man sway down the street briefly, before falling over. He’ll get up in a moment, thought Dermot, but the man didn’t get up. Sighing, he went to get his phone, but a sudden burst of rowdy noise got him running back to the window. Some kids came cycling with irresponsible speed round the bend of the pavement, and almost hit the prone body. They were white, black and Asian, a politically correct union of criminal adolescence. One of them stopped his bike and ran back to the old man. Well, that’s shown me, thought Dermot, feeling slightly ashamed for his cynical judgement of the kids. However, the apparent good Samaritan simply took out the old man’s wallet and disappeared back on his bike up the street. ‘I think it’s dead,’ he called to his mates.

‘Oi! You little bastards, get back here,’ shouted Der-mot, heaving open his window. He ran down his stairs, his phone still in his hand, to where the old man - who was really dressed well enough to be an old gentleman, with smartly cut hair and highly polished shoes - was still definitely alive. And had not a whiff of drink about him. Loosening the man’s collar, Dermot called 999 and put him tentatively in the recovery position.

Dermot was in the ambulance when Ricky came round. ‘It looks like you’ve had a heart attack, sir,’ a young, fresh-faced paramedic said, efficiently ministering to Ricky.

Ricky ignored him, and looked with confusion towards the concerned face of Dermot. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘I found you, sir. You collapsed outside my building. I thought I’d better come with you until we could get hold of your family. Some kids stole your wallet before I could get to you, I’m afraid.’

Ricky nodded, struggling with the tightness in his chest. What a nice fellow he seemed. He sounded educated. ‘What do you do, young man?’ he asked recklessly.

‘I’m a teacher, sir,’ Dermot answered, surprised by the question.

Ricky closed his eyes and lay his head back down,capitulating to the paramedic, who was urging him to keep still and relax. ‘My daughter’s a teacher,’ he said, more to himself than anyone else.

When Verity and Candida arrived at the hospital, Dermot was surprised to see that the daughter looked little more than nineteen or twenty. Much too young to be a teacher. The old gentleman must have been thinking about a different daughter. ‘I can’t thank you enough for finding my husband,’ his wife said tearfully, wringing his hand with gratitude. ‘When I think of what might have happened …’