It was only after talking things over with Ernie several weeks later that he told me he had lost three days and did not even remember being admitted to hospital.

                         * * * * * *

The Spring of '84, like most of the Eighties, was a season of hope and great anxiety. Vivienne was pregnant and looking forward to her delivery in April but Alan, for very good personal reasons, had given up his partnership in a small wood-stripping firm in Kirriemuir (where they were now living) and was consequently unemployed. They knew they would be in for a difficult time but, nothing daunted, remained cheerful and full of hope.

Anne had still been over-exciteable, though less so than before, as she had become friendly with a man with whom she hoped to develop a long term relationship. But the telephone in the surgery rang one morning: "Could I please speak to Dr White?" "Who is speaking, please?" answered Mrs McCann. "This is the Sister from Perth Royal Infirmary speaking. It is a personal matter." "Hold on a minute, I'll get Doctor White for you." Mrs McCann hurried through to the surgery where I was saying good-bye to a patient and said, Doctor, there is a Sister from Perth Royal Infirmary wanting to speak to you on the telephone." "O.K. Thanks," and sitting down at my desk I said, "Hullo, This is Dr White speaking. Can I help you?"
"Oh, Dr White. This is Sister from the medical ward of the PRI. I'm ringing to inform you that your daughter was admitted as an emergency last night and will be kept in." With a sinking heart I replied, "Can you tell me what is the matter?" "It was a suicide attempt. Very genuine, I'm afraid. She took an overdose of tablets." "Will she be alright?" "Oh yes, she is in no danger now and will be seeing the psychiatrist this afternoon." "Thank you for letting me know. Could you tell her I'll be over as soon as possible?"

Putting down the receiver and feeling sick with suppressed anxiety, I told Mrs McCann what had happened and asked her, ever capable, to 'phone round and try and find me a locum for the afternoon. Always the first thing in an emergency was to find a locum. Being single-handed, I could never just down tools and go. I think that was the major drawback of working on one's own. Anyway, I then had to complete the surgery, trying to give my undivided attention to the patients but all the time wondering: "What on earth has made her do such a terrible thing?"

We managed to find a locum without too much difficulty and by one o'clock I was on the motorway speeding towards Perth. As I entered the ward I did not really know what to expect, but what I found was Anne lying on her back, staring up into space. When I kissed her and said "Hullo" I got the minimal response, and when I took her hand in mine and squeezed it gently she did not squeeze it back. I could not get through to her and, for the first time, I felt I could do nothing to help. I was close to despair myself. All I could do was just sit there and wait, and think. As I had walked across the carpark on my way into the hospital I had seen Anne's friend, sitting in a car with a woman by his side, so I guessed there had been problems in that direction. But I said nothing of this to Anne. Later the psychiatrist came and, after seeing Anne, had a word with me. Her friend had decided to break up the relationship and go back to his wife, mainly for the sake of his teenage handicapped son, who was missing him badly. This had been the precipitating factor but he thought there was a deep underlying depression and felt that Anne should be admitted for a short time. She had been riding an abnormal high for so long since Donald's death and had come down with a terrible bump.

I then went back to Anne and with her friend who had now arrived up at the ward, managed to get her to talk a little. She was able to agree to let him go and said good-bye to him calmly, but in a small flat voice. No sooner had he left than Ern arrived, bringing poor little Susie with him. It was a tearful meeting between mother and daughter, but the tears were all on Susie's side for Anne still remained dry-eyed and remote.

In the end it was agreed that Anne would stay in the medical ward overnight but she refused to stay in hospital longer, although she attended as an outpatient for several months and slowly improved, and it was not too long before she was back to her old lively self.

