“No. Just a friend. I’ve tried telephoning a few times.”

“She stayed at home as long as she could but they took her in a fortnight ago.”

She gave Jean directions and closed the window, turning to bellow at the dog. The aftershocks followed Jean up the street.

The hospital for incurables sat on the clifftop, affording the staff and visitors, at least, a glimpse of a dark and wrinkled sea. The patients, confined to their beds on the upper floors, could see only a rolling cloudscape.

Alice Halfyard, a much-reduced version of the woman Jean had met in the summer, was lying in her metal-framed bed, her skin quite yellow against the white of the sheets. Although her limbs were fleshless, under the sheets her stomach formed a swollen dome.

On a trolley nearby lay the remains of lunch: a greenish soup and a pallid blancmange, barely touched. Someone had placed a vase of artificial flowers, blowsy dahlias in paintbox colors, on the bedside cabinet.

Her eyes were closed, but at Jean’s approach she opened them. It took her a minute to focus and draw her dry lips into a smile of recognition.

“I thought you might come, sooner or later.” She raised a brittle arm and wagged her fingers toward an empty chair.

Jean, accustomed by now to hospital visiting and the many faces of disease, was nevertheless shocked by Alice’s deterioration. The traditional words of inquiry or encouragement—how are you? you’re looking well—were wholly useless.

“I’m sorry to find you like this,” was the best she could do.

“I’m glad you’re here. Otherwise I’d have had to write you a long letter and I don’t think I’ve got the energy.” She spoke in a low, soft voice, just above a whisper.

“Can I do anything for you?” Jean asked. She glanced at the uneaten meal. “Do you want me to feed you?”

Alice shook her head. “I spent my working life in hospitals, but this is my first time as a patient. First and last.”

“What have you got?” Jean knew she would have no time for evasions or false comfort.

“Cancer. Liver and now spine.”

“Is it very painful?”

Alice gave the merest of nods. “I’ve learned so much about nursing from being on the receiving end of it. Too late to be any use, though.”

“I’m sure you were very good anyway. I had a letter from Brenda van Lingen a while back. She sent her good wishes. And Kitty, too. She lives almost on my doorstep as it turns out.”

“Kitty? Oh yes. How is she?”

“Physically still very limited. But quite an inspiration, really. Studying theology, with the help of her sister.”

Alice managed a smile. “A remarkable girl.”

“I thought so, too.”

“Now, tell me about Gretchen’s baby. What did the tests prove?”

“Oh. Well, the doctors themselves don’t entirely agree. But the skin graft test seemed to suggest that this is not a case of virgin birth.”

Alice gestured for a glass of water; it clashed against her teeth as Jean tried to help her to a drink.