Gwyneth waved her stick in the air and began to bash the metal gate again. To her frustration, Sandra seemed to be horribly slow on the uptake, and it felt like an age before she stepped down from the veranda and ambled across the street.

Her eyes widened as she came nearer, and her last few steps were at a run. ‘Gwyneth, what on earth’s happened?’

She looked up at her and made a sort of gurgling noise in her throat. She was feeling faint and she fought against it, unwilling to collapse in a pathetic heap at Sandra’s daintily shod feet. She waved her stick towards the hospital.

Sandra opened the gate and put an arm round Gwyneth’s waist. ‘Lean on me,’ she said quietly, ‘and don’t try to rush. I’ll get you there.’

Gwyneth felt like an old fool as she hobbled across the road, but she was grateful for Sandra’s sturdy support, and the fact that she didn’t seem to mind that her pristine blouse was now smeared with blood.

‘Terence!’ bellowed Sandra as they approached the steps. ‘Terence, I need some help here. Now!’

Gwyneth was of the opinion that Sandra could have made an excellent sergeant major, with a commanding voice like that. It had certainly provoked a reaction.

Terence was just one of the crowd that appeared on the veranda. He took one look at Gwyneth, pushed his way through the others and carefully swept her up in his arms to carry her into the treatment room. Gently placing her on the examination couch, he began to snap orders at Sandra.

‘Basin, hot water, lint and scissors – then needle, thread and shot of morphine for the pain.’ He jerked his head towards the locked cupboard and handed her the keys. ‘You’ll find everything in there.’

He didn’t touch Gwyneth’s face, but his expression was solemn. ‘I’ll deal with that in a minute,’ he said. ‘What on earth have you been up to, Gran? You look as if you’ve gone ten rounds in a boxing ring.’

Gwyneth felt as if she had. She watched through a haze of pain as Sandra moved efficiently about the treatment room. It seemed she hadn’t quite forgotten her skills, for as Terence cut away her trousers and dealt with the wound on her knee, Sandra always had the right instrument to hand so that the treatment ran seamlessly.

‘You’re lucky the bone wasn’t broken, Gran,’ he murmured as he cleaned the wound. ‘A couple of stitches should sort it, but it’ll be bruised and swollen for a while, and you’d do best to rest it.’ He tenderly felt her knees. ‘Looks like you’ve got a touch of arthritis there as well,’ he added.