Three weeks after that traumatic event Sheona was born - early on the morning of the 21 April 1984. And what a lovely day that was, one of those days that stay in the memory for ever, sunny and warm with a gentle breeze. She was born in Forfar Cottage hospital to the sound of the loudest dawn chorus Vivienne had ever heard. The windows were wide open to let in the sweet warm air and Viv, between her struggles, was conscious only of the warm sunny air outside and the song of the birds in the bushes at her window. No analgesics were needed in such a delightful setting. The baby had no sooner arrived than one would think she was struggling to raise her head and say: "I'm here now. Let's get going."

That afternoon Ernie and I and young Nick drove up to Kirriemuir to see the new baby with the strawberry blonde hair. It was such a lovely day we all ended up in the garden of the hospital, where Viv joined us. While the two children, Nick and Kate, played about on the grass the adults strolled round the  lawn or sat on the benches, soaking up the spring sunshine and admiring the primroses and crocuses.

So now there were four grandchildren - Susie and Nick, more like brother and sister than cousins, and The Girls. How could you be sad for long with such precious gifts from God?

                         * * * * * *
 
 

                         CHAPTER 20

As the Eighties progressed I became increasingly concerned about Ernie's health. There seemed to be so many things wrong with him. There were his recurrent joint problems which never ceased to cause him great pain and, what worried me greatly, marked muscle wasting, mostly in his right hand and both thighs, but elsewhere as well. This reminded me of my mother's last years, as she first developed wasting in her right hand before she gradually lost the power to her limbs. My heart would turn over with a sudden pang of fear as I watched him undress at night and saw his long thin thighs, or saw him in the garden, standing and looking around him as he summoned up the strength to lift his leg up onto a high step. He was also developing chest problems, due to his heavy smoking. He was becoming increasingly breathless and had several quite severe chest infections. Besides all this his peripheral circulation was none too good and, in the summer of '84, we noticed that his right foot was paler and colder than the left. He was given all the correct advice about smoking and the harm it was doing to his body but, despite this, he was unable to do without his "Madam Nicotine". He was so ashamed of his only addiction that in the end I gave up trying to persuade him. He knew the facts. It was up to him and even if he had stopped smoking at this late stage, would it really have prolonged his life? I doubt it.

In '85 Ernie began to complain of severe pain in his right sciatic area with loss of power in his leg, which now become very 'wobbly'. He went to see Dr Jellinek the Neurologist, in whom he had the greatest faith. Dr Jellinek ordered a myelogram - a special X-ray of the spine - which revealed a large 'cyst', or non-invasive tumour, on the spinal cord. After seeing a Neurological Surgeon, Mr Shaw, it was decided nothing could be done about it because of his 'weird and wonderful bone disease' giving rise to such an appalling condition of his spine. It was thought he had another similar tumour in the cervical region but it was considered too dangerous to do a further myelogram in that region.

He had taken early retirement on the grounds of ill-health in Autumn '83. In Jan '84 he was offered a post with a small security firm, which he took, but again he found it too difficult to get about and when he developed a chest infection he decided to resign in June, and never worked again. Depending on the state of his joints he was able to do odd jobs about the house and took up several hobbies, especially painting and drawing. His charcoal drawings are much admired. Initially they would be from his own observations of scenes around Loch Awe but later, when it was too painful for him to walk, especially over rough ground, they would be from photographs which I had taken specifically for that purpose.

His other hobbies included reading, cross-words and - for a time - weaving but he soon found this too tiring as it hurt his back to sit forward for long periods. Probably his greatest interests were the cottage and the grandchildren. I give no priority to either. Right up to the end we visited the cottage as often as we possibly could although, latterly, I did all the driving. He still managed to cut logs by taking a couple of his painkillers first, propping up one leg on a  stout firm log and using the chain-saw to cut the logs, which I gave to him and then stacked in the log shed. The next day he would be worn out but it made him feel useful; not only feel, he was useful.

We frequently had visitors to the cottage, especially the two older grandchildren, Susan and Nick, both the products of broken homes. He took a great interest and pleasure in them both. We had Nick with us more frequently as time went on, as his mother Lesley had problems of her own and often had difficulty finding a baby sitter when she went out to work in the evenings. In many ways young Nick looked on Ernie as his father figure or male role-model.

