Oakmere Lodge

A New Lease of Life

Part 7

Eileen Pritchard arrived at Oakmere Lodge on a wet Tuesday afternoon in November, accompanied by her daughter, two battered suitcases, a cardboard box and a dog that appeared to have been assembled from the larger components of several other dogs.

Buster was an elderly Labrador whose once-golden coat had faded to the colour of old porridge. His muzzle was grey, his stomach hung alarmingly close to the ground, and his enthusiasm for life remained entirely unaffected by either condition. He demonstrated this by dragging Eileen's daughter through the entrance, overturning an umbrella stand and greeting Mr Patel with the sort of affection that might have been more appropriate had they served together during the war.

The manager staggered backwards as Buster planted two enormous paws against his chest and attempted to lick his face, leaving a pair of muddy impressions on a jacket that had been immaculate moments earlier.

I sat in reception, waiting for a parcel delivered the previous morning that had since disappeared into Mr Patel's office. I could see it behind his desk through the open door, but experience had taught me that pointing this out would further delay its return.

'He's very friendly,' Eileen announced, while her daughter struggled to disentangle the lead from Mr Patel's legs.

The manager straightened his tie and explained that Oakmere had regulations concerning animals, particularly those brought onto the premises without prior approval. Susan Pritchard, who looked as though she'd spent the previous six months negotiating with hospitals, social workers and a mother who regarded compromise as a personal failing, insisted that she'd mentioned Buster during their earlier visit.

'You described him as a small companion animal,' Mr Patel reminded her.

'He's lost weight,' Eileen interrupted, apparently considering that explanation sufficient. 'Nearly two pounds since August. The vet was delighted.'

I looked at Buster, who had just managed to steal a biscuit from Susan's coat pocket and swallow it without chewing.

Eileen was eighty-seven, small and neatly dressed, with silver hair arranged in a style that had probably remained unchanged since the Queen's Silver Jubilee. She used a walking frame, though she saw it as an unnecessary restriction on her freedom, and carried the confident air of a woman who had spent most of her life correcting other people's mistakes.

Her arrival at Oakmere followed what she described as the disgraceful behaviour of a hospice that had expelled her for refusing to die.

She'd been admitted eighteen months earlier with a serious illness, and her family had been warned that she might not survive until Christmas. Eileen had responded by distributing her ornamental thimbles, cancelling her television licence and telling her youngest daughter precisely what she thought of her husband. Then, to everyone's considerable surprise, she'd recovered.

Not entirely, of course. Her mobility remained poor, and she tired easily, but her condition had stabilised; Christmas had come and gone twice, and eventually the hospice had explained that she no longer required specialist end-of-life care. Eileen was furious. 'Eighteen months I was there, Colin,' she told me later, while Susan completed the paperwork. 'Never caused them a moment's trouble.'

I later discovered this wasn't entirely accurate, although the nurses had apparently been very fond of her. They'd allowed Buster to stay as a comfort dog, a decision that suggested either remarkable tolerance or a complete absence of valuable furniture.

'Lovely people,' she continued. 'Couldn't fault them. Made some good friends, too, although you couldn't get too attached. People were always disappearing. Terrible turnover of residents. I stopped learning their surnames in the end. Seemed a waste of everybody's time.' She said this without the slightest trace of irony, then explained that a consultant had eventually informed her that her bed was needed for somebody who was actually dying. 'Imagine saying that to a person.'

I suggested that she must have been pleased to discover she was going to live, but Eileen regarded this as entirely beside the point. She'd settled into the hospice, had her favourite chair beside the window and knew exactly when the tea trolley came round. Now she was expected to begin again among strangers, none of whom had yet demonstrated any particular reason to be trusted.

For a moment, as she watched Susan completing the admission forms, I glimpsed the uncertainty beneath her indignation. Eileen had entered the hospice expecting never to leave, and surviving had presented her with a future she hadn't planned for.

Then Buster rolled onto his back, exposed an enormous pink stomach, and began snoring with enough force to attract everyone's attention in reception.

'At least he's settled,' Eileen observed.

Mr Patel, who had just discovered another muddy paw print on the brochure stand, looked considerably less convinced.

Two days later, Buster became the most discussed resident at Oakmere Lodge.

