‘Thank you, doctor.’ Crawfie looked at George’s pale face against the sheets and stroked his cold hand. ‘The pain came on so suddenly.’

‘Tell me, does he drink a lot of sugary drinks?’

‘He has sugar in his tea.’

‘What is his alcohol intake?’

Marion bit her lip. George was spending a lot of time in the pub, and more often than not came home a little drunk. He had even shoved her last week when he had come home to find his dinner dried up in the bottom of the oven – but he had apologized so profusely the next day. ‘No, not really. But he’s a Scot, so he has the odd whisky.’ She smiled.

‘I recommend that he leave that alone for a while. There’s a lot of sugar in alcohol, and we know that too much sugar can cause these stones.’

‘I see. Of course.’

‘I should get off home if I were you. He’ll sleep most of the night now and you need your own rest.’

‘Thank you, but I will stay just a little while longer. I believe dinner is on its way and I will see if I can tempt him with a little.’

‘As you wish, but you must take care of yourself too.’

Marion stayed another two hours.

Dinner was beef stew. When George woke up, Marion offered him some, but he pushed her hand away.

‘It’s almost as bad as your cooking,’ he muttered.

One of the nurses on the ward noticed and turned to Marion. ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Buthlay. It’s the drugs. Makes people do and say strange things.’

Marion made her way home on the bus, feeling low. London was dark but the sparkling of the Christmas lights in the shop windows cheered her. This would be her first Christmas as Mrs Buthlay but her first without her parents. She hoped George was well enough to be home in time. Perhaps he would be in a better mood when the pain was gone.

Nottingham Cottage was dark and cold when she got in.

She lit the fire, put the kettle to boil on the new gas cooker, and went upstairs to run a bath. As soon as she opened the tap, the old and antiquated boiler clanked into life. The plumbers had not been able to fix it properly and she hoped a new, more modern boiler might be supplied soon. In the meantime, she played a form of Russian roulette, never knowing if the water would run icy or scalding.

She pulled back quickly. This evening it was red hot.

Twiddling both taps, she finally found something that was temperate. As the water pressure was low, she knew it would take at least ten minutes to fill – time enough to make her tea and stoke the fire.

In the end, the bath was tepid, but reasonable enough to wash her hair.

She dried herself, put on her nightie and dressing gown and wrapped her hair with a towel.