‘If you want fresh air, you’ll get plenty with me. I’m on a scooter. Come on, I’ll give you a lift, and I won’t take no for an answer.’

I didn’t say yes, but I followed her out, anyway.

I’d realized a few days earlier that I’d developed a fondness for this young woman. Unlike some of her colleagues, she had always been very considerate with Louis, extremely respectful. Whereas some of the others had no hesitation in continuing their private conversations in front of my son, as if he wasn’t there or was invisible, Charlotte spoke to him. Whereas others spoke to him as if he had learning difficulties, using honeyed tones and baby language, Charlotte described to him what she was doing, precisely and in a normal voice.

Charlotte did a difficult job, always with a smile. There was something luminous about her fair hair and radiant complexion, a hint of sunshine in her azure gaze. She had a huge, almost fierce joie de vivre that was infectious. All five foot one of her was impressive, with her self-assurance, composure and kindness. She was brave, and never complained in front of the patients or their families. I had started to look up to her, in a way. In any case, I respected her for what she was, what she exuded, what she did. And yet she must have had her own problems too. A leaky pipe to deal with, an overdraft to pay off, a cold she couldn’t shake off, a boyfriend who wasn’t phoning back, her scooter breaking down.

I had a sudden impulse to get to know her. I don’t know why. Yes, I do know why. Because she appeared to love my son. ‘Love’ is perhaps a bit strong; over the years, she must have developed a thick skin to stop herself from crumbling in the face of all that human suffering, but she wasn’t indifferent to this adolescent and his slightly wacky mother and grandmother.

What was her story? How had she decided to become a nurse? Where did she live? How old was she? Did she have children? Was she married? Did she have a dog, a cat, a hamster?

When we were outside my place, I found myself starting a conversation:

‘Would you like to come up for a minute?’

‘That’s kind of you, but I wouldn’t like to . . . and, in any case, I can’t . . .’

‘You know I’m asking you in because I want to. But, don’t worry, I’m not hitting on you!’ I added that last bit with a laugh, because I saw her hesitate and it occurred to me that my invitation – and especially the way I’d phrased it – might have sounded ambiguous.