Many a happy time we had there and many a party, impromptu or otherwise. For instance there was the time of the logs. We had bought logs, or 'sticks', as they are called (but in reality are tree trunks), which were delivered one sunny afternoon by our friend Archie and the local farmer's son, aged around seventeen. He caught sight of young Susan, who was then about fourteen or fifteen.

The next day the tractor arrived up the lane with another load of sticks. This time there were two local youths plus some younger brothers. They tossed the sticks off the tractor as if they were match-sticks and not tree trunks. When the job was completed we asked them all into the house for a can of beer or coke. Vivienne was there with her two girls, and young Nick also. Soon they were playing cards and having quite a party. Later Jake the farmer turned up and in the evening we noticed Jock Hunter, the Forest Ranger, flying his falcon in the nearby field. Some of us went out to see the beautiful bird and then Jock came in to join the gathering and have a dram. We spent a large part of the evening discussing the problems of forestry v. farming and the environmental effects, one on the other, while the young ones continued with their card games and general chit-chat. Ernie really enjoyed such gatherings, which he loved to recall over and over again.

It was not only Susie and Nick in which he took an interest. There were Vivienne's two as well. Vivienne remembers him patiently teaching The Girls, then aged two and four years, to play simple card games such as Beggar-your-Neighbour and Snap. If he ran out of ideas to entertain them he would put a cloth on his head and walk ponderously up and down the living room saying, "I've got my thinking cap on, I've got my thinking cap on. Wait a minute and we'll see if it works" - and it usually did. He would come up with some other bright idea.

Apart from the grandchildren and the cottage we often talked of the future and how, when I retired, we would come and live here permanently. He longed for this and would press me to name an exact day, but somehow I found this difficult and part of me sensed it was never to be. We were happy but I often felt anxious, phoning home after every morning surgery to see how he was. Occasionally there would be no reply and I would be sick with worry in case he had collapsed and was unable to get up. I would keep 'phoning until I heard his deep booming voice at the other end of the line and would sigh with relief. He had only been to the loo or the garage or some such place. The imagination is a terrible thing.

So there it was. That is how I remember those last few years - happiness and hope all mixed up with anxiety and fear for the future.

It was on the morning of the 25 January 1987, a Sunday at 9 a.m, that it began. Ernie sat up in the normal way to kiss me good morning when he gave a gasp and stopped midway. "What's the matter, Erne?" I cried anxiously. "I've got a pain, a terrible pain. Between my shoulders. It will go in a minute." But it did not go. It persisted. The colour drained from his face and he broke out in a sweat. "I'm going to find a doctor," I said. "No, don't. It is just my back. One of the bones must have moved." So I gave him two of his strong painkillers, which he was usually very reluctant to take, but this time was more than pleased to do so.

He could only sit on the edge of the bed, slightly hunched forward, and as I looked at his grey pinched face I could stand it no longer and ran down the stairs to 'phone a doctor. An hour later Dr McLean from Dalmally arrived, apologising for the delay as he had had a puncture driving down the one track-road along the lochside. He agreed with me that the pain was due to something more sinister than spinal trouble and was most likely a heart attack, so it was arranged that he should be admitted to Oban County Hospital. The ambulance was ordered and, after an injection to make Ernie comfortable, we set off on the long drive to Oban.

