A million and one things to do, but first I have to show them the room. I lead them past the reception desk and down the corridor. Keep turning round to smile, to slow down and make sure they’re following.

‘Did you hear that George?’ the woman – Margaret – says, ‘we’re going to look at your new bedroom.’

George has his stick in one hand, but he’s leaning on his wife, his left arm through hers, moving forward and looking at his feet – left, right, left, right – as though every bit of energy he’s got has to be focused on keeping himself upright. Nothing to spare for talking. I’m waiting for them to catch up. Trying not to stare. One side of his face is slack. His eyelid droops. He has two days’ stubble, and his trousers are bunched up, pulled tight at the waist, hanging loose everywhere else. He needs feeding and washing and sorting out. God knows how she’s managed this long.

I unlock the door and step into the room. All the light from the window spills out onto the corridor in a line, like a golden footpath leading them in. I can smell disinfectant from the en-suite. The cover on the bed folded over in tight little corners. The standard bedside cabinet and the emergency button. Nothing personal. Nothing that means anything. We’ll bring his bags in later, while he’s in the lounge. By the time we put him to bed it’ll feel like home. That’s the theory anyway.

Margaret tries to guide him through the doorway but he holds back. He’s unsteady. I wait by the bed wondering if I should intervene. He leans on his stick and pulls away from her.

‘Here we are,’ she says, ‘it’s not so bad. Nice and clean and a bit of green through the window to cheer you up. There’s space for all your things and I’ll come everyday and –’ he pulls away and grunts. It might be a word. It might be a ‘no’. ‘Please love, just come in. For me. Please.’

He won’t budge. He drops the walking stick and grabs onto the doorframe. That noise again.

‘George,’ she says, and she’s pulling him now, hard enough that if she lets go I’m afraid she’ll topple over backwards. Her tiny wrists and ankles. I should do something but it feels too private. I want to turn away so she won’t know I’ve witnessed it all. This is my job. I have to make it better.