I changed from Thuhn haute couture to a smartly corporate blouse, pinstripe skirt and jacket, and shoes more suitable for hospital visits in Europe in winter.  Dulsung's little artificial flower went in an inside pocket.  Contemplating myself in the generously sized and perfectly lit mirror above the deep marble basin, my avaricious side — stunned into shocked silence, like most of the rest of me, by the traumatic transition from Thuhn to Siliguri — woke up briefly to look round the plane and say, I want one!  While a side I didn't even know I had reared its curious head and with a shake of it said, How sickeningly ostentatious and wasteful.  But then both these disputing demispheres fell promptly asleep as soon as I settled my occasionally fondled but assuredly never abused butt into my seat.

I awoke over the North Sea looking down at the flares of oil and gas rigs, the seat fully reclined and a cashmere stole wrapped over my legs.  The aircraft and the air roared and shushed around me.

I yawned and made my way past the smiling stewardess — I nodded and said, 'Thanks' — to the rest room to tidy my hair and apply some make-up.

A frustrating delay waiting for a customs official to turn up at Leeds-Bradford, then a smooth journey in a chauffeused Merc — rear seat unforgivingly hard — to the hospital.  The air smelled strange and felt thick.  Somehow I hadn't noticed this back at Siliguri but I noticed it now.

It was pretty late by then.  I'd let Marion Craston know I was on my way as soon as we'd hit cruising altitude out of Siliguri and she'd told the medics, but whether I got to see Uncle Freddy or not depended on how he was.  When I got to the ICU they asked me to turn my mobile phone off.  I was allowed to set eyes on Uncle F — tiny, skin yellow-white, head bandaged, almost invisible from some angles because of all the machinery and wires and tubes and stuff — then had to tiptoe away, because he was asleep at last, for the first time, for any length of time, since he'd arrived here.  He'd been told I was on my way; maybe he felt able to sleep now.  I felt touched and flattered and worried all at once.

Marion Craston and the mysterious geriatric floozy from Scarborough were nowhere to be seen, having retreated back to their respective hotels.  I asked if there was any point my staying through the night.  I felt well enough rested from my extended snooze on the Gulfstream to handle one of these all-night bedside vigil things, but the medical staff said no; better to come back in the morning.  They seemed marginally more sanguine about Freddy's chances than they'd sounded before.  I stayed half an hour, just to make sure he really was safely asleep, then left.  I still worried, and let myself out of the hospital with a feeling of hopelessness and dread, half certain that, after all, he'd die in his sleep during the night and I never would get to talk to him.

Mercedes to Blysecrag.  A red-eyed Miss Heggies, very obviously keeping control of herself.  The house felt terribly empty.  It should have felt cold, too, and probably would have if I'd come from anywhere other than Thulahn.  Instead it felt warm, but still empty and desolate.

I woke up in the middle of the night with a dream of drowning in warm water.  Where was I?  Warm.  Warm air.  Not in Thuhn.  I felt for my torch, watch and the little monkey, then recalled where I was and flopped back.  York room, Blysecrag.  Uncle Freddy.  I lay looking up at the darkness, wondering if my drowning dream counted as a premonition and whether I should ring up the ICU to see if there was some sort of crisis.  But they had the number here: they'd phone me or Miss H if there was anything serious to report.  Better not bother them.  He'd be okay.  Sleeping soundly.  Bound to pull through.  I reached out for the netsuke monkey.

Nothing there between the watch and the torch.  Of course:  Dulsung had it, half a world away.  I hoped she looked after it.  Actually there was something there, between the torch and my watch: a little home-made artificial flower.  I patted it, turned over and went back to sleep.

'Kate, my girl.'

'Uncle Freddy.  How are you feeling?'

'Bloody awful.  Wrecked the car, you know.'

'I know.'

Breakfast had been interrupted by a call from the hospital to say that Uncle Freddy was awake and asking to see me.  There was still half an hour before the car was due to arrive, so I suggested that Miss Heggies and I go together in her ancient Volvo estate.  She just shook her head: she'd go when she was asked for.

We opened up the stables-cum-garage and I drove the Lancia Aurelia into town.  Miss H would phone the car company to tell them they wouldn't be needed.

Marion Craston was there in the ICU's small lounge, and the mystery woman.  Marion Craston was tall, athletic, a little plain, a little vague and mousy brown.  Mrs Watkins, the object of affection in Scarborough, was there too: younger than I'd expected, petite, plump, nicely turned out, lots of brassy dyed blonde hair; soft Yorkshire accent.  I thought we might all troop in together, but Uncle Freddy asked to see me alone.

Seeing the set-up closer to, I realised we couldn't all have trooped in anyway: there was just about room for one person to squeeze in between all the machines and sit by Freddy's side.  The nurse, who made sure I got settled in without tearing out any vital tubes or wires, bustled off immediately afterwards, called to some other emergency.

He looked shrivelled, reduced, lying there.  His eyes looked bright in the subdued light, but seemed shrunken back inside their bony orbs, the skin waxy and stretched thin around them.  His face and hair were the same yellow-white colour.  I patted a few stray wisps of hair back into place.

'Lovely old Delage it was,' he said.  His voice was soft and wheezy. 'No bugger'll tell me if it's a write-off or not.  Could you find out for me?'

'Of course.  Oh, I came in the Aurelia; hope you don't mind.'

'Not at all.  They need to be used.  Umm.  Have you met Mrs Watkins?'

'Just now.  She's out there with Ms Craston, the lawyer.'

Uncle Freddy wrinkled his nose. 'Don't like her.'

'Marion Craston?'

'Hmm.  Legal eagle.  More like legal vulture.' He coughed and: wheezed for a couple of seconds before I realised he was really laughing, or trying to.  I held his thin, cool hand.

'Steady, now.  You'll shake your tubes out.'

He seemed to find this funny, too.  His other arm was in a cast; he lifted the hand I was holding away for a moment to wipe at his eyes with a weak, painful-looking delicacy.

'Let me do that.' I pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes.

'Thank you, Kate.'

'You're welcome.'

'I hear you've been in Thulahn.'

'Just returned.'

'Did I drag you back, my dear?'

'Well, I was ready to come back.'

'Mmm-hmm.  And how is Suvinder?'

'He's well.'

'Did he ask you anything?'

'Yes, he did.  He asked me to marry him.'

'Ah.  Care to tell an old man what your reply was?'

'I said I was flattered, but the answer was no.'

Uncle Freddy's eyes fluttered closed for a while.  I wondered if he'd gone back to sleep, and even if he was conking out on me, but there was still a weak pulse in the wrist above the hand I was holding.  His eyes came slowly open again. 'I told them it was a mad idea.'

'You told who, Uncle Freddy?' Oh, shit, I thought.  You were in on it too.  Uncle F, how could you?

'Dessous, Hazleton.' Uncle Freddy sighed.  He did his best to squeeze my hand.  There was more pressure from the weight of his thin hand than there was from his fingers. 'That's one of the things I had to say to you, Kate.'

'What, Uncle Freddy?  That you knew?'

'That I'm sorry, dear girl.'