He’d eaten three digestive biscuits belonging to Decaf Doreen, overturned George's shopping bag and developed an unfortunate attachment to Mr Patel, whom he greeted every morning by attempting to insert his nose into the manager's trouser pocket. Eileen insisted Buster was exceptionally well behaved, although her definition of good behaviour seemed to depend entirely on whether he had actually bitten anybody; but then the real trouble began on Thursday afternoon.

I'd been taking a bag of rubbish to the communal bins, leaving my flat door ajar as I usually did when I expected to be away for only a minute or two. It was a habit I'd never given much thought to before that fateful day.

I was returning along the corridor when I heard a scream from somewhere beyond the residents' lounge, followed by a heavy thump and the unmistakable sound of somebody shouting for help.

My first thought was that one of the residents had fallen, something that happened often enough at Oakmere to make an unexpected crash a cause for concern. I was about to hurry towards the noise when I remembered my open door. With the commotion apparently attracting people from every part of the building, I decided it would be sensible to secure my flat first before investigating.

It took rather longer than expected. The key had become caught in the lining of my coat pocket, and by the time I'd retrieved it, checked the door and started back along the corridor, the shouting had grown considerably louder.

Dorothy Bell appeared at the far end, clutching the front of her cardigan and looking as though she'd witnessed something that would trouble her for the remainder of her life. 'Don't go down there, Colin,' she warned, catching hold of my sleeve as I approached. 'There's been a terrible accident.'

I asked whether somebody had been hurt, but Dorothy couldn't provide a sensible answer. She kept glancing over her shoulder towards the lounge, where another crash was followed by George shouting for somebody to get the bloody thing off the furniture. 'It's that great dog,' she said eventually, lowering her voice as though afraid he might overhear. 'He’s gone mad. He's got somebody's leg.'

I assumed Buster had bitten someone and asked whether they'd called an ambulance, but Dorothy shook her head, explaining that nobody had identified the unfortunate person yet.

'How can you not know who's been bitten?' I asked.

Dorothy looked at me with genuine distress, her hands gripping at my arm. 'Because we haven't found the rest of them.'

Decaf Doreen emerged from the lounge and hurried towards us, moving faster than I'd thought possible for a woman who usually needed several attempts to rise from an armchair.

She confirmed that Buster had something dreadful in his mouth, although her account was considerably more alarming than Dorothy's. According to Doreen, there was blood everywhere, Arthur was attempting to restrain the animal, and Val had demanded that somebody telephone the police.

I asked whether anyone had actually seen an injured person, but neither woman could give me a satisfactory answer. Doreen maintained that the evidence was obvious, while Dorothy had become convinced that the dog must have attacked someone in the garden and dragged part of the unfortunate victim indoors. I was beginning to think that the situation required rather more practical assistance than either woman could provide when another scream came from the lounge, followed by the sound of breaking crockery.

I hurried towards the commotion, leaving Dorothy and Doreen arguing about whether to inform the police before the ambulance service.

By the time I reached the lounge, however, Buster had escaped through another doorway and disappeared towards reception, pursued by Arthur, who leaned heavily on his walking stick and shouted instructions the dog seemed determined to ignore.

I followed as quickly as I could, although the corridor had become congested with residents emerging from their rooms to discover what was happening. Nobody seemed entirely certain of the facts, but this hadn't prevented several increasingly disturbing explanations from circulating.

One resident claimed that somebody had been attacked in the garden, while another insisted that the dog had come from the laundry room. George, who had followed Arthur out of the lounge, suggested we start a head count of residents, while Arthur shouted back, ‘What’s the point of a head count, when it’s a fucking leg that the beast’s got hold of!’

Several minutes later, Mr Patel appeared and tried to restore order. He listened to the conflicting accounts with growing impatience, instructed everyone to remain calm and disappeared towards reception, where Buster had apparently taken refuge behind the desk.

I remained in the corridor, trying to persuade Dorothy that there was probably a perfectly reasonable explanation, although I was finding it increasingly difficult to imagine what that might be. Then Mr Patel called my name. Something in his voice made me abandon the conversation immediately. I hurried towards reception, where a small crowd had gathered around the desk, and found the manager standing beside a large potted palm, holding what appeared to be a human leg at arm's length.

Several strips of damp red material hung from the top, and the foot still wore a shoe I recognised instantly. 'Good God,' I said. 'That's Lorna's!'

