The Office of the Dead. Andrew Taylor

have a first-aid box somewhere, mustn’t we?’

      ‘Phone the doctor,’ I said to him. ‘Quickly.’

      ‘But surely it’s not a –’

      ‘Quickly. Mr Treevor’s had a bad shock.’

      He blinked, nodded and left the room.

      I pulled a chair towards the sink, and with Janet’s help drew Mr Treevor down on to it. I turned on the tap and ran cold water over his hand and arm.

      ‘Janet, why don’t you take Rosie back to bed and fetch a blanket? Have you got any lint?’

      ‘Yes, it’s –’

      ‘You’d better bring that as well. And then what about some tea?’

      There’s a side of me that derives huge pleasure from telling people what to do. No one seemed to mind. Gradually, Mr Treevor’s sobs subsided to whimpers and then to silence. By the time the doctor arrived, all four adults were huddled round the kitchen boiler drinking very sweet tea.

      The doctor was Flaxman. I recognized his name from Janet’s letters – he had been helpful when she was pregnant. Later I came to know him quite well. He had a long, freckled face, flaking skin and red hair. He examined Mr Treevor, told us to put him to bed and said he would call later in the day.

      In the afternoon, Flaxman returned. He spent twenty minutes alone with Mr Treevor and then came down and talked to us in the sitting room. David was still at the Theological College.

      ‘How is he?’ Janet asked.

      ‘Well, the burns aren’t a problem. He’ll get over those. It could have been worse if you hadn’t acted promptly.’

      ‘We’ve Mrs Appleyard to thank for that.’ Janet smiled at me.

      Flaxman sat down. He didn’t look at me. He began to write a prescription.

      ‘Would you like a cup of tea? Or some sherry? It’s not too early for sherry, is it?’

      ‘No, thanks.’ He tore off the prescription and handed it to Janet. These will help Mr Treevor sleep, Mrs Byfield. Give him one at bedtime. If he complains of pain, give him a couple of aspirin. Tell me, where does he live?’

      ‘He has a flat in Cambridge.’

      ‘Does he live alone?’

      ‘There’s a landlady downstairs. She cooks for him.’

      ‘How long will he be staying with you?’

      Janet wriggled slightly in her chair. ‘I don’t really know. My husband was going to take him back tomorrow but in the circumstances, I suppose –’

      ‘I’d advise you to keep him here a little longer. I’d like to see him again over the next few days. I think his condition needs assessment. Perhaps you’d let me have the address of his GP.’

      ‘He wasn’t properly awake this morning,’ Janet said, clutching at straws. ‘He’s not been sleeping well.’

      ‘The sleeping tablets will help that. But the point is, he needs looking after. I don’t mean he needs to be hospitalized, but he needs other people around to keep an eye on him.’

      ‘Is – is this going to get worse?’

      ‘It may well do. That’s one reason why we need to keep an eye on him, Mrs Byfield–to see if he is getting worse.’

      ‘And if he is?’

      ‘There are several residential homes in the area. Some private, some National Health.’

      ‘He’d hate that. He’d hate the loss of privacy.’

      ‘Yes, but his physical safety has to be the main concern. Could he live with you or some other relative?’

      ‘Permanently?’

      ‘If you don’t want him to go into a residential home, that would probably be the best solution, Mrs Byfield. At least until his condition deteriorates a good deal more.’

      ‘But – but what exactly’s wrong with him?’

      ‘At this stage it’s hard to be categorical.’ He glanced quickly at us both. ‘But I think he’s in the early stages of a form of dementia.’

      There was a long silence. I wanted to say to Janet, You’ve got enough on your plate, but for once I kept my mouth shut.

      Then she sighed. ‘I shall have to talk to my husband.’

       13

      Janet and I went to Mr Treevor’s flat on Saturday. We drove over to Cambridge, another small victory for me hard on the heels of my display of Girl Guide first aid. In a sense I was beginning to shed my burdens just as Janet was shouldering more.

      David had assumed that Janet would go by bus. It was after all cheaper than going by train.

      ‘Why not the car?’ I said on Friday evening, emboldened by my Girl Guide expertise and by a substantial slug from the gin bottle in my bedside cupboard.

      ‘Janet doesn’t drive.’ David hardly bothered to glance at me. ‘I’d take you myself, of course, but unfortunately I’ve got my classes in the morning and then there’s a meeting first thing in the afternoon. The Finance Committee.’

      ‘I’ll take her,’ I said.

      This time David looked properly at me. ‘I didn’t realize you drove.’

      ‘Well, I do. But what about insurance?’

      ‘It’s insured for any driver I give permission to.’

      ‘There you are. Problem solved.’

      ‘But have you driven recently, Wendy? It’s not an easy car to drive, either. It’s –’

      ‘It’s a second series Ford Anglia,’ I interrupted. ‘We had one for a time in Durban, except ours was more modern and had the 1200 cc engine.’

      ‘I see.’ Suddenly he smiled. ‘You’re a woman of hidden talents.’

      I smiled back and asked Janet when she would like to go. I felt warm and a little breathless, which wasn’t just the gin. That’s biology for you. David upset a lot of men in his time but I never knew a woman who didn’t have a sneaking regard for him, who didn’t enjoy his approval.

      Janet and I had six hours of freedom. The charwoman agreed to come in for the day and keep an eye on Mr Treevor and Rosie. Rosie liked the charwoman, who gave her large quantities of cheap sweets which Janet disapproved of but dared not object to.

      The road from Rosington to Cambridge is the sort of road made with a ruler. The Fens could never look pretty, but the day was unseasonably warm for early March and the sun was shining. It was possible to believe that spring was round the corner, that you’d no longer be cold all the time, and that problems might have solutions.

      Mr Treevor’s flat was the upper part of a little mid-Victorian terraced house in a cul-de-sac off Mill Road, near the station. I hadn’t known what to expect but it wasn’t this. The landlady, the widow of a college porter, kept the ground floor for herself. Mr Treevor and the widow and the widow’s son shared the kitchen, which was at the back of the house, and the bathroom which was beyond the kitchen, tacked on as an afterthought.

      The landlady was out. Janet let herself in with her father’s key and we went upstairs. I must have shown what I was feeling on my face.

      ‘It’s a bit seedy, I’m afraid,’ she said.

      ‘It doesn’t matter.’

      ‘You didn’t think he’d live somewhere like this, I suppose? He wanted to stay in Cambridge, you see, and it was all he could afford when Mummy died.’