I don’t know whether I made some gesture, but instead of going he halted behind my chair. The sensation of someone posted at my back made me uncomfortable. The sun was getting low and the whole room was flooded with a pleasant, mellow light. Two hornets were buzzing overhead, against the skylight. I was so sleepy I could hardly keep my eyes open. Without looking round, I asked the keeper how long he’d been at the Home. “Five years.” The answer came so pat that one could have thought he’d been expecting my question.
That started him off, and he became quite chatty. If anyone had told him ten years ago that he’d end his days as doorkeeper at a home at Marengo, he’d never have believed it. He was sixty- four, he said, and hailed from Paris.KEEP READING
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