After a few short weeks, when he was on a ‘school’s-out’ high, Devan had begun to sink. As the days went by he did less and less, his initial enthusiasm for retirement turning into a listless rant about petty stuff: someone stopping across their parking space for ten minutes, the noise of a hedge trimmer, the next-door neighbour’s climber invading the trellis on their side of the wall. This wasn’t the Devan Connie knew. These petty fixations were ageing him. The vital, charming doctor had turned into an old man overnight. He’d always been so enthusiastic, so full of energy, it never entered her head that he wouldn’t embrace retirement with the same verve – maybe, after a break, take on some consultancies or volunteer, write articles and contribute to journals and websites, as many of his colleagues did when they left the health service. Devan had mentioned these options over the years, although never in direct relation to himself.

‘How’s it going? You know you can always be in touch if you or Rob need help with anything. It can be a little overwhelming at first,’ he was saying to Will, assuming the tone of elder statesman.

Will smiled his thanks. ‘Our only problem is the patients all want to be seen by the brilliant Dr Mac. We both feel like the poor relations at the moment.’

Devan gave a self-deprecating laugh, although Connie noted the gratified flush on his cheeks. ‘They complained enough when they had me,’ he joked.

Ting, ting, ting … The spoon tapping insistently against Tim’s glass interrupted further conversation and Connie turned to see that the cake had been brought through and placed on a round, polished walnut table in the centre of the room. It was a towering three-tier confection of chocolate icing, raspberries and white chocolate flakes, two sparkler candles in the numbers six and four adorning the top tier.

Tim, his arm round the shoulders of his timid wife – seeming, to Connie, as if he were crushing the very life out of her – began to expound on her virtues, as he did every year, and Connie switched off. She laughed when everyone else did, but surreptitiously she was eyeing the new doctor standing at her side. It was strange, after thirty years, to imagine someone else in the role that Devan had inhabited so authoritatively for so long. He was, as Beauregard suggested, a legend in the area, his diagnostic nous, dedication and impeccable bedside manner vastly appreciated by the sick and dying. Where has that man gone? she wondered sadly.

Connie and Devan walked the mile home across the field and down the steep lane to their house in silence. It was chilly and grey. Although the squall had passed, the wind was still strong across the Levels.