FORTY-FIVE

And so here I am, one month later, still being a GP in Thornton Heath, still having to look regularly at someone’s stye, or tongue, or armpit (only we in the medical profession call it an ‘axilla’ just to make sure that the general public think we’re intelligent) or perhaps, if it’s a good day, their perineum (don’t even ask). Jean Abelson won’t talk to me, but I’m starting to see that it might be for the best. Unfortunately, Max still won’t talk to me either, but she’ll come round, I’m sure. I know that she still loves me, deep down.

Arthur Silsby has died a rather unpleasant and totally undeserved death.

Regarding the Clarkes: Tricia has been charged with manslaughter and has been released on bail; she is living with her son David in a flat provided by the social services. Joanna is living with Ada in Kingswood Avenue. As far as I can determine, no legal action is planned against David because of lack of evidence.

So, life goes on, and whilst it does, so will death.

I called in on Dad this morning. It was the first day that we’ve had serious rain and boy, was it good. He was sitting in his conservatory, grimacing over the Daily Telegraph crossword, something he has done on a daily basis since he retired. He was tutting a lot, something else that he has done on a daily basis since he retired. Try as hard as I could, I could not see Ada having let him do that; it was too idiosyncratic, too unhusbandly.

‘Hello, Lance,’ he said jovially. ‘How’s things?’

‘Well . . . you know.’

‘Still no contact?’ he asked, solicitously.

‘No.’

‘Don’t worry, she’ll come round. She’s a sensible girl.’

Was she, I wondered? Maybe that was the problem. I said only, ‘I expect so.’

He put down the paper. ‘I’ve got some news.’

Just four words but, oh my Lord, what words!

‘Have you?’ I cannot lie, I spoke warily.

‘I had a call yesterday from one of my old pals.’

My sense of horror was rising exponentially. ‘Which one?’ Dad had a lot of old friends but there was only a small chance that it would be one of the non-loony ones.

‘Bill Wotherspoon.’

Only the news of an asteroid going to hit Thornton Heath within the next ten minutes could have been worse. William Wotherspoon had been a fighter pilot in the Second World War; he had been brave and resourceful and a hero; unfortunately, thirty years on and he still lived the same life, except that now he couldn’t fly Hurricanes and kill Jerry. Subsequently, he was into displacement activity, big time. ‘How is he?’

‘He’s on top form.’

‘That’s good.’

‘Isn’t it? He’s asked me to help him out.’

I smiled; I don’t know how, but I did. ‘Doing what?’

‘Raising money for charity.’

I knew instantly that he didn’t mean shaking tins at the entrance to Waitrose. ‘How?’ I asked, my voice a curiously husky thing.

Dad, in total contrast, was excited.

‘He’s come across this curious thing they do in Mexico. Apparently they’ve been doing it for thousands of years. It’s great fun and he thinks we can raise thousands of pounds.’

‘What is it?’

‘Something called bungee-jumping. He says it’s great fun.’