Martin Hargreaves arrived at Oakmere Lodge on a Tuesday afternoon with a walking stick he plainly resented and a daughter who looked as though she had spent most of the previous week trying not to lose her temper with him. She came through the automatic doors first, pulling a small suitcase behind her, then turned to check that he was following, which he was, though slowly and with the careful uprightness of somebody determined not to let anyone see that walking hurt. He was a tall man, still broad across the shoulders despite having lost weight, and every few steps his free hand moved instinctively toward his abdomen before he seemed to remember where he was and stopped. The walking stick, meanwhile, stayed several inches above the floor, carried more as an objection than an aid.
I was in reception with Arthur, trying to persuade him that the parcel he was waiting for had already arrived and was in his flat. This had become one of those conversations where logic became less useful the longer it went on, because Arthur wanted to know whether I had personally seen the parcel and, when I admitted I hadn't, took that as conclusive evidence that it couldn't possibly have arrived. I was about to go upstairs to find it when Martin reached the desk and announced, before Mr Patel had even had a chance to welcome him, that he was staying for three weeks.
"This is temporary," he added, looking directly at Mr Patel, who had presumably heard similar declarations often enough not to take them personally. He smiled, said that, of course, it was, and mistakenly suggested they would see how Martin got on.
Martin's daughter let out a small breath beside him. She must have known what was coming because her father immediately corrected Mr Patel. “You shall not see how I get on, young man; you will see how I get out, and that will be in three weeks.”
"Dad, you've been here thirty seconds," she said, and the weariness in her voice told me considerably more about the previous few days than Martin's hospital discharge letter probably could.
I discovered later that he was sixty-nine and had undergone abdominal surgery a little over a week earlier. He had been discharged after convincing everyone he could manage on his own, then spent four days at home proving it by having his daughter drive nearly forty miles each way to shop for him, prepare meals, change his dressing, and pick up anything that fell on the floor. By Monday evening, she had apparently concluded that his independence would be easier to maintain if somebody else was there to provide it, and Oakmere had been found as a temporary place for him to recover.
I understood Martin's objection to the walking stick. At Oakmere, anything designed to make life easier eventually became evidence that you were no longer capable of living it. Walking frames, shower stools, emergency pendants, and raised toilet seats all served perfectly sensible purposes, but once somebody decided you needed one, you had a fair chance of never being allowed to forget it. The management called this promoting independence, although I had yet to meet anyone whose independence had been improved by having to ask permission to take a bath.
At present, I had an even stranger piece of medical equipment in Number 30, because the artificial leg delivered the previous week was still leaning in its box beside my desk. Lorna had ignored the photograph I'd sent her, the message that followed and, finally, IS THIS YOUR LEG?, which I thought deserved an answer even from somebody with better things to do. Mr Patel had heard nothing from her either, and nobody at Oakmere had reported losing a prosthesis, so I was now in the peculiar position of being responsible for a leg whose ownership I couldn't establish.
That was why I found myself watching Martin's battle with his walking stick with perhaps more sympathy than amusement. His daughter had told him twice to use it before she finally pointed to the rubber tip, still hovering above the carpet, and reminded him that the physiotherapist had specifically said he needed it. Martin dismissed the physiotherapist as about twelve, whereupon his daughter told him, with the exhausted precision of someone repeating herself, that the woman was thirty-four.
"She didn't look it," Martin muttered, lowering the stick until it touched the floor.
His daughter caught me watching and smiled. It wasn't quite an apology or an invitation to laugh; it was simply the look of someone relieved to find another adult in the room who understood what she was dealing with.
Martin's daughter was called Helen, which I discovered when she returned two days later carrying a bag of washing, several items from the chemist, and considerably less patience than she'd arrived with.
Under normal circumstances, I would have kept walking, but Helen caught my arm and asked to speak to me about something personal.
I smiled nervously. “That might depend entirely on whose personal life you intend to discuss.”
“It’s my father,” she replied, her eyebrows knitting with concern.
