I was brimming with excitement as I went back to the station, took the train to London Bridge and from there the Underground to Waterloo. I knew that a train to Worthing would take me an hour or more, but I did have the whole day ahead of me. I was in luck as a train to the south coast was due to leave in ten minutes. I bought my ticket, then sprinted over to the platform just as doors were slamming and the guard was shouting “all aboard.” I settled myself in a ladies-only carriage and soon I was steaming southward in the company of two middle-aged matrons who gossiped nonstop about the failings of the new vicar who was too High Church for them and had even introduced incense. They got out at Horsham and I was alone for the rest of the journey.

When we reached Worthing I asked for directions to Goring-by-Sea at the ticket office.

“It’s about two miles out of town, miss,” the man said. “There’s a bus goes once an hour.”

I decided that I couldn’t wait for a bus and for once would make use of my newfound wealth and take a taxicab. I told the cabdriver that I was looking for a clinic or convalescent home in Goring-by-Sea. Did he know of it? He thought he did. “Big white place, isn’t it? Posh looking.” That sounded like it. So off we went. In summertime and in good weather it would have been a charming drive along the seafront with its rows of white, bow-windowed guesthouses and its long pier and bandstand. But today a fierce wind whipped up a slate gray sea and the promenade was deserted. At last the town gave way to big houses set amid spacious grounds, sports fields, and on the front the occasional seaside bungalow. Then the taxicab slowed. “This is it, I believe,” he said. “Yes, there you are.” And a sign said, The Larches. Convalescent Home. We turned in through white gates, followed a drive lined with larch trees and pulled up at a portico outside a big white Georgian house. I paid the taxi driver and rang the doorbell.

I was greeted warmly by a young woman in nurse’s uniform when I said that I’d come down from London and wanted to see the matron or the person in charge. I couldn’t believe how smoothly this had gone so far.

“Here to see a relative, are you, dear?” she asked as she escorted me down the front hallway. “Your grandma maybe?”

We were passing a common room. The door was open and inside I saw nothing but old people, sitting in armchairs. This was clearly not the right place.

“I think I’ve made a mistake,” I said. “I was told the clinic was in Goring-by-Sea but I was expecting a place for much younger people. Younger women.”