He was immediately admitted to the Intensive Care Unit, wired up to the E.C.G. machine, given another injection, and a drip was set up. They soon came and told me that, as his ECG was abnormal, he would be kept in for further investigation. This was no surprise to me and I began to feel more confident as far as Ernie's immediate state of health was concerned, but there was no way I was going to leave him alone in an Oban Hospital while I went back to Edinburgh. On the other hand, I was bound by the terms of contract with the Health Board to provide medical cover for my patients at all times. There was nothing for it, but to start 'phoning. It was by now 1 pm. I decided first of all to 'phone Mrs Scott at the surgery. She would be in a better position than I to 'phone round the various doctors we knew who would be willing to help out on Monday morning until we managed to find a proper locum. This was easier said than done. First of all the public 'phone which I had to use was not working properly. It took me at least an hour to get through to Mrs Scott. I explained the position briefly to her and asked her to 'phone round the doctors on our list of locums to see if they could help out, and then to 'phone me back. I then went back to sit beside Ernie. He was very drowsy but able to understand and tried to persuade me to drive home to Edinburgh, but I said, 'No! I'm not leaving you and that's that." At which he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

After another two hours there was no word from Mrs Scott, so once again I tried to 'phone her and once again I could not get through. It was very frustrating. After a tussle with the operator and a long wait, I eventually got through to the surgery to find Mrs Scott almost as frustrated as myself, as either every doctor she had 'phoned had been unable to help out or there had been no reply. And then when she had tried to 'phone me she had been unable to get through.

Now, what were we going to do? It was Sunday and the BMA office with its list of locums would not be open until 9am on Monday and the Deputizing Service ceased to give cover at 7 am. There was nothing for it but to try and get in touch with some of the other GP's in my area, and ask if they would cover any emergency calls from 7 am or see any of the patients arriving at the surgery until I managed to find a locum. I felt sorry for Mrs Scott who had to go cap in hand, metaphorically speaking, and beg for a little help. For that is what she had to do. There was no way I could do it from Oban, what with bad telephone lines and no money, or at least no change.

Once more I had to wait and was beginning to feel agitated and a little hungry when Sister took pity on me and ordered a nice light meal for me from the kitchen. It was much appreciated, as were the several cups of tea.

It was well after 6 pm when Mrs Scott managed to 'phone back, again with great difficulty, to say she had at last managed to find a couple of doctors willing to help out - a little. There was nothing more I could do that night so at 7 o'clock I said goodnight to Ernie, who was more than half asleep, and drove the forty odd miles through the dark to the empty cottage.

The next two days passed very quickly. After a leisurely breakfast on the Monday and a quick tidy-up of the cottage, it was soon time to start the journey to Oban, but there was more 'phoning to do before I left, in an effort to get hold of a locum for the rest of the week. I believe it was somewhat chaotic at the surgery that morning, with one colleague agreeing to see a few patients from the surgery and another agreeing to do one call. All very difficult for my two ladies, Mrs McCann and Mrs Scott. By the afternoon we had managed to find a full time locum so all was well, but it was very worrying at the time and I was very glad when a proper arrangement had been made. I hate being dependent on the kindness of other people.

I found Ernie calm and cheerful, more concerned about me and the problems of cover for the practice and the fact that I had to drive forty miles through the dark along the windy road. I did my best to reassure him that I did not mind, and indeed I did not. That was the least of my worries. During those three days when he was in the Coronary Care Unit we formed a Mutual Worrying Society. I was particularly worried that Ernie would put pressure on the doctors to let him home too soon before an exact diagnosis was made. And when I arrived at the Hospital early on the Wednesday afternoon, I was greeted by Ernie, with a grin on his face, saying, "I can go home today".

My concern must have showed on my face for his next remark, with an apologetic look, was: "I only asked them to let me home as I don't like you driving all that way by yourself every day." "If I don't mind, I don't see why you should worry. It doesn't bother me at all," I retorted, and then I felt sorry in case I had hurt his feelings." But it will be lovely to have you back home. It has been so lonely without you."

So we set off together back to the cottage for one night and then, loading up the car with all our things, I drove us home the following morning. It was a lovely winter's day, clear and still, and Ben Cruachan was reflected in the loch as in a mirror. We stopped at the north end of the loch and took some photographs. We were both lighthearted and almost in a holiday mood. The immediate worry of the past few days was over and I, at least, was trying not to think of its implications. There would be time to worry once we were back in Edinburgh so I drove slowly and we stopped for a light lunch - anything to prolong the journey.

