Christmas on Rosemary Lane. Ellen Berry

though. Who are you with, anyway?’

      ‘Just a friend …’

      So, how long d’you plan to be “off-grid”? We really need to get together and talk.’

      ‘No idea,’ Rod murmured.

      ‘Right, okay.’ James paused. ‘But are we talking a few more days, or weeks, or what?’

      ‘It’s kind of open-ended at the moment,’ Rod replied, infuriatingly.

      On that note, the woman – whoever she was – called out for Rod, and they finished the call. Keen to eke out a few more moments alone, James pulled himself up and sat on the wall, gazing out over the valley. It was one of those sharp winter days, blue skied with clear sunshine. Everything seemed incredibly sharp-focused. It was beautiful here, James reflected. Naturally, he’d never noticed quite how stunning it was when he’d been growing up; to him, the hills that swooped so gracefully were just there. He’d taken it for granted that there were rivers to wade in, his dad’s very own woodland in which to build dens, and those long, virtually endless days to fill with adventure.

      Now James was a dad, and, naturally, he’d never want to be too far away from Spike in Liverpool. But he still had a fondness for this part of Yorkshire – which was just as well, as his father was adamant that he planned to stay here for the rest of his days.

      Something had to be done, James decided later as he cleared up after dinner. Although he was no expert, he was aware that if Kenny was showing early signs of dementia, then things were only likely to get worse. James could stay here in the short term, making sure there was food in the house, that the place was reasonably orderly and Kenny didn’t harangue Reena’s houseguests again – but he couldn’t just relocate here permanently. He needed to be close to Spike, and then there was his work, specifically the narrowboat he had started to fit out, and whose owner was being incredibly patient. But he would have to get back to work at some point fairly soon. He had people waiting and a living to earn.

      Once again, James looked up sheltered accommodation in the Liverpool area and tried to coax his father into coming around to the idea by showing him the alluring pictures on his laptop. But Kenny wasn’t having any of it. It was clear now that getting some kind of help – via his dad’s GP, the social work department, or even a private carer if it came to that – was paramount.

      There was one thing for it, James decided. He would have to persuade his dad to go to the surgery for something fairly uncontroversial, in the hope that he could sit in on the appointment and somehow communicate telepathically with the GP (‘Do you think my father might be showing the early stages of dementia?’) while Kenny sat there, oblivious.

      ‘Yes, I think you might be onto something there,’ the doctor would transmit back. ‘But don’t worry, I shall arrange all the help he could possibly need.’

      A few days later, James broached the subject. ‘Dad,’ he started over breakfast, ‘I wondered if it might be a good idea for you to, um, have a few tests sometime?’

      ‘What kind of tests?’ Kenny asked with a mouthful of toast.

      ‘Just a few medical things. Blood pressure, cholesterol, the stuff everyone gets checked out from time to time …’

      ‘Are you saying I’m falling to bits now?’ Kenny asked, frowning.

      ‘Of course not.’ James was struggling to keep his tone level.

      ‘Why not shove me over a cliff and be done with it?’

      Tempting, James thought – but something must have sunk in as, later that day, his father grudgingly agreed to grace the surgery with his presence. The way things were right now, that seemed like something of a victory.

      They went together the following week, finding themselves sitting side by side in the starkly decorated waiting room of the medical centre in Heathfield. There was no surgery in Burley Bridge, and for that, James was thankful; he wouldn’t have relished bumping into anyone his father knew.

      Kenny’s name was called, and James sprang up from his chair as his father stood up. ‘What are you doing?’ Kenny asked.

      ‘I thought I’d come in with you, if that’s all right?’

      ‘What d’you want to do that for?’ His dark eyes narrowed. Across the waiting room, an elderly woman and a thin, pallid teenage boy – the only other people waiting – were clearly pretending not to be paying rapt attention.

      ‘I just thought it might be helpful,’ James said.

      ‘Kenny Halsall?’ the GP repeated from the doorway. He was wearing tiny round spectacles and had the wiry build of a jockey.

      James looked at him, trying to transmit the message: This is my father; he had fifty-seven egg sandwiches stuffed in his cupboard; could you please diagnose him with something and help?

      Kenny approached the doctor, and both men disappeared around the corner. James inhaled deeply, picked up a ragged copy of Improve Your Coarse Fishing magazine that he had no intention of reading, then dumped it back on the table and strode over to the receptionist. ‘Erm, my dad’s just gone through to the doctor’s,’ he started.

      She nodded curtly as if he really shouldn’t be bothering her. ‘Yes?’

      ‘I was sort of hoping to go in with him,’ he continued, keeping his voice low, ‘but he wasn’t too keen on that. The thing is, I’d really like to talk to the doctor about my dad, about the concerns I have, about his memory and behaviour and things …’

      ‘Are you registered with this practice?’ the woman asked. Her mouth was pursed, her lipstick worn off apart from a peachy line around the edges. ‘Because, if you are,’ she added, ‘the best thing to do is make an appointment with your own GP and discuss it with them.’

      She turned back to her screen and seemed to be focusing on it intently. ‘I used to be registered,’ James offered, ‘so maybe I’m still on the system …’ Even as he said it, he knew there was no point in her even checking; there hadn’t been a ‘system’ then, at least no computer as far as he could recall. He was from a pre-systems era when things were written in books and there were drawers of files on everybody. It was the same building, but the last time he was here was probably when he’d chicken pox in something like 1989.

      ‘Date of birth?’ the woman asked. As James answered, his father reappeared, looking unusually buoyant and pleased with himself. ‘Nothing wrong with me,’ he announced.

      ‘Oh, that’s good, Dad.’ James beamed and turned back to the woman.

      ‘What’s your name?’ she barked at him.

      ‘James Halsall—’

      She shook her head. ‘You’re not on the system.’

      ‘Right. Okay. Well, could I possibly get on it?’

      She eyed him with suspicion. ‘You’ll need to take these forms and bring them back.’

      ‘Great.’ He exhaled, aware of his father gazing at him.

      ‘What’re you doing?’ Kenny asked.

      ‘Nothing, Dad.’ He looked at the woman. ‘There’s no chance I could have a quick word with the doctor just now, just for a second—’

      She widened her eyes and shook her head, as if he had expressed a desire to set up a burger stall right here in the reception. ‘No, sorry. He’s very busy today.’ He took the forms from her and stuffed them into his back pocket, aware of his father eyeing him curiously as they left the building and climbed into James’s car.

      ‘So, did the doctor give you any tests?’ James asked.

      ‘Oh yeah, he put that thing on my arm, the blood pressure thing,’ his father replied. James sensed him still studying him intently as he pulled out of the car park. ‘You