Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine. Gail Honeyman

      ‘You seem to know an awful lot about fags for a non-smoker,’ he said, blowing a noxious cloud of carcinogens from between his thin lips.

      ‘I did briefly consider taking up smoking,’ I admitted, ‘but I thoroughly research all activities before commencement, and smoking did not in the end seem to me to be a viable or sensible pastime. It’s financially rebarbative too,’ I said.

      ‘Aye,’ he nodded, ‘it does cost a fortune, right enough.’ There was a pause. ‘Which way are you going, Eleanor?’ he asked.

      I considered the best response to this question. I was heading home for an exciting rendezvous. This highly unusual occasion – an appointment with a visitor to my home – meant that I needed to curtail this tedious unplanned interaction post haste. I therefore ought to pick any route but the one Raymond would be taking. But which one? We were about to pass the chiropody clinic and inspiration struck.

      ‘I have an appointment over there,’ I said, pointing to the chiropodist’s opposite. He looked at me. ‘Bunions,’ I improvised. I saw him looking at my shoes.

      ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Eleanor,’ he said. ‘My mother’s the same; she’s got terrible trouble with her feet.’

      We waited at the pedestrian crossing, and he was silent at last. I watched an old man stagger down the opposite side of the road. He was small and square, and had caught my eye because of his tomato-red sweater, which burst out from beneath his standard-issue pensioner greys and muted pastels. Almost in slow motion, the old man began to weave and wobble erratically, swaying wildly from side to side, his bulging carrier bags creating a sort of human pendulum.

      ‘Drunk in the daytime,’ I said quietly, more to myself than to Raymond. Raymond opened his mouth to reply when the old man finally toppled, fell backwards hard, and lay still. His shopping exploded around him, and I noticed he’d bought Tunnock’s Caramel Logs and a jumbo pack of sausages.

      ‘Shit,’ said Raymond, stabbing at the button on the crossing control.

      ‘Leave him,’ I said. ‘He’s drunk. He’ll be fine.’

      Raymond stared at me.

      ‘He’s a wee old man, Eleanor. He smacked his head on that pavement pretty hard,’ he said.

      Then I felt bad. Even alcoholics deserve help, I suppose, although they should get drunk at home, like I do, so that they don’t cause anyone else any trouble. But then, not everyone is as sensible and considerate as me.

      Finally, the green man flashed and Raymond jogged across the road, having flung his cigarette into the gutter. No need to be a litter lout, I thought, walking at a more measured pace behind him. When I reached the other side, Raymond was already kneeling beside the old man, feeling for a pulse in his neck. He was talking loudly and slowly, silly nonsense like Hiya, old timer, how you doing? and Can you hear me, mister? The old man didn’t respond. I leaned over him and sniffed deeply.

      ‘He’s not actually drunk,’ I said. ‘You’d smell it, if he were drunk enough to fall over and pass out.’ Raymond started loosening the man’s clothing.

      ‘Call an ambulance, Eleanor,’ he said quietly.

      ‘I don’t possess a mobile telephone,’ I explained, ‘although I’m open to persuasion with regard to their efficacy.’ Raymond rummaged in his duffle coat pocket and tossed me his.

      ‘Hurry up,’ he said, ‘the old guy’s out cold.’

      I started to dial 999, and then a memory punched me full in the face. I couldn’t do it again, I realized, I simply couldn’t live and listen to a voice saying Which service do you require, caller?, then approaching sirens. I touched my scars, and then threw the phone back at Raymond.

      ‘You do it,’ I said. ‘I’ll sit with him.’ Raymond swore under his breath and stood up.

      ‘Keep talking, and don’t move him,’ he said. I took off my jerkin and placed it over the man’s torso.

      ‘Hello,’ I said, ‘I’m Eleanor Oliphant.’ Keep talking to him, Raymond had said, so I did.

      ‘What a lovely sweater!’ I said. ‘You don’t see that colour often on a woollen garment. Would you describe it as vermillion? Or carmine, perhaps? I rather like it. I wouldn’t attempt such a shade myself, of course. But, against the odds, I think you just about carry it off. White hair and red clothing – like Father Christmas. Was the sweater a gift? It looks like a gift, all soft and expensive. It’s far too nice a thing to buy for yourself. But perhaps you do buy nice things for yourself – some people do, I know. Some people think nothing of treating themselves to the best of everything. Mind you, looking at the rest of your clothes, and the contents of your shopping bag, it seems highly unlikely that you’re that sort of person.’

      I braced myself and took three deep breaths, then slowly put out my hand and placed it over his. I held it gently for as long as I could bear.

      ‘Mr Gibbons is calling an ambulance,’ I said, ‘so don’t worry, you won’t be lying here in the middle of the street for long. There’s no need to be anxious; medical care is completely free of charge in this country, and the standard is generally considered to be among the best in the world. You’re a fortunate man. I mean, you probably wouldn’t want to fall and bump your head in, say, the new state of South Sudan, given its current political and economic situation. But here in Glasgow … well, you’ve struck it lucky, if you’ll pardon the pun.’

      Raymond hung up and scuttled over.

      ‘How’s he doing, Eleanor?’ he said. ‘Has he come round yet?’

      ‘No,’ I said, ‘but I’ve been talking to him, like you asked.’

      Raymond took the man’s other hand.

      ‘Poor old soul,’ he said.

      I nodded. Surprisingly, I felt an emotion that I recognized as anxiety or concern in relation to this elderly stranger. I sat back, and my buttocks bumped against something large and curvaceous. When I turned around to check, it was a huge plastic bottle of Irn-Bru. I stood up and stretched my spine out, and then started to collect the spilled shopping and put it into the carrier bags. One of them was torn, so I went into my shopper and took out my favourite Bag for Life, the Tesco one with lions on it. I packed all the comestibles and placed the bags by the old man’s feet. Raymond smiled at me.

      We heard the sirens and Raymond handed me my jerkin. The ambulance pulled up alongside us and two men got out. They were in the middle of a conversation and I was surprised at how proletarian they sounded. I thought they’d be more like doctors.

      ‘All right,’ said the older one, ‘what do we have here, then? The old boy’s taken a tumble, has he?’

      Raymond filled him in and I watched the other one; he was bent over the old man, taking his pulse, shining a little torch into his eyes and tapping him gently to try to elicit a response. He turned to his colleague.

      ‘We need to get moving,’ he said.

      They fetched a stretcher and were fast and surprisingly gentle as they lifted the old man and strapped him on. The younger man wrapped a red fleece blanket around him.

      ‘Same colour as his jumper,’ I said, but they both ignored me.

      ‘You coming with him?’ the older man asked. ‘Only room for one in the back, mind.’

      Raymond and I looked at one another. I glanced at my watch. The visitor was due chez Oliphant in half an hour.

      ‘I’ll go, Eleanor,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to miss your chiropody appointment.’

      I nodded, and Raymond climbed in beside the old man and the paramedic, who was busy connecting drips and monitors. I picked up the shopping bags and lifted them high enough to pass across to Raymond.

      ‘Look,’ said the paramedic,