I suggested that Shanice was probably better qualified to help, but Helen shook her head.
"No, no. I wanted someone closer to his age to explain a couple of things that are confusing me."
An unnecessarily uncomplimentary way to start a conversation, I thought, particularly as I had no idea what qualifications being old was supposed to confer.
"It's something I found in his bathroom," she whispered, glancing towards her father's door. "I was cleaning up before he came here, and I found this little plastic bottle with a foldable nozzle hidden in a cupboard under the sink. Rather clever-looking thing, actually. It has its own little motor. I assume it’s one of those personal drinking fountains you can use without having to bend over."
Shanice began studying the fire evacuation notice, though I noticed her shoulders moving slightly.
“And I wondered, why would he buy a drinking fountain, when there are plenty of glasses and tap water just a few steps away in the kitchen.”
"Did you ask your father what it was?" I enquired.
"Good heavens, no. He was in bed, and I didn't want to disturb him. Anyway, I tried it."
I looked at Shanice, who was now pressing her lips together with the determination of somebody trying to keep a professional disposition.
"Sorry," I said. "You tried it?"
"Well, yes. I filled it up and pressed the button. Quite a powerful little jet, actually. Went up my nose."
Shanice made a noise she disguised as a cough, and I felt the unpleasant sensation of knowing where the conversation was heading and being unable to stop it.
"Helen," she said carefully, "that sounds like a portable bidet, not a drinking fountain."
Helen looked puzzled. "A what?"
Shanice explained, with admirable restraint, that the appliance was designed for personal washing after using the toilet, particularly for people who had difficulty bending or reaching. She said it without looking at me, which I thought showed considerable professionalism under the circumstances.
Helen's expression altered as the information settled. She looked from Shanice to me, then back again, as if hoping one of us would contradict the other.
"You mean he uses it to wash his...?"
"Yes," Shanice confirmed, before the question became any more anatomically specific.
Helen went very still. "But I drank from it. I thought it was a mini water fountain."
Shanice closed her eyes, while I found myself examining the carpet with unusual interest.
"I filled it from the tap," Helen continued, as though that might somehow help. She pressed a hand over her mouth. "Oh, God. I actually put the nozzle between my lips."
Shanice turned away, her shoulders shaking.
"Did you at least wash it first?"
"I rinsed it under the tap."
"Before or after?"
Helen stared at me. "Oh, for Christ's sake, Colin. Does it matter?"
"I rather think it does."
She left shortly afterwards, deciding she needed some fresh air, and I found myself wondering whether the adult children of Oakmere residents ought to have a support group. It would probably need to meet somewhere with a bar.
Later that afternoon, I found Martin in the dining room examining a bowl of vegetable soup with the suspicion you'd normally reserve for an unexplained bank withdrawal. He seemed to have forgotten his earlier objections to Oakmere's catering arrangements, replaced by an intense interest in the ingredients. He questioned Shanice about the lentils, inspected the bread to establish whether it was wholemeal, and asked if the kitchen had any dried apricots, apparently regarding lunch as an opportunity to negotiate with his digestive system.
Doreen, sitting opposite him with her usual blue mug, noticed he seemed interested in healthy eating.
"I've always eaten properly," Martin replied, breaking his bread into small pieces.
"Yesterday you had chips with your pie," Doreen reminded him, without looking up from her plate. "And you asked for extra gravy."
Martin explained that he was trying to get more fibre into his diet, which was apparently the wrong thing to say within hearing distance of Moaning Val. She had been discussing the inadequacies of Oakmere's laundry service with Bernard but immediately abandoned the subject for Martin's digestive system, asking whether he'd had trouble since his operation.
Martin looked at her, genuinely alarmed. "Who’s told you that?"
Val seemed offended that anyone would need to tell her anything. She explained that she'd noticed he hadn't been eating much and that he walked as though somebody had inserted a coat hanger into his trousers. Doreen added that constipation was common after surgery, particularly when people had been taking strong painkillers, and began describing an incident involving her late husband, a packet of figs and a caravan holiday in Skegness.
