‘Come on in. You’re in luck: he’s having a good day today. Though I warn you …’ She pauses, and we wait expectantly. ‘Even on good days, he’s quite tired, and that can make him a bit short-tempered.’

Oh great. A tired, grumpy old man.

Who, it’ll turn out, will change my life.

And not necessarily in a good way.

Chapter 30

The room is huge and over-warm, with a high ceiling and a big bay window looking on to public gardens and, beyond that, the priory and the River Tyne. Two of the walls are lined from ceiling to floor with crammed bookshelves, spilling over with papers and folders and books jammed in any old way; the others have wallpaper with a bright but faded symmetrical pattern. There’s a long sideboard and an equally long buttoned sofa in faded green.

Looking up, I see dozens of huge silk scarves in various colours and patterns hanging from the ceiling, and between them dangle pendants of all kinds: a bamboo wind chime, two large, round glass discs winking in the light, and a mass of blue butterflies linked together with thread that I can hardly see. The whole effect is a bit like being in a magical, multicoloured antique shop.

A high-backed armchair faces the window.

Despite the thick, warm air, through the soles of my socks the tiled floor feels cold. We hesitate in the open doorway. The music is much louder in here: classical music of violins and horns – the kind of stuff that Susan probably likes.

‘Well, come in if you’re comin’ in and closhe the door behin’ you! I cannit abide a draught!’

The voice is slurred and muffled and comes from the direction of the armchair. When I approach, I see a bunched-up tartan blanket with someone sitting under it, low down and slightly hunched over. Next to the chair is a large silver cylinder, upright on a trolley. A rubber tube comes from it to a plastic mask that is fitted to the old man’s face.

When Susan and I get near, he squirms in his chair to sit up straighter. It’s only then that I realise that he’s not under a blanket, but actually wearing a huge blue-and-green tartan cardigan. He removes the oxygen mask from his face and uses a skinny, shaky hand to smooth down his white hair, of which there is a lot. His thin face has more lines than anyone I’ve ever seen, and he peers at us suspiciously through the purple spectacles perched on his large, veiny nose. It’s the face from the Dreaminator box, for sure, only much older and definitely not grinning.

‘Not too close!’ says Andi as we get nearer, but he waves his hand to dismiss her.

‘Och, ignore her! Come’s closhe as you like. Y’don’t have lyshe, do you?’

Lice? I feel myself reddening. Seb and I did have nits last term.