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the pilgrimage. Now stop fretting, that’s a good boy, and try to rest before your tea.”
    She smiled at him, the impersonal, professionally reassuring smile of the trained nurse. Then lifted her eyebrow at Eric Hewson. Together they went over to the window. She said quietly:
    â€œHow long can we go on coping with him?”
    Hewson replied:
    â€œAnother month or two. It would upset him terribly to have to leave now. Wilfred too. In a few months’ time both of them will be readier to accept the inevitable. Besides, he’s set his heart on this Lourdes trip. Next time we go I doubt whether he will be alive. He certainly won’t be here.”
    â€œBut he’s really a hospital case now. We aren’t registered as a nursing home. We’re only a home for the young chronic sick and disabled. Our contract is with the local authorities not the National Health Service. We don’t pretend to offer a full medical nursing service. We aren’t even supposed to. It’s time Wilfred either gave up or made up his mind what he’s trying to do here.”
    â€œI know.” He did know, they both did. This wasn’t a new problem. Why, he wondered, had so much of their conversation become a boring repetition of the obvious, dominated by Helen’s high didactic voice.
    Together they looked down at the small paved patio, borderedby the two new single-storey wings which contained the bedrooms and dayrooms, where the little group of remaining patients had gathered for the last sit in the sun before tea. The four wheelchairs were carefully placed a little apart and faced away from the house. The two watchers could see only the back of the patients’ heads. Unmoving, they sat looking fixedly toward the headland. Grace Willison, her grey untidy hair ruffled by the light breeze; Jennie Pegram, her neck sunk into her shoulders, her aureole of yellow hair streaming over the back of her wheelchair as if bleaching in the sun; Ursula Hollis’s small round poll on its thin neck, high and motionless as a decapitated head on a pole; Henry Carwardine’s dark head on its twisted neck, slumped sideways like a broken puppet. But then, they were all puppets. Dr. Hewson had a momentary and insane picture of himself rushing on to the patio and setting the four heads nodding and wagging, pulling invisible strings at the back of the necks so that the air was filled with their loud, discordant cries.
    â€œWhat’s the matter with them?” he asked suddenly. “Something’s wrong about this place.”
    â€œMore than usual?”
    â€œYes. Haven’t you noticed?”
    â€œPerhaps they’re missing Michael. God knows why. He did little enough. If Wilfred’s determined to carry on here he can find a better use for Hope Cottage now. As a matter of fact, I thought about suggesting that he let me live there. It would be easier for us.”
    The thought appalled him. So that was what she had been planning. The familiar depression fell on him, physical as a lead weight. Two positive, discontented women, both wanting something that he couldn’t give. He tried to keep the panic from his voice.
    â€œIt wouldn’t do. You’re needed here. And I couldn’tcome to you at Hope Cottage, not with Millicent next door.”
    â€œShe hears nothing once she’s switched on the TV. We know that. And there’s a back door if you do have to make a quick get-a-way. It’s better than nothing.”
    â€œBut Maggie would suspect.”
    â€œShe suspects now. And she’s got to know some time.”
    â€œWe’ll talk about it later. It’s a bad time to worry Wilfred just now. We’ve all been on edge since Victor died.”
    Victor’s death. He wondered what perverse masochism had made him mention Victor. It reminded him of those early days as a medical student when he would uncover a suppurating wound with relief because the sight of blood,