We were no sooner back in Barnton than I was on the phone, making an appointment to see our family doctor, and soon arrangements were underway for further investigations - but mainly from the bone angle as Ernie was still convinced, despite an abnormal ECG, that the pain was from his spine and not his heart. He was also having further trouble with his knees which were once more filling with fluid.

By the Saturday Ernie was feeling very much better and, when Keith came to visit us in the evening, he looked well and cheerful and I began to wonder if, after all, Ernie had not been right about the cause of his pain, when suddenly, as we were sitting quietly talking, it struck again, like a sudden blow between his shoulders. He was never one to make a fuss but being so close to him, I knew when he was in severe pain or not. Without more ado, I decided to call out the Doctor. A young doctor arrived (who had never seen Ernie before) and, after a brief examination, left, saying that as Ernie was not distressed he was not giving him anything for the pain. I tried to explain the unusual nature of the pain and his visit to Oban Hospital with the abnormal ECG, but he just hurried away.

There was nothing for it but to give Ernie two of his emergency painkillers and to wait and see. The three of us sat together making desultory conversation. The minutes ticked away slowly while we talked but the tablets did not really help to ease Ernie's pain - all they did was to make him slightly woozy and, latterly, slightly irrational. Later, about twelve thirty p.m., I decided to phone the Doctor again. He was less than helpful and all he would say was, "Your husband is not distressed and I'm not coming."

I really did not know what to do. Certainly, this time there was none of that intense pallor and profuse sweating and other signs of collapse that there had been the week before, but he was sitting hunched forward, pinched and grey-looking, a sure sign of severe pain - he was never one to make a fuss. Also he was so adamant the pain was coming from his spine that I was almost persuaded he was right. So we waited, hoping the tablets would take effect, drinking cups of tea and talking quietly. I was very glad Keith was with me to share some of the anxiety. At two thirty Ernie could bear the pain no longer so decided to phone the doctor himself.

"Look doctor," he said, "I'm really in intense pain and I'm not in the habit of calling doctors out. You must come."

So he came, gave Ernie (who was not very polite to him) a small injection and left. I persuaded Ernie to get into bed again, after which Keith said, 'Goodbye. I'll phone to-morrow to see how you are," and we settled down to try and get some sleep, Ernie in the big bed and myself in the little camp bed beside him, but it was six o'clock before he got some ease and we were able to drift off to sleep for a few hours.

The next day he felt fine, although very tired, until the evening, when suddenly the pain struck yet again. Again I phoned the surgery and in a very short time a doctor was at the front door. Another young doctor but, my goodness what a difference! Immediately both Ernie and I felt some of the burden of anxiety lift from our shoulders. He obviously knew something of Ernie's complicated case history and listened sympathetically to what Ernie had to say as he described the peculiar quality of this specific pain. He gave Ernie an adequate injection and left, promising to return the following morning. This time it worked and we both had a good night's sleep.

The next morning Dr Russell returned and stayed long enough to talk things over with Ernie and even managed to raise a chuckle from him - a thing that was to be in short supply over the next few months. He also noted that Ernie's strong painkillers were out of date (he did not use them all that often), which may have accounted for their lack of effectiveness. From then on Ernie had no more of these acute attacks and I was soon able to get back to work.

The next few months were not a happy time. Ernie was in constant pain with one thing or another, but mainly his back. He seemed unable to get comfortable and, to try and ease the pain, developed a way of sitting in his high-backed armchair which was most unusual. He would twist round with his back against the right lug of the chair and his right arm pointing straight up towards the ceiling. And thus he would sit for hours at a time.

And he became rather argumentative - not with me but with shopkeepers, hospital staff and other people with whom he came in contact - not without some reason, but much more than he normally would. But, worst of all, he forgot how to smile and he had such a sweet smile, which lit up his whole face, lightening its rather heavy contours.

