Presently an old man in a grubby cream apron appeared, trundling a wheelchair from the back of the house. Anna moved smartly to the side of the car and opened the door. ‘Right Tom,’ she said, ‘if you take him at the top and I grab his legs, OK?’ Their hands reached into the car, tangling with each other, fumbling with the seat-belt, feeling for their quarry. ‘Come on, Peter,’ said the old man, his nose sharp and capillaried. ‘Into this chair,’ he said. ‘But don’t get too used to it, mind.’ He grinned, his lips thin and pink, as he took my weight, hoisting me into the wheelchair before bending back into the car for the black polythene bag containing my “belongings”. He put the bag in my lap and curled my hand over it. Then he reached back into the car for my history which he handed to Anna. The bag slid from under my moist palm, creased shirts and odd socks spilling on to the slushy gravel. A shadow of irritation passed over his face before he bent down to pick up my things. ‘Never mind, Peter,’ he said. ‘Never you mind.’

As they wheeled me round to the back of the house I felt a curious sensation: the building had jerked, slipped somehow, bounced a little in its foundations. But the other two seemed to have noticed nothing and I readily attributed it to my considerable fatigue. Tom negotiated a troublesome step with the chair, pushing me into a big warm kitchen dominated by two yellow-topped tables pushed together in the centre. The place was alive with the smell of freshly-baked food and my stomach stirred unpleasantly. ‘Has he eaten?’ asked Tom. Anna silently and tartly indicated that he should direct his question to me. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said to her, compounding his error. ‘Have you had anything to eat Peter?’ he bawled, unnecessarily. The two looked down at me in silence. Anna pursed her lips. ‘They’ve been using a syringe to feed him,’ she said. ‘Too long-term for a naso-gastric tube, we must presume. We shall have to adopt their method for the moment. Can you fix something up? A funnel and a piece of tubing, perhaps?’ ‘I should be able to manage,’ said Tom. Anna left, clutching her bag and my history.

The old man went quietly about his business, pausing to smile at me occasionally, opening and closing cupboard doors, holding various tins of food inches from my eyes. ‘You’ll soon get used to us here,’ he said. ‘Us and our little ways. Have you back on your feet in no time. I’m guessing that you like baked beans. Never met anyone who doesn’t. Soon find out what you like and what you don’t, eh?’ he said as he opened the tin. ‘All your likes, ah, and all your little dislikes.’