I had expected this announcement to clarify matters, but the effect was extraordinary. Dorothy, who had followed me into reception, gave a small cry and retreated towards the wall, while Doreen moved so quickly behind the brochure stand that she knocked over a display advertising Oakmere's commitment to a safe and supportive environment.

Arthur, who had been standing beside Mr Patel, took several deliberate steps away from me. George stayed where he was, though his expression shifted from amusement to something approaching concern. 'Your wife's leg, Colin?' he asked, studying me carefully. 'But I thought Lorna had left you.'

I confirmed that she had, several months earlier, and was about to explain when Dorothy interrupted to ask whether anybody had actually seen her since. This struck me as an extraordinary question, particularly as Doreen was now examining my hands with an intensity usually reserved for police officers searching for forensic evidence. It gradually dawned on me what they were thinking.

I explained that Lorna was perfectly well, as far as I knew, and that the object Mr Patel was holding was a prosthetic limb. Unfortunately, my admission that I'd been keeping it beneath my bed did little to reassure them.

Dorothy looked positively horrified. 'You've been keeping your wife's leg under the bed?'

I reminded her that it was artificial, but she seemed less interested in its construction than in the circumstances under which I'd acquired it. Doreen wanted to know whether Lorna had agreed to leave it behind, while Arthur began asking whether the police ought to be informed as a precaution.

George, who had been listening with growing fascination, finally asked the question that seemed to trouble everyone. 'Colin, old mate, where's the rest of her?'

I stared at him, hardly believing what I was hearing. The possibility that my fellow residents might consider me capable of murdering my wife had never previously occurred to me, although I had to admit that our separation had not been entirely amicable. 'For heaven's sake, George, I haven't murdered Lorna!'

This declaration produced considerably less reassurance than I'd intended. Dorothy moved closer to the exit, while Doreen began whispering something to Arthur about people who appeared perfectly normal until the neighbours discovered what they'd been keeping in the freezer.

Mr Patel, who had remained unusually quiet throughout the exchange, now cleared his throat. He had been examining the leg more closely, and I could see recognition replacing the concern on his face. 'Mr Briggs,' he said, 'I believe I remember this item.'

I assured him he should, since he'd been involved in the original delivery and had personally instructed me to arrange its removal. He nodded slowly, apparently recalling the considerable inconvenience caused by a parcel that had arrived after its intended recipient had departed. 'And you assured me that the matter would be dealt with,' he reminded me.

I admitted that I had, but suggested that the immediate problem was that a dog had entered my flat and removed something from beneath my bed. Mr Patel appeared unwilling to accept this distinction, pointing out that had I complied with his instructions, the object would no longer have been on the premises.

Meanwhile, Dorothy edged closer to the desk and studied the red material hanging from the socket. She asked, in a voice barely above a whisper, whether it was blood, and when I explained that it was crepe paper, she looked at me as though I'd offered an especially unconvincing explanation.

I told her about the craft shop, the need to protect the socket and the unfortunate shortage of suitable colours. What had seemed a perfectly sensible precaution at the time now sounded, even to me, like the sort of elaborate explanation a murderer might offer when confronted with evidence he hadn't expected anyone to find.

George began laughing, although Doreen remained unconvinced and wanted to know how we could be certain the leg was artificial. Mr Patel turned it over, revealing the manufactured socket and mechanical fittings, then suggested that the absence of flesh and bone ought to settle the matter. Arthur leaned forward for a closer inspection, apparently disappointed that the afternoon's excitement had proved less serious than he'd anticipated.

Dorothy, however, was still troubled that Lorna had apparently left Oakmere without something as essential as a leg. I explained that she possessed another prosthesis, which prompted Arthur to enquire how many she owned altogether.

'Two,' I told him, rather more sharply than necessary. 'She's got two. This is the spare.'

George found the answer so amusing he was obliged to sit down.

By now the residents had begun to relax, although I noticed that Dorothy still kept a certain distance, and Doreen had yet to emerge fully from behind the brochure stand. Unfortunately, the incident was not quite over.

Buster, temporarily confined behind the reception desk while Mr Patel tried to establish ownership of his prize, spotted the leg and immediately decided the game was continuing. He bounded forwards, seized the artificial foot and pulled so enthusiastically that Mr Patel lost his grip on the socket.

The leg swung sideways, striking the manager across the shin before Buster retreated towards the lounge, his tail wagging with renewed excitement.

