And with a remark about ’some people’ she passed on down the ward. Wilt peered in the direction of the door and was slightly aggrieved to see the man was still there sleeping peacefully. After what seemed ages he went to sleep himself. He was woken two hours later and presently a doctor examined him.
‘What drugs were you on?’ he asked.
Wilt stared at him blankly. ‘I’ve never taken any drugs in my life,’ he muttered.
The doctor looked at his notes. ‘That’s not what it says here. You were clearly on something during the night according to Sister Brownsel. Oh well, we’ll soon find out with a blood test.’
Wilt said nothing. He was going back to suffering from amnesia and since he really couldn’t remember what had happened to him he wouldn’t be bluffing. All the same he was still worried. He had to find out what had been going on.
Eva arrived at the hospital accompanied by Mavis Mottram. Not that she liked Mavis but at least she was a dominant personality and would stand no nonsense from anyone. To begin with Mavis lived up to her hopes.
‘Name,’ she snapped at the girl at the reception desk and took out a small notebook. ‘Name and address.’
‘What do you want it for?’
‘To report you to the Administrator for deliberately directing Mrs Wilt here to Psychiatry when you knew perfectly well where her husband was.’
The girl looked wildly around. Anything to get away from this gorgon.
Mavis went on. ‘I happen to be a member of the council,’ she said, omitting to mention that it was only the parish council, not the county council, ‘and what’s more I happen to know Dr Roche very well indeed.’
The receptionist went white. Dr Roche was the top physician and a very important man. She could see she was in danger of losing her job. ‘Mr Wilt hadn’t been logged in,’ she muttered.
‘And whose fault was that? Yours, of course,’ said Mavis with a snarl and wrote something in her notebook. ‘Now then, where is Mr Wilt?’
The receptionist checked the register and phoned someone. ‘There’s a woman here–’
‘Lady, if you don’t mind,’ hissed Mavis.
Behind her Eva marvelled at Mavis Mottram’s authority. ‘I don’t know how you do it,’ she said. ‘When I try it never works.’
‘It’s simply a question of breeding. My family can trace its lineage back to William the Conqueror.’
‘Fancy that. And your father was a plumber too,’ said Eva, unable to keep a note of scepticism out of her voice.
‘And a very good one too. What was your father?’
‘My daddy died when I was young,’ said Eva mournfully.
‘Quite. Barmen frequently do. Of drink.’
‘He didn’t. He died of pancreatitis.’
‘And how do you get pancreatitis? By drinking whisky and gin by the gallon. In other words by becoming an alcoholic.’
Before the spat could turn into a full-scale row the receptionist intervened. ‘Mr Wilt has been moved to Geriatrics 5,’ she told them. ‘You’ll find it on the second floor. There’s a lift just along the passage.’
‘There had better be,’ said Mavis and they set off. Five minutes later Mavis had another altercation, this time with a very formidable Sister who refused them entry on the grounds that it wasn’t Visiting Hours. Even Mavis Mottram’s insistence that Mrs Wilt was Mr Wilt’s wife and entitled to see him at any time didn’t have any effect. In the end