One day at the end of March or early April a dreadful scene occurred, which I shall never forget because it was so totally unexpected and out of character. Young Nick was singing with the school choir that evening in the Usher Hall and Anne had come down from Auchterarder to accompany me there. We were ready to go with ten minutes to spare, so decided to have a gin and tonic before setting off.

"Make sure its a small one," says Ernie, "You know it gives your Mother headaches."  "OK", said Anne quite cheerfully as she began to pour the gin. "Stop!" roared Ernie, "Didn't I tell you to make it a small one.? Why can't you do as I say? I don't want your mother with another migraine."

You could have heard a pin drop. Anne just stood there with a bottle of gin in one hand, a glass in the other, and a look of blank astonishment on her face. At a nod from me she quietly put them down and left the room, and I tried to talk to Ernie but it was no use, he would hardly utter a word, except to say in quite a wild-eyed fashion: "You know it gives you headaches, you know it gives you headaches. Why won't she do as I say?"

I tried to point out that she had only just started to pour and also that my headaches came on at any time, and that we seldom had a drink these days and it was up to me to decide what I had anyway. In the end I lost my temper with him for the first and only time. Saying nothing, I stood over him and glared. I then said a curt "Good-bye" and left the room to join Anne in the car.

I felt terrible. I knew it could not just be the episode of that blasted gin and tonic. There had to be something else - but what? I was perfectly miserable during the performance, with one half of me enjoying the music and the other half back with Ernie, longing to cuddle him and comfort what ever was really ailing him.

When we got home he was still very remote and polite so, after a quick cup of tea, Anne said good night and set off for Auchterarder. Ernie remained somewhat distant for several days and we talked politely about everything except the thing that was troubling us both. Gradually we relaxed and were feeling closer again when, about a week later, Ernie suddenly said in a timid little voice: "Did you see Eddie at the Usher Hall?"

"No", I replied, "but I saw Ena, Eddie's sister and we had a talk in the interval. I believe Eddie was there but I did not see him." "Oh", he said, with just a glimmer of a smile. I do believe it was jealousy, on top of a general depression, which had made him react in such an unexpected fashion. But it was to be another few months before we really talked it through and cleared the air completely.

The next few weeks continued as before and I was beginning to feel the strain, for there is nothing more infectious than depression. All the time I had to appear cheerful, at home for Ernie's sake to try and encourage him, and at work for the sake of the patients. No one wants to see a Doctor with a gloomy face. And all the time I was worried and found it hard to go along with Ernie when he talked about my retirement, when it would be, and would we move up to the cottage by degrees, as you might say; or give up Barntongate immediately and move up to Argyll as soon as I had hung up my stethoscope.

And then things changed. Ernie had been referred to various hospital clinics but had been mainly attending the Rheumatology Clinic at the Northern General. Dr Chalmers there had been uncertain as to the true cause of the acute pain that Ernie had suffered in his upper spine while at Oban and, after a time, referred Ernie to a Cardiologist at the Western General Hopsital. One day I came home in the late afternoon to find the house empty and Ernie's old red van not at the door. I guessed he had a hospital appointment so was not worried and set about making the tea. I had just put on the kettle when I heard the van draw up and Ernie's slow footsteps coming in the front door - but there was a difference, and as he came into the living room there was a smile on his face - the first I had seen since January. "Well", I said, "how did you get on at the hospital?" "I was right all the time", he said, giving me a big hug, "I've been given the all-clear. There is nothing wrong with my heart. You see! I was right all the time."

What a difference it made, that reasssurance! Once more he could smile and once more we could laugh together and be happy and I could even tease him gently, a thing I would not have dared to do in the previous months. But the various pains did not ease up and underneath, a niggling doubt remained in my mind, popping up now and again. "His heart may be OK but there is something seriously wrong. That was no ordinary pain. That pain did not come from his spine."

