Jane Pym wanted a drink. It had been a long day. In the morning a client who had discharged himself from psychiatric hospital slit his wrists in the waiting room. This was not an unusual occurrence—his hands and face were covered with evidence of self-mutilation—but it made a mess, and there was a new receptionist who overreacted, so the whole day was disrupted, and later interviews were conducted to the background noise of her tears. Jane Pym was forty, an experienced probation officer, but today she felt she was only keeping control of her work by an immense effort of will. There had been other days like that, and they had always ended in disaster.

Perhaps she should plead illness and go home. But Roger would be at home, and she was more disturbed by him than by her clients. She made a large mug of instant black coffee and began to see the people who were waiting for her.

The first client was a young man, a heroin addict who asked to be referred to the drug dependence unit of the hospital which had previously housed the wrist-slitter. Jane listened without sympathy or involvement. She was good at her job, but she had seen too many young addicts. Now they bored her. She no longer believed in their declarations of imminent reform. It was never that easy.

Then there came routine enquiries from the mother of a prisoner who wanted details of the probation coach which carried visitors to the nearest remand centre, and from a young mother whose gas was threatened with disconnection. Jane dealt briskly with the immediate problems and ignored the glances, the hesitation, as her clients went out. They were hoping she would ask: “Is there anything else? How can I help you?” so they could unload onto her the loneliness of their lives, the stories of husbands’ infidelity and children’s ingratitude. At least Roger and I never had children, she thought, as she hardened her heart and showed them to the door.

Just before lunch one of her favourite customers came in. From her office Jane could hear Mary down the corridor calling cheerfully to the receptionist, who was still sniffing into her handkerchief. Mary was an elderly Irish woman, an alcoholic who had no permanent address and was often seen wandering around one of Bristol’s modern shopping centres. She always dressed in layers of clothes, like a Russian grandmother, and in the hot weather, she smelled. She wanted money. She only ever came to see Jane when she wanted money.

“Where are you living now, Mary?” Jane asked. There had to be the pretence of an interview before she handed over the cash. It was a ritual they both understood.

The woman winked. “I’ve got friends,” she said proudly. “ I’ve always got somewhere to stay.”