Walking down the paved path towards the entrance, he trailed his hand lightly along the metal handrail. Valentine looked at the thin gold band on his wedding finger. ‘Till Death Do Us Part.’ Isn’t that what the vicar had said? And yet here they were, fifty-nine years later. Death hadn’t parted them. Something else had. Something that was, in many ways, much worse.

Reaching the entrance, he pushed open the doors and walked into the brightly lit reception. There were several plastic potted plants and some bland prints on the walls. Both these things vexed him. At least they could have got real plants and some nice pictures. It was little things like that that were important. Maybe they thought the residents wouldn’t notice.

But Gisele noticed. It was one of the first things she commented upon when she arrived. A memory of her stooping down to stroke the feathery leaves of a fern between her fingers, and her expression when she realized it wasn’t real, still pained him. Gisele always loved plants and flowers. ‘Green fingers’, that’s what he used to call her. She could grow anything on their little front patio. Windowboxes of pillar box red geraniums and multicoloured swirls of trailing petunias, pots filled with clambering clematis, spectacular dahlias and lacecap hydrangeas.

Now all the windowboxes and pots were empty.

‘Hello, Mr Crowther.’

As usual, he was greeted by the receptionist, who sat perched behind the large desk like a big colourful parrot. She smiled widely. She was wearing that funny frosted lipstick she always wore. Even without his glasses, he could see that she’d got a bit on her front teeth. Valentine found her cheerfulness annoying. What was there to be cheerful about?

‘Morning,’ he replied gruffly, removing his flat cap.

‘How are you today?’ she continued brightly.

Angry. He was so angry at the bloody unfairness of it all. Sometimes he didn’t know what to do with all the anger.

‘All right,’ he shrugged.

Still, it wasn’t the receptionist’s fault. It was nobody’s fault. The staff at the nursing home weren’t to blame. They were always so nice to him. So kind to Gisele. Some of these places were awful, you read about them in the newspapers – all sorts going on, terrible things – but he couldn’t ask for a more wonderful home. They’d been lucky, if you could call it that.

‘And it’s “Valentine” – how many times have I told you?’

And now he felt remorseful. Silly old bugger, taking it out on other people; he needed to watch his temper. What would Gisele say?

‘I know, sorry, but those upstairs told us we’ve got to greet the guests by their proper names.’

‘Well, tell them upstairs that is my proper name.’

The receptionist made a face and nodded. She reminded him of his daughter, Helen, when she was younger. She used to pull that face too.

‘I’ve come to see our lass. How is she?’

‘She’s just had her breakfast. You’ll be pleased to know she managed two boiled eggs and a slice of toast. She made soldiers with it apparently.’