I had heard the Skegness story before and knew the caravan would have needed professional cleaning, so decided to finish my lunch elsewhere.
By Friday morning, Martin's campaign against his digestive system had become considerably more desperate. The toilet in Number 42 had offered nothing but disappointment, and his increasingly prolonged visits had done little to improve either his discomfort or his temper. I encountered him in the corridor carrying a bulging bag from the chemist, which he explained contained enough remedies to shift a blockage in the Severn Tunnel.
I suggested that he speak to the nurse or his GP, particularly as he'd recently undergone surgery and was still in pain, but Martin dismissed the idea. He'd spent the previous evening researching constipation on his telephone and was now convinced that the medical profession had overlooked several perfectly obvious solutions, most of which appeared to involve things normally sold as breakfast.
"Apparently the average person carries several pounds of waste around inside them," he told me, lowering his voice as Bernard approached, and explained that he hadn't had a proper bowel movement for over a week, which was considerably more information than I'd have liked. He'd tried everything Helen had brought, without success, and was beginning to suspect his digestive system had taken early retirement..
Bernard, who had slowed down sufficiently to overhear the last part of the conversation, suggested that Martin should be careful because his brother-in-law had once suffered a bowel obstruction.
Martin looked horrified. "What happened to him?"
Bernard considered the question for a moment before explaining that the man had died, although he couldn't remember whether the obstruction had been responsible.
I thought this was an extraordinarily unhelpful contribution, but Bernard seemed satisfied he'd provided useful medical information and continued toward the lounge.
Martin watched him go. "Christ. They're a cheerful bloody lot in here."
I told him that Bernard had once been a councillor and was accustomed to offering advice without accepting responsibility for the consequences.
By Friday afternoon, a handwritten notice had appeared on the lounge board announcing a visiting choir for Saturday evening. It promised popular songs, traditional favourites, and music to stir the soul, an ambitious undertaking in a building where most residents considered a functioning radiator reason enough to celebrate.
The choir was called the Derwent Valley Singers, and according to Shanice, they had performed at Oakmere before. She remembered them as very good, although their previous appearance was interrupted when Fred tried to repair a faulty extension lead during the second verse of You'll Never Walk Alone. The resulting power cut had left the choir singing in darkness for nearly four minutes while Fred searched for the fuse box with his mobile telephone.
The conductor had described the experience as atmospheric.
Martin showed no interest when I mentioned the concert. He sat in the lounge with a newspaper open on his knees, though I noticed he hadn't turned a page in some time. His attention seemed divided between the article he pretended to read and the increasingly complicated sensations beneath his cardigan.
"Not really my sort of thing," he muttered when I asked whether he'd be going.
I told him the choir was supposed to be good and might take his mind off things for an hour.
He looked at me like a man who had begun to suspect his mind and bowels were no longer capable of independent thought. "An hour," he repeated thoughtfully.
I assured him that it probably wouldn't be much longer, unless they did an encore.
He folded his newspaper, considered this and eventually said that he might give it a try.
I thought no more about the conversation until Saturday morning, when Martin appeared outside Number 30 looking considerably more cheerful than he had for several days. He carried a small paper bag from the chemist and announced he'd finally found something that ought to solve his problem.
I asked whether he'd spoken to a doctor, but he said Helen had arranged some tablets and that he was confident everything would soon be back to normal. He seemed so pleased with himself that I didn't pursue the matter, though I suggested he follow the instructions and check with the pharmacist if he had any concerns.
Martin assured me he knew exactly how to take the tablets.
I had no particular reason to doubt him.
Looking back, that was probably a mistake.
The first indication that Martin's confidence might have been misplaced came shortly after five, when I found him standing outside the lift, examining his watch with the concentration of a man waiting for a condemned prisoner to be brought out. He was no longer carrying his walking stick, which I took as a reassuring sign until he explained he'd left it in his room because he needed both hands free.
