Gumbo was much better when Pearly and Helen went in that afternoon. His colour was almost normal, his small movements more assured. Maybe some of the improvement was due to the visitor already there. A woman from the repertory theatre who sat by his bed in a friendly, informal way but had none of the exhibitionist traits Pearly associated with acting. She spoke quietly, smiled rather than laughed, and her clothes were unremarkable. ‘Chrissie,’ she said, introducing herself. Chrissie was a backstage and makeup helper rather than having a need to present herself to an audience. She had long, pale fingers with unpainted nails like dewdrops at their ends. Gumbo’s slightly embarrassed pleasure in her presence was evident, but Pearly didn’t josh him about it. She’d brought flowers, as had Helen, and in that they found a common topic.

As the two women complimented each other on their choice of blooms and arrangement, Pearly thought of Charlotte and the florist shop close to the ANZ bank. He didn’t ask Helen if she’d made her purchase there, but wondered if Charlotte had made up Gumbo’s flowers. There was no reason Helen would have known her, but Charlotte would have recognised the mayor’s wife and perhaps given thought to Pearly himself. What would be the priority in her recollection — his impulsive and unwelcome familiarity in the winter light of the Windsor Street house or his willingness to give assistance when she was in need of it? He could picture her clearly, and just as clear was the image of Mary Usher, of whom she reminded him. Such a strong resemblance but only of appearance. There had been a carefree, almost reckless drive for pleasure in Mary that he’d seen no sign of in Charlotte, who had been wounded and had a son to care for. Mary had loved and left him, but memories remained. ‘What the fuck!’ Mary used to exclaim when she was surprised. ‘What the fuck!’ she’d say and laugh and push at his shoulder.

‘Don’t you think so?’ Chrissie asked him.

‘Of course,’ said Pearly, only half aware of some question concerning Gumbo.

In the bed where Gumbo’s garrulous ward mate had been lay an old man, inert and staring at the ceiling.

‘What happened to the other guy?’ Pearly asked quietly.

‘Dead,’ said Gumbo indistinctly.

‘Really? Jesus, that was sudden, wasn’t it? He seemed pretty chipper.’