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the bloody hell are you?’ Hugo’s eyes, normally protuberant, now looked as if they might pop from their sockets. He had always faintly reminded Thom of Toad of Toad Hall - the enthusiasm, the impatience, and yes, the silliness - and as with Kenneth Grahame’s fictional character, there was something immensely likeable about him.
    ‘Yeah, good,’ Thom replied.
    Hugo regarded him doubtfully. ‘Journey not too tiring? You know, you really should have taken the train up from London. Or better yet, I could have sent Hartgrove down in the old Bentley to fetch you. Arrive in style, eh?’
    Hartgrove - Bones - had stepped from the shadows to appear at the top of the stairs. His cadaverous features remained unmoved as he looked down at Thom, even though they had not seen each other in many years. Thom gave a small wave of his hand through the windscreen, perhaps expecting a warm - all right, a warmish - acknowledgement, but none was forthcoming.
    Hartgrove - not even Hugo knew his first name - no longer wore the standard butler’s uniform of black coat over pinstripe trousers and grey waistcoat that Thom remembered so well - something of an anachronism in this day and age, he considered, and perhaps even then, when Thom was a boy - but instead was attired in a three-buttoned charcoal-coloured suit that appeared just one size too large for him. Even the top of his white shirt collar overlapped where the tie knot squeezed it tight around his scrawny neck.
    ‘Good to see you too,’ Thom muttered under his breath.
    Hugo had already yanked open the Jeep’s door and was reaching in to take Thom’s elbow.
    ‘Hey, I’m not an invalid,’ he protested with a smile. Because he was tired, Thom had to give thought to releasing the steering wheel with his left hand: gripping objects was no longer a problem after months of physical rehabilitation, but sometimes - particularly when he was weary - releasing them could still be something to think about. He eased himself out of the vehicle, allowing his friend to keep his grip on his arm out of appreciation for the concern. Turning back, he pulled a walking-stick from the passenger side.
    ‘Oh no? Not an invalid? So what’s this then?’ Hugo regarded the cane with undisguised regret in his watery brown eyes. ‘Mind you, chum, I expected you to be on crutches.’
    Thom gave a short laugh. ‘Look, I’ve told you more than once that I’m fine. The first few days after the stroke were tricky - or so they tell me; I was pretty much out of it - but I’m making good progress, and that’s official. And don’t forget, I’ve had almost four months of rehab.’
    Yes, yes, of course. All the same, you’re not quite a hundred per cent, otherwise you wouldn’t need all this convalescence.’
    ‘Rest, not convalescence. And the stick’s only because my left leg gets tired easily and tends to go a bit wobbly.’
    ‘Call it what you like, dear one, but a haemorrhage to the old brain-box is hardly a couple of aspirins and a few days in bed stuff.’ Hugo had let go of Thom’s elbow and stood with a hand on his hip, one knee bent forward, an effeminate pose he adopted sometimes merely for effect. Even his voice rose a nannyish octave that went with the stance.
    Thom chuckled. That pose is beginning to look natural on you Hugo,’ he warned.
    But there was nothing prissy about his friend, even though he often enjoyed acting that way. Hugo was just below average height, stocky, with a paunch that was a little more overhanging than the last time Thom had seen it. He remembered Hugo arriving at the hospital a day after the stroke had almost snuffed his light, Hugo with metaphorical cheque in hand (‘the very best for you, Thom, the finest specialist money can buy’) and a scared, haunted look on his sweat-shined chubby face. His light curly hair -springy, golden locks when he was a boy — was already thinning, patches of pink scalp showing through like the lighter mottles on the sandstone