"Free for what?" I asked.
"Nothing in particular," he replied too quickly, glancing toward the corridor leading to the toilets.
He admitted that he'd taken the tablets shortly after lunch and had expected some improvement by now. When I suggested that different remedies take different amounts of time to work, he told me he'd already established that for himself and was becoming increasingly dissatisfied with the manufacturer's promises. Apparently, someone with no sense of urgency had written the instructions, and he was considering making a complaint.
I asked whether he'd taken the recommended amount.
"More or less."
I disliked the answer immediately, especially coming from a man who had spent the previous four days treating his digestive system as a personal enemy. I suggested that he shouldn't take any more without speaking to someone qualified, and Martin assured me that he had no intention of doing anything foolish. Unfortunately, I had heard enough of his conversations with Helen to know his definition of foolishness differed considerably from the medical profession's.
He lowered his voice and confessed that he'd taken more tablets when the first ones seemed to have done nothing. He wouldn't say how many, but described the second attempt as a reasonable adjustment for a man of his size.
"Martin, you've had an operation. You really ought to speak to the nurse."
"For God's sake, Colin, I'm constipated, not dying."
I thought of Bernard's brother-in-law and decided not to mention him.
Instead, I persuaded Martin to let me find Shanice, who was setting out chairs for the concert. She listened to his account with considerably less amusement than I had expected and immediately suggested contacting the out-of-hours medical service. Martin objected that he'd already spent enough time being examined by people young enough to be his grandchildren, and that the last thing he needed was another stranger asking questions about his bowel movements.
Shanice pointed out that the alternative might involve considerably more strangers and considerably more questions. She was particularly firm about his not taking anything else, and eventually persuaded him to sit down while she arranged medical advice.
Martin regarded this as an outrageous overreaction. He informed me that if he had known constipation would attract so much attention, he would have kept it to himself, which struck me as an unfortunate choice of words under the circumstances.
By six o'clock, the Derwent Valley Singers had arrived. All twenty-three singers came through reception with their pianist, conductor and a woman carrying a large black folder, whose principal responsibility appeared to be preventing anyone from wandering off. They brought music, sensible shoes and a cheerful optimism that Oakmere generally managed to extinguish within ten minutes.
Their conductor, a thin man with silver hair and a permanently raised chin, introduced himself to Mr Patel as Geoffrey Whitcombe. He had the manner of someone accustomed to commanding large groups through difficult musical passages, though I noticed his confidence falter when Arthur asked whether they were the undertakers.
"No," Geoffrey replied pleasantly. "We're the choir."
Arthur looked at the black clothing, the music folders and the elderly faces gathering behind him. "Same sort of thing, isn't it?"
Mr Patel intervened before Geoffrey could answer and escorted the visitors into the lounge, where Shanice had arranged the chairs in six neat rows. This was ambitious because Oakmere residents regarded seating plans as suggestions rather than instructions, and several had already begun moving chairs to positions that suited their particular grievances.
Doreen wanted to sit near the front because she was slightly deaf, although she refused to admit it. Val wanted to sit near the back because she claimed the front row was where enthusiastic singers were most likely to spit on people. Bernard wanted a chair with arms, and Fred had positioned himself beside the electrical sockets, where Shanice was keeping a particularly close watch on him.
I found Martin in the corridor outside the lounge, looking pale and rather less argumentative than before. Shanice had arranged for a clinician to assess his symptoms, but the consultation had not yet taken place, and she had advised him to remain nearby rather than wander off. He assured me he was feeling considerably better and had decided to attend the concert after all.
"Are you sure that's wise?" I asked.
"Why wouldn't it be?"
I looked at him.
He looked back.
"Nothing's happened yet," he said, which wasn't quite the reassurance he seemed to think it was.
I noticed that he'd buttoned his cardigan incorrectly, leaving one side considerably longer than the other, and that his forehead had acquired a faint sheen. He stood unnaturally straight, shoulders back and feet apart, with the uncomfortable rigidity of someone waiting to be searched by customs.