Mr Patel cried out in outrage and tried to follow, but the dog took his sudden movement as encouragement and quickened his pace, heading towards the residential flats. Screams began again, as the crowded corridor of onlookers suddenly disappeared into their rooms, locking the doors behind them. Arthur tried to intercept him with his walking stick, while George shouted advice from his chair and Dorothy retreated behind Doreen, apparently deciding that a second dismemberment was imminent.

Buster made one triumphant jog down the corridor before encountering Eileen, who had finally emerged from her room to discover why everybody was shouting.

She took one look at the dog, the leg and Mr Patel's expression, then bent carefully to retrieve the object from Buster's mouth. 'Oh, Buster,' she said affectionately, 'what have you been doing now?'

Mr Patel explained that her dog had caused considerable distress, damaged a resident's property, and created a serious disturbance throughout the building. Eileen listened with mild concern, though she seemed more troubled by the suggestion that Buster might have damaged something valuable.

When I told her that the prosthesis had cost several thousand pounds, she looked genuinely astonished. 'For one leg? You could buy a decent second-hand car for that.'

Mr Patel informed her that Buster would have to remain under supervision until suitable arrangements could be made to prevent further incidents. Eileen objected, reminding him that the dog had spent eighteen months in a hospice providing comfort to people who were dying and had never once been accused of misconduct.

The manager looked at the leg, then at Buster, who was sitting beside Eileen with an expression of complete innocence. 'Perhaps,' Mr Patel replied, 'those patients were less mobile.'

I eventually recovered Lorna's leg, now covered in saliva and bearing several fresh tooth marks around the ankle. As I carried it towards my flat, Dorothy called after me, sounding rather more hesitant than usual. 'Colin, you will tell us if Lorna comes back, won't you?'

I returned to my flat, washed the leg as thoroughly as I could and placed it at the back of the wardrobe, where I hoped it might remain undisturbed until I could finally arrange for its collection.

This time, I locked the flat door.

I had barely sat down when I heard a gentle scratching from the corridor, followed by a hopeful whine.

Buster was waiting outside.

Apparently, he wanted another game.

The following Sunday, Susan arrived to find her mother sitting beside the lounge window, watching Buster stare mournfully at the garden. The dog had already been out twice that morning, but neither excursion had satisfied him, and he was now expressing his disappointment by resting his enormous chin on Eileen's knee and sighing at regular intervals.

Eileen's legs had become weaker during her illness, and although she could still manage short distances with her walking frame, anything more ambitious left her exhausted. This frustrated Buster, who had spent much of his life accompanying her on walks and couldn't understand why she had suddenly become so uncooperative.

Susan watched her mother struggle to get out of the chair and decided it was time to intervene. 'Peter and I have been talking, Mum. We think you ought to have a mobility scooter.'

Eileen settled back into her chair and regarded her daughter suspiciously. In her experience, whenever Susan and Peter talked, somebody was about to take something away from her.

Susan explained that the scooter would let her get out more, take Buster for walks, and visit the shops without relying on other people. Eileen considered this, particularly the possibility of going shopping whenever she pleased. She had developed a considerable liking for cheese-flavoured soft crackers with garlic and onion dip, although the recent discovery of a caramelised onion variety had rendered the originals almost tasteless. Unfortunately, Susan saw shopping for crackers as something she could do during her weekly visit, whereas Eileen considered waiting seven days for a particular biscuit an unreasonable infringement of her liberty.

'Could I go to Sainsbury's?' she asked.

Susan assured her she could, once she'd learnt to operate the machine safely, but warned that the scooter was intended for local journeys, not excursions along the main roads. The town-centre shops would be perfectly suitable, provided she used the pavements and pedestrian crossings, but she was not to attempt the Kingsway retail park because that would involve negotiating the ring road.

Eileen listened carefully and assured her daughter that she had no intention of doing anything foolish. She then admitted that she'd never driven a car, although she pointed out that she'd operated a washing machine for sixty years without injuring anybody. Susan was unconvinced by the comparison, particularly when her mother added that she'd once driven a tractor, though she could no longer remember whether she'd been steering it or merely sitting on her father's lap.

By the time Susan left, Eileen had agreed to the purchase, provided the scooter was red and came with a decent shopping basket.

