‘Box of birds,’ said Gumbo. His naturally hollow voice, altered further by his fractured jaw, had a sepulchral quality, but this was belied by his whole demeanour. Feeling so much better himself and apparently out of danger, he could regard another’s fate with equanimity. ‘He went off in a great mood but something went wrong, and he didn’t come back. Died was all the orderly would say, and that was unofficially.’ It could just as easily have been Gumbo, thought Pearly. He felt a surge of relief that Gumbo had come through, mainly because of affection for him, partly because of his own sense of guilt concerning the accident.

They spent more time talking of the ward companion’s fate than Gumbo’s condition. Death is a lead player in the hospital drama. ‘You’re very lucky, Alan,’ said Chrissie, and as always Pearly felt a small frisson at the unaccustomed form of address. She touched Gumbo’s arm lightly with a hand barely wider than her wrist. ‘Anyway, I’ll be on my way and leave you with old friends to talk together.’

‘No need to go,’ said Pearly. ‘We can’t stay,’ and he stood up. ‘I said I’d run Andrew down to catch the bus. He’s off before five. He’ll be chuffed you’re looking so much better.’

Pearly’s mobile went before they left the hospital buildings. The council office wanting to know when he’d be in. Pearly said he was sorry, that he’d hoped to get in that morning, that he’d arranged to farewell Sir Andrew Nisse, but would be there after five. When he and Helen were seated in the car he didn’t immediately start the engine. He faced the hospital and its well-tended gardens, but he wasn’t thinking of Gumbo, or even Andrew. He was remembering the decision he’d made as he sat alone in the grass on the ridge above the farmhouse that morning.

‘I’ve made up my mind,’ he said.

‘About?’ queried Helen.

‘About Deidre and that. I’ve made up my mind to resign as mayor.’

She didn’t reply for a time, kept looking over the asphalt carpark to a sunlit corner of sycamore trees and flowers. Pearly’s gaze followed, and for an odd moment he found himself attempting an identification of the plants there. Hollyhocks, he decided: they had long, swaying stalks, giraffe necks, with pink flowers and heavy buds close to the stems. ‘It won’t change what you’ve done,’ said Helen. ‘It won’t make it go away.’

‘No, but it’ll show Deidre that I really am sorry and not just saying so. I hope it’ll show you too.’

‘I can’t believe you sent the letter without talking to me about it.’