Once he had settled into Goodwin’s Court it seemed a good idea to call Anna. So he did. She drove over at once, clutching her doctor’s bag, wearing a flowery cotton dress, poppy-like flowers on a black background, flat shoes without stockings. It was still summer. Her arms were bare and tanned. She had lost weight. Probably the same half stone he had gained. She looked the better for it – he remembered vividly the slim young woman he had met in the 1940s. But there was a mask across her face, a flat unemotionality in her voice, that he had put there.
‘I really should have come and seen you as soon as you were discharged.’
He said nothing. She seemed hesitant, confused.
‘Of course . . . that would have meant me coming out to Mimram . . .’
Of course, he had not asked her to Mimram.
‘But here we are,’ he said and so evaded whatever it was she might have meant, as such phrases are intended to.
Anna took his pulse, his blood pressure, listened intently at his chest and insisted he got down the bathroom scales so she could weigh him. He had indeed gained half a stone, nine pounds exactly.
‘You’ve been very lucky,’ she said. ‘You’re mending well. You’re still giving yourself the jabs?’
Intramuscular injections, self-administered to the backside with the aid of a mirror. To say nothing of a large handful of pills each day.
‘Yes. I was wondering how long?’
‘Oh, weeks yet.’
‘If I’m recovering well, how soon can I—’
‘Work? Oh God, Troy. Don’t press me on this please. Months, honestly months.’
She stuffed the stethoscope back in her bag, smoothed down the front of her skirt, and looked grimly at him. She had not smiled once.
‘Now, is there anything else?’
‘I’m still not sleeping. I feel as though I’ve heard every dawn chorus for ages.’
‘Well, I can easily do something about that.’
She sat down, took a prescription pad from her bag, scribbled quickly and then tore up the topsheet.
‘What’s up?’
‘Oh, nothing. Damn near killed you with the wrong dose, that’s all. I’ve been so distracted lately.’
‘Distracted?’
‘You know. Angus.’
‘You’ve heard from Angus?’
‘Don’t be daft, Troy. Of course I haven’t heard from Angus. I doubt whether I or you will ever hear from Angus again. It’s been nine months. He’s never vanished for that long before. And Fitz. You know.’
He didn’t know.
‘Fitz?’
‘Today’s been particularly bad. The trial started today.’
In the pit of self-obsession he’d missed the matter entirely. Anna handed him the prescription.
‘They’re called Mandrax. They’re strong, Troy. Promise me this. You’ll never take more than two at once, and never, never with alcohol.’
Sleep became bliss. Physical heaven. It took him a while to get going again in the morning, but sleepwashed over him like waves, a giant, sensuous hand gently pressing him down into the bedding.