The machine arrived on Wednesday, delivered by Peter in a hired van. It was a substantial four-wheeled affair with mirrors, indicators, a padded seat and a horn that Eileen immediately tested three times, apparently to establish whether it was sufficiently loud to attract attention.

Mr Patel emerged from his office at the third blast and examined the scooter. He explained that powered vehicles were subject to certain regulations and had to be kept in the designated storage area, about thirty yards beyond the rear entrance.

Eileen asked how she was supposed to get back from there.

Mr Patel suggested they could make arrangements to assist her, which seemed to defeat the entire purpose of buying the thing, but before she could pursue the argument, Peter suggested a demonstration in the car park.

I went outside with George, who had already found himself a suitable vantage point on a bench and was opening a packet of crisps.

Peter spent several minutes explaining the controls, particularly the importance of releasing the hand lever to stop. Eileen listened with the patience of someone being taught to operate a household appliance.

Eventually, she was allowed to try. For the first twenty yards, everything went well. The scooter moved smoothly across the car park, Eileen smiled, and Peter began to congratulate himself on an excellent purchase, then Buster spotted a pigeon.

He lunged across the car park, pulling the lead from Susan's hand, and Eileen instinctively tightened her grip on the controls. The scooter accelerated, narrowly missed a waste bin and struck a large wooden planter with sufficient force to scatter compost across the paving. A brief silence followed, then Peter hurried over to check that his mother was unharmed, while Susan retrieved Buster, who had lost interest in the pigeon and was now investigating the displaced soil.

Eileen remained seated, examining the handlebars with professional dissatisfaction. 'I think the steering needs adjusting,' she announced.

George lowered his packet of crisps. 'I'd get the brakes looked at while you're there.'

From the reception window, Mr Patel was watching the scene with both hands pressed against the glass. Susan suggested they arrange some lessons. Then Harold Finch appeared. Harold had lived at Oakmere for nearly two years and owned a dark-blue mobility scooter that he treated with considerably more affection than most people reserved for their families. A retired delivery driver, he considered himself an authority on anything with wheels, despite having reversed into the ornamental pond the previous summer. He listened to Peter's account of the accident with the grave attention of an experienced professional, then offered to provide instruction himself. 'Forty years on the roads,' he announced proudly. 'Vans, lorries, the lot. Never had an accident worth mentioning.'

I remembered the pond, although I supposed the definition of worth mentioning depended on whether you had been required to retrieve the scooter.

Eileen examined him carefully before accepting his offer. She asked whether he had ever driven a bus, and appeared disappointed when he admitted he had not. They arranged to begin the following morning.

I watched Harold drive away, sounding his horn at a pigeon that had wandered onto the path. At the time, I thought it a generous offer. By Thursday afternoon, he was in the Royal Derby Hospital with a broken leg.

The precise circumstances of Harold's accident were the subject of considerable discussion at Oakmere, although the accounts differed depending on whether one spoke to Eileen, George or Harold himself.

George had witnessed most of the lesson from his usual bench and was therefore considered the most reliable source, despite having spent part of the morning reading the racing pages.

According to him, Harold had begun with a series of straightforward exercises involving starts, stops and turns around plastic cones borrowed from the maintenance cupboard. Eileen had made reasonable progress, provided she was not expected to operate the indicators while changing direction, and had completed several circuits without striking anything more substantial than a cone.

Encouraged by this success, Harold decided she was ready for emergency stopping.

He positioned his scooter several yards ahead of hers and explained that she should follow at a safe distance, stopping whenever he raised his hand.

Unfortunately, Eileen interpreted Harold's first signal as an instruction to move closer. She did so. Harold raised his hand again, this time with considerably greater urgency, but Eileen, anxious not to lose sight of her instructor, increased her speed.

The collision itself was not particularly fast. George later estimated that a determined pedestrian could comfortably have overtaken both scooters. Unfortunately, Harold had chosen that moment to dismount and demonstrate the correct position of the front wheels.

Eileen struck him from behind.

He fell backwards across the front of her scooter, rolled onto the paving and landed with one leg trapped beneath the wheel. Eileen, alarmed by the sudden disappearance of her instructor, attempted to reverse but pressed the wrong control. The scooter ran over him a second time.

George maintained that Harold's language during the following thirty seconds was remarkable, even by the standards of a man who had spent forty years delivering goods to industrial estates.

By the time the ambulance arrived, Harold was sitting on the ground, refusing assistance from Eileen and demanding that somebody remove her from the vicinity of anything with wheels.

