‘And I’m Albert.’ He blew on his own cup. ‘My grand-daughter’s called Jane as it happens.’ He put his hand inside his jacket and drew out a wallet of photographs. There was one of a little girl playing the violin. She had the same tongue-between-the-lips expression of concentration.

‘She looks very good at that.’

‘She is. She’s going to one of the special music schools soon.’

‘Oh, I’m sure she’ll love it there. I’m a teacher and someone I used to work with is at one of those schools now. She says they’re wonderful – the children really flourish. I rather wish I were that age again so I could keep up my clarinet practice; I was never conscientious enough.’

He chuckled. ‘Children. They never change.’

‘No they don’t. No. But music is such a gift. Maybe one day I’ll be able to hear your granddaughter perform.’

‘I hope so. You and your husband can be her first audience.’

‘Yes we could.’

‘Then one day when you have a child I can come to his recital.’

I drank a little more as we looked through a few more photographs and talked about his four grandchildren. He was so proud of them all. ‘Now, thank you so much for the tea,’ I said after a while. ‘I have to go up to the surgery.’

‘It was nice speaking to you. Mind how you go.’

‘You too.’ I waved as I began to climb the stairs.

A welcome surge of warmth drifted over me as I reached the top of the stairs and entered the surgery. Charles, Nick’s secretary, was staring out the window.

‘Mrs Cawson. I’m sorry, but Dr Cawson isn’t here,’ he said, moving to his well-ordered reception desk. It had a little wooden block with his name, CHARLES O’SHEA, on it, that he had pestered Nick for. Charles was always neatly turned out, his fine hair flipped artfully over on the left side, but his figure was squat and somehow shapeless.

‘Oh.’ It hadn’t crossed my mind that Nick wouldn’t be there to sit me down and help me stave off the pain.

‘You should probably call first next time.’

‘Yes, you’re right.’ I looked at him keenly. I always felt self-conscious in front of Charles. ‘Where has he gone?’

‘He went out for a walk,’ he said, comparing two sheets of paper on his desk. He appeared to have some sort of unpleasant rash on his left hand and when he caught me looking at it he put it in his pocket.

‘But the smog has come down.’ He shrugged, a very slight movement. ‘Well, it’s not too bad today,’ I said, trying to fill the silence.

‘I can give Dr Cawson a message.’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

I felt more stupid now. ‘I have a migraine.’