‘We’re not staying long,’ said Helen. She had already made a private and professional assessment of Gumbo’s condition from observation alone. ‘You need plenty of rest.’

‘Great to see you,’ said Gumbo indistinctly. His hands lay close together on the bed covers: hands enlarged by exertion and marked by that labour and the years as well. Age spots like coalescing freckles on the thinning skin, yellowed calluses and small scars, and on the thumb knuckle of his left hand a small black scab lifting slightly, its healing job done. His hands were abnormally pale, as if his condition necessitated the concentration of blood to his vital organs. There was a frailty to him that Pearly had never been aware of before, and he was saddened by it.

Helen decided it was time to leave when Gumbo’s head lolled a little, and his answers became more laboured. ‘You rest now,’ she said.

‘Thanks for coming.’ His hands remained still and worn on the blanket. ‘I’m fine,’ he said.

‘See you tomorrow,’ said Pearly.

The man in the other bed wanted to be part of the farewell. ‘Goodbye, Pearly,’ he said. ‘I’ll look after him, don’t you worry. He’ll be up and about no time.’

‘You can’t keep a good man down,’ said Pearly in his public manner.

‘Goodbye, Mrs Gates.’ Encouraged by receiving a response from Pearly, Gumbo’s fellow inmate wished to prolong and broaden his own involvement, and Helen politely went across to his bed and asked how he was. A mistake, Pearly considered, when a lengthy description of a prostate operation gone awry followed. ‘Prostrate operation’ he called it, and that was no doubt true as well.

‘What do you think?’ Pearly asked her as they left.

‘Actually, very good considering he was in theatre a few hours ago.’

‘Wasn’t it just to release swelling, though?’

‘It’s still trauma,’ said Helen severely. ‘Anything to do with the brain is serious.’

‘Of course,’ said Pearly. He was grateful that Gumbo had come through, and pleased to be leaving the hospital. It reminded him of the fragility of life and its inescapable conclusion. A place you would enter one more time than you would emerge from. He was only sixty-four, though. He’d read that the life expectancy for Kiwi men had risen to seventy-nine. Pearly drew in his stomach and flexed his arms as he reached the car. He lifted each knee high in turn — well, reasonably high. He wasn’t in bad nick, surely? He just needed to make more time for exercise. He’d looked after himself physically, hadn’t he? Average had never been good enough for Pearly: he’d make ninety easily.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ asked Helen.

‘Nothing.’

‘Open the door, then. You look like a performing seal.’ Pearly used the car remote and took the driver’s seat without reply. Longevity was of no great assistance with his present problems.