There’s a beat. And then a cough. The woman in the next bed practically exporting her spleen.

I lean in towards Susan. ‘Coughing is the worst,’ I say, parking myself in the visitor’s chair beside her as the patient coughing in next door’s bed picks up a gear. ‘You alright there, Mrs Nielson?’ I raise my voice so Mrs Neilson might hear, then go for a conspiratorial wink before I have the chance to stop myself. ‘That cough is pretty bad,’ I shout. ‘Have a little drink, my love, I’ll be with you in a minute.’ There’s a grunt of response before the cough starts again, all gravelly, gritty and raw. And repetitive. Definitely repetitive. I lean in closer to Susan, an instinctive sense of my old self showing up. The self that knows how to be a good nurse. The self who deserved this promotion. The self who can totally put life to one side while she does her job. ‘We’ve tried all kinds to get rid of that cough. One of the volunteers even rubbed a menthol vapour on her feet. It’s an old wives’ tale that allegedly works on babies. Didn’t make a blind bit of difference with Mrs Nielson, mind. But you know, desperate times and all that.’

Just as I think we’re developing a bond, albeit over phlegm, Mrs Nielson coughs louder and Susan closes her eyes. I try to come up with a new line of conversation. ‘The tea trolley will be around soon,’ I say. ‘Can I get you one? Yorkshire, obviously.’ Susan turns her head away from me, the mass of silver replacing the bruises. I move around her bed so I can see her face again. ‘Then Connie, our lady with the library trolley, she’s in later. Calls everyone “dear” despite not exactly being a spring chicken herself. It’s mostly true crime and Mills & Boon.’ I think about my bookshelf at home. Daniel always took the mick out of my books. ‘I love a Mills & Boon,’ I say. ‘Grossly underrated.’

There’s no trace of days-old make-up, like most recently admitted patients. No earrings; her lobes aren’t even pierced. There’s no ring, wedding or otherwise. No jewellery at all, save for a single, fine gold necklace with a tiny cross. Despite her silver hair and baby-soft skin, Susan is the very model of plain.

I open my mouth to speak, but the words are instantly replaced with a mouthful of fabric as Susan’s curtain swishes open and Mark Barnes strides in. He stands, puffed up and important, as I try to recover my composure, detangling the curtain from my mouth, hair and stupid bloody glasses. There’s a time we might have laughed about it, back when I saw the funny side to anything.

‘Good morning, Susan. I’m your consultant, Mark Barnes. Please, though, just call me Mark.’ I swear I hear a giggle out in the corridor. ‘How’s that leg, how are you and have you any words for us today?’ The boom of his Mancunian voice shares her silence with the ward. I wonder how that makes her feel.