Then his eyes snapped open again and he struggled to sit upright. ‘It stinks in here,’ he complained. His nostrils flared and deep lines pulled the corners of his mouth downwards. I sniffed the air and caught a whiff of vomit and a faint fecal undertone. If even I could smell it, the ward must indeed stink to Ted’s sensitive nose.

I sandwiched his hand between my two. ‘We need something stronger to block it out. I’ve got an idea. Shall I go out and buy some perfume to spray round?’ I could hear the cheeriness in my voice cracking and shivering like the sea ice, with grief welling up from beneath. ‘What would you like? Joy? Vent Vert? Or one of your own? How about Black Opal or Iridescent?’

‘I’ve smelled enough perfume for one lifetime,’ Ted said irritably.

I bent my head and waited. And then, when I finally stole a glance at his face, I saw that this time he really had fallen asleep.

I went down to the hospital visitors’ car park, where I could use my mobile phone, and called Lola to relay the news.

‘Oh God, Mum, I’m sorry. Poor Grandad. I’d better ring in and cancel my shift,’ she said at once. Lola worked in a bar during university holidays. At least she’s at home, I told myself, not up in Manchester as she was all term-time. We agreed that she would collect Jack from school in her car and they would come straight up to the hospital.

‘Drive carefully,’ I warned her.

‘Of course I will.’

Next, I telephoned Penny at the Works, as we call the book bindery and small print shop we jointly own. Penny and I have been business partners for twelve years. I have always loved the physical weight and dimensions of fine books, the texture of paper, and the variety and intricate grace of typefaces, and Penny possesses the rare combination of design flair and business acuity. We work well together and although there are no great riches in what we do, we make an adequate living out of our leather bindings and hand-set printing.

‘Don’t worry,’ Penny told me. ‘Don’t even think about anything here, I’ll handle it. And I’m here if you need me, okay?’

Next I spoke to Caz. Caz has been my friend since we lived in adjacent rooms in a decrepit student house thirty years ago. We were married in the same year, and she and Graham had their two boys in quick succession, not long after Tony and I had Lola. We have shared the quotidian details of our lives ever since, to the extent that if I think of myself as having an extended family, Caz and Graham and their children are it.