Nevertheless, with Ernie less depressed, life was a lot easier and we began to look forward to our three weeks holiday at the cottage. If I remember rightly it was the first time I had planned to have a full three weeks at a stretch away from the practice; usually I could only manage two and, as young Nicky was going to spend the summer holidays with his Dad in the USA for the first time, we were happy and excited, planning Nick's journey and making arrangements for his holiday and ours. But it sometimes seems to me tragedy is always just round the corner.

                           * * * * *
 
 

                           CHAPTER 21

Nicky's mum Lesley had remarried sometime before and in January 1987 had given birth to a healthy little boy called Sean. One beautiful evening in May the phone in Barntongate rang out. I answered: "Hello. Dr White speaking." "Oh Pam is that you? I've got some terrible news for you." It was Nigel, Lesley's husband, speaking. "What is it?" I said, with my heart turning over and thinking of Nicky. "It's the baby, Sean. He's dead." "Oh Nigel, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. Can you tell me how it happened?" "I don't know the cause yet. They are going to do a post-mortem. I was looking after him while Lesley was out. Graham was with me and we put him into the carry-cot in the back of the car and drove out to Queensferry, where I was going to do some repairs on the car. I had all the doors open and had just taken him out to change him and give him a drink of juice. I was working away at the back of the car when suddenly I thought, "It's very quiet", and went to look at Sean. He was a funny colour, with foam coming out of his mouth. Graham grabbed the baby and sat in the back of the car while I drove like mad to the Western General. But it was too late. He was already dead."

"What can I say Nigel? Does Lesley know yet?" "No, not yet. But I'll have to get in touch now." "Can I do anything to help?"
"Well, I wondered if you could tell Nicky and have him to stay until we get things sorted out." "Of course", I replied. "Where is he?" "He is staying with his pal, Craig." "OK, I'll go up straight away and let him know, and then bring him home here." "Thanks, Pam." "Oh Nigel!, it's nothing, I only wish there was something more I could do. Give my love to Lesley. Tell her to get in touch if she needs anything and again Nigel - I'm so sorry."

Several days later the little funeral service was held. It was a cremation and quite informal, with our old friend Tom giving a short address with simplicity and deep sensitivity. Nigel and Lesley were both extremely upset but what haunted me then and will forever, was the face of Graham. He had been Lesley's boyfriend for many years before she met, and eventually married, Nigel. He had been terribly upset at the time but, after an interval, had accepted the situation and had become a friend to them both. Anyway, while we were hanging about waiting for the service to begin I saw Graham sitting, head bowed, on a bench by himself and, as I had not seen him for some time, I went over to him and sat down on the bench. "How are you Graham?"  I asked. He turned towards me slowly and I saw before me a face which showed only utter desolation, large brown eyes in a pale face, a face marked by suffering, such as I have only seen in some paintings of the Crucifixion. "You see it all Pam," he said slowly.
I could only take his hand and press it for a moment before I moved quietly away, gulping back the tears.

                          * * * * *
 

A few weeks later Ernie and I were sitting having breakfast, about 9 am on a Sunday morning, when the front door bell rang. Wondering who on earth could be calling at this hour, I went to open the door and there on the door step was a young woman, obviously in a state of distress. "I'm Graham's sister. Can I come in?" "Of course!" I replied, taking her into the living room. "Ernie, this is Graham's sister. Would you like a cup of coffee? Please, do sit down."

Sitting on the edge of a chair, she said: "Pam, I hope you don't mind me coming round like this, but I had to speak to someone." "Not at all," I said. "But please tell me what is the matter?" "It's Graham. He's dead!" "Oh! I'm terribly sorry. Tell me what happened. I saw him three weeks ago at the baby's funeral." "He died of an overdose. He had been drinking a lot lately and on Friday night had been quite drunk. When he got back to his flat he must have taken too many tablets but whether by mistake or deliberately, I don't know." "Poor Graham," I said. "Poor, poor Graham," thinking of him as I had