"Perhaps you'd be better sitting near the door," I suggested.
"Why?"
"In case you need to leave."
He took this as an insult to his self-control and announced he could sit through a few songs without disgracing himself. Neither of us seemed troubled that I hadn't mentioned disgrace.
Unfortunately, by the time we entered the lounge, Val and two women from Willow Walk had occupied the chairs nearest the door, discussing a recent funeral with the enthusiasm normally reserved for a wedding. Val had brought a packet of mints and a notebook, apparently intended to record the names of people who hadn't attended.
Martin chose a chair in the middle of the fourth row. I sat beside him, partly out of sympathy and partly because I had begun to feel that leaving him unattended might eventually require me to give evidence at an inquest.
The choir opened with You'll Never Walk Alone, which I thought showed either admirable courage or a complete ignorance of their previous visit. Fred leaned forward at the first chord, studying the extension lead with professional interest, until Shanice gave him a look that would have discouraged a man contemplating armed robbery.
Geoffrey conducted with enormous enthusiasm, rising onto his toes for the louder passages and lowering himself slowly during the quieter ones, rather like a man attempting to retrieve something from a high cupboard without admitting he needed a stool. The singers were good, and for a few minutes the lounge became something other than a collection of elderly people waiting for supper, medication or the next opportunity to complain about the heating.
Martin even appeared to relax. He stopped checking his watch, leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes during the second song, a gentle arrangement of The Rose. I began to think his earlier difficulties might have been exaggerated when he suddenly opened his eyes and gripped both armrests.
You learn to recognise certain expressions after living at Oakmere for any length of time. Surprise, fear, disappointment, and the particular horror of discovering someone has eaten the pudding you were saving for later each has its own characteristics. What appeared on Martin's face belonged to none of these categories.
He stared straight ahead, his jaw tightening, and drew a long, careful breath through his nose.
"Are you all right?" I whispered.
He nodded without looking at me.
A moment later he shook his head.
I was about to ask which answer he preferred when he seized my wrist with a strength I hadn't expected from somebody recovering from abdominal surgery.
"Colin," he whispered, "I think something's happening."
I glanced towards the door. It was perhaps twenty feet away, but reaching it would require us to pass along the row, navigate Bernard's outstretched legs, and squeeze between Doreen's chair and a large potted palm moved indoors for the winter.
"Can you walk?"
Martin considered the question with the intense concentration of a man attempting to calculate the weight-bearing capacity of a suspension bridge.
"Not quickly."
"Then we'd better start now."
He shook his head again, this time with genuine alarm.
"Don't make me stand up."
I looked at the conductor, who had just raised both hands to open Bring Him Home.
Of all the songs available to a visiting choir, I thought, that was a particularly unfortunate choice.
Martin closed his eyes and tightened his grip on the chair.
"Colin," he whispered, in a voice that had lost every trace of his usual authority, "I don't think I'm going to make it home."
For the first time since his arrival, I believed him.
I have attended enough events at Oakmere to know that disasters rarely announce themselves. They usually begin with someone asking an innocent question, followed by a staff member saying there is absolutely nothing to worry about. Martin's disaster began with a noise that, under more favourable circumstances, might have been mistaken for a chair being dragged across a polished floor.
Unfortunately, the floor was carpeted.
Geoffrey Whitcombe was conducting Bring Him Home, and the choir had reached one of those delicate passages where the audience is expected to remain perfectly still. Martin, who had been gripping the arms of his chair, suddenly released them and sat upright, astonished. For a moment he looked almost relieved.
Then the smell arrived.
It was extraordinary how quickly twenty-three singers and forty residents could become aware of something nobody was prepared to acknowledge. The woman in front of us stopped dabbing at her eyes. Bernard looked accusingly at Doreen, who returned the accusation with interest; Val bent down to inspect the space beneath her chair, evidently convinced that something had died there.
Martin leaned towards me. "Colin, I've had an accident."
