Martina caught his eye and smiled. He felt he had said something that pleased her, and which forged a connection between them. She told him her partner liked walking. They were planning a summer holiday in the Fells. “Maybe you could borrow his old boots? He bought a new pair. They’re still in their box in my wardrobe.” Harold insisted he was happy with yachting shoes. He felt a sort of loyalty to them, he said.

“If my partner’s blisters are really bad, he binds them with duct tape to keep going.” She wiped her hands with a paper towel. The movement was slick and reassuring.

“I think you must be a good doctor,” said Harold.

She rolled her eyes. “I only get cleaning work in England. You think your feet are bad. You should see the fucking lavatories I have to scrub at.” They both laughed, and then, “Did your son ever get his dog?” she said.

A sharp pain bolted through him. Her fingers stopped suddenly and she looked up, afraid she had found another bruise. He held his body taut and calmed his breathing, until he was able to form words. “No. I wish he had, but he didn’t. I am afraid I failed my son very badly twenty years ago.”

Martina leaned back, as if she needed a new perspective. “Your son and Queenie? You failed them both?”

She was the first person to ask about David in a long time. Harold wanted to say something else, but he had no idea where to begin. Sitting in a house he didn’t know, with his trousers rolled up to his knees, he missed his son very much. “It isn’t good enough. It never will be.” Tears stung his eyes. He blinked to hold them back.

Martina broke off a ball of cotton wool to wash the cuts on his palms. The antiseptic stung the broken skin, but he didn’t move. He offered his hands and let her clean them.

♦

Martina lent him her phone, but when Harold rang Maureen the line was bad. He tried to explain where he was, but she didn’t seem to understand. “You’re staying with whom?” she kept saying. Not wanting to mention his leg, or his fall, he told her that his walk was going well. Time was flying.

Martina gave him a mild painkiller but he slept badly. The traffic kept waking him, and the rain thrashing at the tree by the window. Periodically he checked his calf, hoping the leg was better, flexing it softly but not daring to put weight on it. He pictured David’s room, with the blue curtains, and his own with the wardrobe that held only his suits and shirts, and then the spare room that smelt of Maureen, until slowly he fell asleep.