Eileen, meanwhile, told the paramedics the accident was caused by inadequate instruction and that Harold ought to have been wearing a high-visibility jacket. Mr Patel cancelled all further lessons.

Harold was taken to hospital, where X-rays revealed a fracture that would require several weeks of recovery. Eileen sent him flowers and a card wishing him a speedy recovery. She added a handwritten note asking whether he would be available to resume her lessons once the plaster came off.

Harold asked the nurse to put the card in the bin.

For the next two days, the scooter remained in Oakmere's storage area beneath a protective sheet, accompanied by a handwritten notice from Mr Patel stating that it was not to be used without further assessment.

Eileen regarded this as another example of the unreasonable restrictions that had followed her recovery. Having spent eighteen months in a hospice where she had been encouraged to make the most of whatever time remained, she now found herself surrounded by people who seemed determined to prevent her from doing anything that might involve the slightest risk.

On Saturday morning, she decided that matters had gone far enough. She needed milk, bread, a packet of the little sausages Buster liked and, most importantly, another supply of caramelised onion crackers. Susan had promised to bring everything the following day, but Eileen was tired of waiting for other people to decide when she could enjoy something as ordinary as a biscuit.

She collected her coat, fetched the scooter key from the drawer where she'd hidden it and made her way to the rear entrance with Buster following close behind. Nobody saw her leave.

Her original intention, as she subsequently explained to me, was entirely reasonable. She would take the scooter into Derby, visit Sainsbury's, purchase her groceries and return to Oakmere in time for lunch. She had remembered Susan's instructions about avoiding Kingsway and was rather pleased with herself for taking such care to follow them.

The journey into town passed without incident, apart from an elderly gentleman who complained when Buster stopped to investigate his shopping trolley and a cyclist who suggested that Eileen might find it easier to travel without the dog attached to her wrist. She ignored the cyclist, who was considerably younger than she was and therefore unlikely to have much useful experience. At Sainsbury's, she found everything on her list except the caramelised onion crackers.

The assistant she approached was sympathetic but explained that the smaller branch didn't stock that particular variety. Eileen regarded this as an extraordinary omission, particularly as several shelves were devoted to flavours she considered entirely unnecessary. After some discussion, the assistant suggested she might have better luck at either Kingsway or Chaddesden, both larger stores.

Eileen thanked her and considered the alternatives.

Kingsway was out of the question. Susan had specifically forbidden her from going there, and although Eileen disagreed with many of her daughter's opinions, she was determined to demonstrate that she could be trusted to follow instructions.

Chaddesden, on the other hand, had never been mentioned.

Eileen set off for Chaddesden shortly before eleven, having established that the store was only three miles away and that her scooter, with a maximum speed of four miles an hour, could easily cover the distance. She had plenty of battery, Buster appeared willing, and there seemed little point in returning to Oakmere without the one item she'd particularly wanted.

The precise route she followed was subsequently reconstructed from the accounts of several motorists, two police officers and Eileen herself, whose recollections differed from the others chiefly in her belief that everybody had been exceptionally friendly.

At some point, having followed what she considered the most direct route, she found herself on the A52. The absence of a pavement was a minor inconvenience, but Eileen reasoned that plenty of road was available and that staying close to the edge would leave enough room for everyone else.

The first motorist to encounter her sounded his horn for several seconds, presumably hoping that the sight of an elderly woman on a mobility scooter, accompanied by an enormous Labrador, was some temporary misunderstanding that could be resolved through noise. Eileen raised one hand in acknowledgement.

She later told me that she'd been pleasantly surprised by the encouragement she received from passing drivers, many of whom sounded their horns and waved with remarkable enthusiasm. One gentleman leaned so far out of his window that she feared he might fall, although she couldn't make out what he was saying over the traffic.

Unfortunately, her popularity was causing considerable disruption. A delivery driver behind her had to reduce his speed so abruptly that several vehicles began braking in succession, and within minutes a substantial queue had formed.

Eileen remained largely unaware of the inconvenience. She focused on keeping Buster close and avoiding the uneven road surface, which she saw as further evidence of the council's disgraceful failure to maintain the highways.

The real difficulty arose as she approached the Pentagon junction.

