He didn’t look at her. He was staring, unseeing, out of the window, his face turned from her.

She still talked to him, of course. Told him about Maxie in hospital, about Hazel going to New York early. She shifted in her seat and talked instead to the photos of him she’d displayed on the wall above his bed. For her, yes, but also for the nurses. Photos of Edgar as a young man. At the Montgomery. On their wedding day. On holiday together. With Rory and Alex as boys, teenagers, adults. Images to remind them that this man, this silent patient, who was drifting further away, becoming physically smaller every day too, had once been someone wonderful, clever, successful. Loved. Still loved.

She told him about Eliza in London. Packing up Maxie’s flat. She told him what had happened with Jeannie’s postcards. How they had been worried about what she might read in them.

Edgar had never met Jeannie, though he’d heard so much about her over the years. He’d always been understanding too, about why Olivia needed to go to Australia every year, not only to see her family but also Eliza. He’d sometimes helped her decide where to take Eliza on their godmother holidays.

He had occasionally spoken to Jeannie on the phone. Sometimes when she was sober. More often, when she was drunk. Late in Australia, after Eliza was asleep. It seemed to be Jeannie’s time to open a bottle of wine or more. To think. Remember. Sometimes get angry. Then make her phone calls.

The timing was always bad. Late evening in Australia was often lunchtime in Edinburgh. Jeannie would call the main Montgomery number. It would be put through to Olivia’s office, or sometimes to their private wing. Olivia would know by Edgar’s tone if Jeannie was sober or not.

‘She’s right here, Jeannie. Let me put her on.’

Sometimes, Jeannie would still be mimicking Edgar’s Scottish accent when Olivia took the receiver. She seemed to find it funny. It never was. Olivia would do her best to stay calm, to be patient, to talk to Jeannie, of course, but then gently suggest she call back another time.

‘Why? There’s no time like the present. This is my present to you. My time. A wee bit of my time.’ The bad Scottish accent again.

A day or two later, there’d be another call, or sometimes a fax. Full of apologies. ‘Sorry, darling. I swear there’s a poltergeist in this house that fills up my glass when I’m not looking.’

A few weeks would go by. Then another call.

‘She needs help,’ Edgar said once.

‘I know,’ Olivia said.

‘How old is Eliza now? It can’t be good for her to see that, her mother drunk —’

‘I know, Edgar. I do what I can.’