I looked at him, then at the small dark patch beginning to spread beneath his chair. "I think you may be right."
"Don't tell anyone."
"Martin,” I said, considering the request. “I think we're beyond that."
Geoffrey raised his hands for the final note. The choir held it magnificently, although several singers were beginning to look distressed. One of the tenors had stopped singing altogether and was breathing through his mouth.
Then Doreen, whose hearing aid had been switched off, announced that someone ought to check the drains because a dead rat was clearly somewhere in the building.
The conductor lowered his hands.
The silence was absolute.
Shanice was already coming towards us when Martin made the mistake of attempting to stand. I reached for his arm, but he was quicker than I expected, and for one dreadful second I thought he might actually manage it.
He didn't.
The sound that followed was loud enough to make Geoffrey turn around.
Martin dropped back into his chair.
Val screamed. Not because she had seen anything, but because screaming was her preferred response to uncertainty and she disliked being left out of emergencies.
Mr Patel appeared in the doorway, followed by Fred, who immediately asked whether the building needed evacuating.
"Not yet," Shanice replied, although her expression suggested she was keeping the option open.
She reached Martin, assessed the situation in a glance and asked whether he was in pain. When he nodded, she told Mr Patel to arrange urgent medical advice and asked everyone nearby to give him some space.
Unfortunately, Geoffrey had misunderstood the commotion. Believing someone had fallen ill during the performance, he stepped forward and announced that the choir would sing something uplifting while the staff attended to the emergency.
I was about to object when he raised his baton.
The opening chords of Always Look on the Bright Side of Life filled the lounge.
Martin stared at me. "Are they taking the piss?"
"Not deliberately."
Shanice had found a wheelchair, but the problem was no longer simply getting Martin out of his chair. He was terrified to stand, the upholstery was in a condition nobody wanted to investigate, and the audience had begun moving away from the fourth row with the determination of passengers abandoning a sinking ship.
Bernard, attempting to assist, suggested that they should lift Martin in his chair and carry him out.
"Absolutely not," Shanice said.
"I was a councillor for twenty-two years," Bernard replied.
"Then you'll be familiar with the concept of leaving things to people who know what they're doing."
I thought that was unnecessarily optimistic about local government, but there was no time to discuss it.
Meanwhile, Fred opened the fire exit to improve ventilation, setting off an alarm that immediately drowned out the choir. Geoffrey stopped conducting, several singers continued without him, and Arthur emerged from the corridor asking whether it was a drill.
"No," Fred shouted. "It's a genuine emergency."
Arthur looked around the room, apparently disappointed that nobody had told him what sort. "Has somebody died?"
"Not yet," I said.
Martin, who had been listening to this exchange with growing despair, gripped my sleeve. "Colin, if I die, don't let them put it on the death certificate."
"What?"
"That I died after I shat myself at a choir concert."
I assured him that death certificates usually focused on the medical cause, though I couldn't guarantee what Val would tell people afterwards.
With the alarm finally silenced, Shanice and another staff member helped Martin into the wheelchair. He apologised repeatedly, and when he looked at the abandoned chair, I saw a depth of misery that momentarily overcame even my own appreciation of the absurd.
"Don't worry about that," Shanice told him. "We'll deal with it."
Anxious to regain control of the evening, Geoffrey asked whether the choir should continue.
Mr Patel looked towards the fourth row.
"No," he replied. "I think we've had enough."
The singers began packing away their music, though several were reluctant to come to the front of the lounge to collect their coats. The tenor who had stopped singing was now standing beside an open window, taking deep breaths with the gratitude of a man recently rescued from a mine.
We wheeled Martin towards Number 42 while Mr Patel contacted the medical service again to explain that Martin's condition had changed considerably since the original call. His recent operation, prolonged constipation and the tablets he'd taken meant the incident couldn't simply be dismissed as an embarrassing accident. Martin seemed resigned to it, though he asked whether the doctor could be persuaded to enter through the rear door.
Behind us, Val was telling the remaining residents she'd known something was wrong the moment Martin arrived.