Eileen knew she needed to reach the exit for Chaddesden, but the lane layout ahead was far more complicated than she'd expected. The route seemed to involve crossing three lanes of traffic, but she was relieved to find her scooter had indicators.

She switched one on and began edging across, reassured when a car behind her braked sharply to allow her through. The driver sounded his horn, which she took as confirmation that he'd seen her signal. She thanked him with a wave.

By the time she attempted the next manoeuvre, several motorists had stopped altogether, while others were attempting to find a way around her. One driver abandoned his attempt to pass and began reversing to a safer position, an action Eileen considered unnecessary given the space available.

She was particularly irritated by a man in a white van who appeared to be shouting instructions through his open window. His gestures were difficult to interpret, although she thought he might be indicating that she should move further across. She obliged.

The first reports to the police described an elderly woman travelling along the A52 dual carriageway on a mobility scooter with a large dog walking beside her. One caller claimed that she was attempting to cross several lanes of traffic, while another reported that she appeared to be directing vehicles with her free hand.

When the patrol car arrived, its blue lights flashing, Eileen experienced considerable relief. She'd been wondering whether she ought to ask somebody for directions, and the appearance of two police officers seemed an exceptionally fortunate development.

The officers brought the traffic under control and stopped her where they could approach safely. Eileen greeted them cheerfully and explained that she was on her way to Sainsbury's in Chaddesden, having been specifically forbidden by her daughter from visiting Kingsway.

One officer explained that mobility scooters were not permitted on the dual carriageway and that she would have to leave immediately. Unfortunately, this presented a difficulty neither officer had anticipated. The scooter was too large to fit into their patrol car, Buster showed no inclination to be lifted into the boot, and there was no convenient way to return Eileen to Oakmere without arranging a separate vehicle.

After a brief discussion, the officers decided that the safest immediate solution was to escort her to the next suitable exit, keeping the traffic behind her while she travelled the remaining distance.

Eileen was delighted.

'That's where I'm going,' she told them. 'You've saved me a lot of trouble.'

The younger officer tried to explain that the escort was meant to keep her out of danger, but Eileen was already thanking him for his kindness.

And so, for the next thirty minutes, traffic on the A52 was treated to the extraordinary sight of a police patrol car, blue lights flashing, travelling at four miles an hour behind a red mobility scooter, while an elderly Labrador trotted alongside with the weary determination of an animal who was questioning his owner's judgement.

Eileen later described the experience as wonderful. She'd never received a police escort before and was particularly impressed by the way other motorists moved aside to let them continue.

At the exit, the officers guided her off the dual carriageway and told her to stop somewhere safe. Eileen thanked them again and announced that, as Sainsbury's was now so close, she'd finish her shopping before returning home.

The officer explained that she wouldn't be returning home on the scooter.

Eileen considered this an unreasonable restriction, particularly after he'd just helped her travel several hundred yards towards her destination, but eventually agreed that somebody could collect her once she'd bought her crackers.

The officers accompanied her to the supermarket, where one remained outside with the scooter while the other telephoned Susan.

She received the call shortly before midday, while standing in the frozen food aisle of another supermarket.

When the officer introduced himself, Susan immediately feared that her mother had been taken ill. The relief she felt on learning that Eileen was perfectly well lasted only until he explained that she'd been found travelling at four miles an hour along the A52, accompanied by a large Labrador.

Susan gripped her trolley handle.

'She was doing what?'

The officer repeated the explanation, adding that her mother had tried to cross several lanes of traffic near the Pentagon junction and caused considerable disruption before the patrol car reached her.

Susan asked where her mother was now.

'At Sainsbury's in Chaddesden, madam.'

'How on earth did she get there?'

There was a brief pause. 'We escorted her.'

Susan closed her eyes.

The officer explained that they couldn't fit the scooter into their vehicle and that accompanying Eileen off the A52 had been the safest available option. Unfortunately, she was now refusing to leave until she'd finished her shopping, and the police had no intention of letting her travel home along the same route.

'So you need me to collect her?'

'Yes, madam. And we'll need somebody with a suitable vehicle to take the scooter.'

Susan promised to telephone Peter, who still had access to the van he'd used to deliver it.

Before ending the call, she asked whether her mother understood how serious the incident had been.

'I'm not entirely sure, madam,' the officer admitted. 'She seems to think we brought her shopping.'

When Susan arrived at Chaddesden, she found her mother sitting outside Sainsbury's beside a police officer, with Buster asleep beneath the scooter and three shopping bags arranged neatly at her feet.

Eileen greeted her cheerfully and announced that the journey had been an enormous success. She'd found the caramelised onion crackers, bought two extra packets in case the town-centre branch kept disappointing her, and discovered that the Chaddesden store also stocked a particularly good garlic-and-onion dip.

Susan looked at the police officer, who gave her the tired smile of a man who had spent the previous hour discovering that his training had not covered every possible emergency.

'And the police were ever so helpful,' Eileen added. 'They even put their lights on for me.'

Susan said nothing. She was too busy imagining what might have happened had one of the motorists failed to stop in time.

The officer handed her the details of the incident and explained that, although no further action was being taken at present, her mother must not be permitted to repeat the journey.

Eileen overheard this and looked offended. 'Of course I won't. I've bought enough crackers to last me a fortnight.'

By the time Susan returned her mother to Oakmere that afternoon, Mr Patel had been informed of the incident and was waiting in reception with his clipboard. I happened to be collecting my post when they arrived, and judging by his expression, I suspected the manager had spent much of the afternoon preparing a suitable response.

Eileen appeared remarkably cheerful, although Susan looked as though she'd aged several years since breakfast. Buster followed them through the entrance, made a half-hearted attempt to greet Mr Patel and collapsed beside the radiator.

Peter had already returned the scooter to the storage area, where Mr Patel insisted it would remain until a formal assessment could be completed. Eileen objected that the police had been perfectly satisfied with her driving once they began escorting her, but the argument failed to impress anyone.

Susan finally lost her composure. 'You could have been killed, Mum.'

Eileen opened her mouth to reply, then stopped. For the first time since arriving, she seemed to recognise how frightened her daughter had been. She reached for Susan's hand and held it awkwardly between both of hers.

'I know you worry, love. But I've spent the best part of two years waiting for something dreadful to happen. I'm tired of it.'

Susan looked away, struggling to control her emotions. She reminded her mother how close they'd come to losing her during the illness, and that Harold was still in hospital and that she'd been lucky not to put herself there as well.

'Oh, everybody keeps going on about Harold,' Eileen said. 'He's got another leg.'

For a moment, neither spoke. Then Buster raised his head, gave a tremendous sigh and settled back to sleep.

Eileen watched him affectionately before turning to her daughter.

Susan stared at her mother, apparently uncertain whether to laugh or strangle her. Mr Patel, who had been recording the incident on a fresh page of his clipboard, looked up sharply. I decided it was probably time to leave them to it.

On Monday afternoon, I found Eileen sitting beside the lounge window, watching the rain run down the glass. Buster was asleep at her feet, occasionally twitching as though dreaming of something worth chasing.

She seemed unusually quiet, and when I asked how she was getting on, she admitted that she was tired of being treated as though she couldn't make her own decisions.

'It's funny, isn't it, Colin?' she said. 'When they thought I was dying, everybody wanted me to do whatever made me happy. Now I'm not dying, they won't let me do anything.'

I suggested that her family might be happier if her activities didn't involve the police.

Eileen smiled and conceded that I was probably right. She then offered me one of her caramelised onion crackers, together with a little tub of garlic and onion dip, and explained that Susan had agreed to pay for taxis whenever she wanted to go shopping.

This sounded an eminently sensible arrangement, and I said so.

'Lovely driver took me to Sainsbury's yesterday,' she told me. 'Very helpful young man.'

I was pleased to hear that matters had finally reached a satisfactory conclusion, until she mentioned that they'd enjoyed a long conversation about her difficulties with the scooter. Apparently, he gave driving lessons in his spare time. 'Driving lessons?' I asked.

Eileen nodded, looking rather pleased with herself. 'Proper ones, Colin. In a car.'

I stared at her, wondering whether she could possibly be serious, but she mistook my expression for concern about her ability to manage the controls.

'Oh, don't look like that. I'm not stupid,' she assured me, offering Buster the last of her cracker. 'I'm having a trial lesson on Thursday.'

I considered asking whether Susan knew, but decided there were some things a man was better off not knowing.

'Where are you having it?' I asked instead.

'The instructor suggested somewhere quiet. I thought the hospital car park would be convenient. I could pop in and see Harold afterwards.'

I looked at her.

'He'll be pleased,' she said.

Somehow, I doubted it.