"He's been eating dried apricots all week," she announced. "You can't tell me that's normal."
I considered defending dried apricots, but Val had already convicted them.
Shanice settled Martin in his room, closed the door and began the unpleasant business of helping him recover what remained of his dignity. I waited outside with Mr Patel, who studied the lounge incident report form with deep professional concern.
After several minutes, he asked whether I had witnessed the incident's beginning.
"Unfortunately."
"Could you describe what happened?"
I considered the question. "Do I need to include the musical accompaniment?"
Mr Patel looked at me without amusement. "The form simply asks for a brief description."
"Then write that Martin experienced an unexpected bowel movement during a choral performance."
He began writing. "Anything else?"
"Yes. I wouldn't use the word movement in the choir's thank-you letter."
Mr Patel sighed and continued with the form.
A few minutes later, Shanice emerged carrying a sealed bag and told us that Martin was as comfortable as she could make him while they waited for medical assessment. She looked exhausted, but there was a trace of amusement in her expression when she noticed Mr Patel still writing.
"How's the report coming along?" she asked.
"Nearly finished. I just need to establish whether there was any damage to Oakmere property."
Shanice looked towards the lounge, where Fred had been asked to remove Martin's chair. "Well," she replied, "we're certainly not putting that one back."
Mr Patel made another note. "Should I record it as a disposal?"
"Record it as a cremation," she said. "And make sure nobody opens this bag."
I went back to Number 30 before anyone asked me to sign anything.
I didn't see Martin again until the following Wednesday. They'd taken him to hospital for assessment that Saturday evening, and he returned to Oakmere two days later, considerably more subdued, with instructions that Shanice seemed determined to ensure he followed. His recovery was progressing satisfactorily, although he had developed an understandable reluctance to discuss anything connected with the digestive system.
I found him sitting in the garden with Helen, enjoying the weak autumn sunshine. His walking stick rested against the bench, and for once he didn't pretend he didn't need it. Helen looked considerably more relaxed than she had on her previous visits, although I noticed she was drinking from a bottle of mineral water she'd brought with her.
"How are you feeling?" I asked.
"Better, thank you," Martin replied. "Although I'm beginning to think this place might finish me off before the operation does."
Helen smiled and told me that her father had agreed to stay an additional week while he recovered. Martin immediately corrected her, explaining that he hadn't agreed to anything of the sort; he'd merely accepted that leaving immediately would be inconvenient.
I understood the distinction. At Oakmere, surrender was considerably easier if you could persuade yourself it was a tactical decision.
For a while we talked about the weather, the garden, and whether the council intended to repair the pavement outside the main entrance. Then Martin glanced towards the building and lowered his voice.
"Colin, about Saturday evening. Has anyone mentioned it?"
I assured him nobody had said anything to me, which was technically true if you ignored the conversations I'd overheard, the incident report Mr Patel had asked me to check, and Fred's unsuccessful attempt to persuade the maintenance department that the lounge chair could be salvaged with a steam cleaner.
Martin seemed relieved.
"Good. I'd rather forget the whole business."
"Probably best," I agreed.
At that moment Val appeared along the garden path, carrying a newspaper and looking unusually pleased with herself.
"Ah, Martin. Glad to see you're back on your feet. I hear the Derwent Valley Singers won't be coming for Christmas after all."
Martin's expression changed.
"Why not?"
Val shrugged. "Apparently they had a bad experience with the acoustics."
She continued towards the building without waiting for a reply.
Martin watched Val disappear into the building. Beside him, Helen began laughing, tried to apologise and only made matters worse. Eventually she had to put her bottle of water on the ground.
Martin looked at his daughter, then at me, and for several seconds I thought he might announce that he was leaving immediately.
Instead, he picked up his walking stick. "Come on, Helen," he said. "Let's go inside before somebody starts singing."
I watched them make their way towards the entrance, Helen walking slowly beside him and Martin using his stick properly for the first time since he'd arrived.