Crisp and cold, a thin layer of ice coated the ground. Just enough to know where people had walked and which cars had moved today.

Of course, the side roads hadn’t been gritted, patches of treacherous ice made every footstep a gamble, every application of brakes a roll of a dice.

 With a crunch of gears a very distinctive white van turned the corner into Whitworth Road and began a slow, kangaroo, before a pedal was pressed and reluctantly the vehicle slewed to a stop outside number 95.

At 93, the curtains twitched as Mrs Beneventi turned her head and mouthed something back into the room and soon was joined at the window by another head.

“Not seen one of them in a long time. Used to get them in our place for maintenance work sometimes,” Alberto sipped his coffee. “They were being phased out by the 70’s, when I started. They brought in more modern ambulances. Pity that one’s not been well maintained. I can’t think why it’s being used.”

“It’ll be this Covid thing,” Isabella sighed. “What is it anyway?”

“’this Covid thing,’ what? Is there a shortage of ambulances, now? Have people been bulk buying? Or are the ambulances getting sick, huh?”

She sipped her drink, “You know what I mean, everything’s… changed now.”

Alberto nodded, “It’s a Morris LD30, mark… 3, I think. Maybe they’re filming Heartbeat or something…”

“Not in Oxford,” Isabella shook her head, “They only make that detective thing here.”

The driver’s door slammed shut, as the driver, in traditional paramedic green, opened the back doors and checked inside.

The old wooden gate to number 95 gave a little resistance, and then came away in his hand. He looked closer, the wooden upright posts had rotted away, to the point they would never support the gate again. A job to be done. He placed the gate to one side and carefully placed each booted foot down aware of the peril of the ice.

His gloved hand reached out and rang the doorbell. It was hard to know if it had worked, he heard no sound, neither ringing nor movement inside the house, maybe too soon for movement.

The curtains at number 93 settled again as he considered ringing again, or maybe the knocker. Actually, there wasn’t a knocker, just a letter box. He gave the bell another attempt and peered through the letterbox at the old fashioned hallway, he couldn’t see that being decorated anytime soon.

Ready to close the letterbox, he became aware of a gasping of breath, two breaths, three, then a walking frame moving out of the front sitting room, then the hands holding the walker, then finally the elderly gent guiding it.

“Take your time, Bernard,” he shouted through into the hallway.

“Who is it?” called Bernard.

“It’s me! Remember? I said I’d be here at eleven.”

Bernard shuffled slowly towards the door, passed his coat rack, passed his hatstand, passed his photo of dear Gloria and passed wind. Reaching the door, the balancing act began. He needed to support himself on just his left hand as he reached for the door handle with his right. Halfway there, he nearly toppled, grasping the walking frame with relief, the heavy gasping began again.

“Be careful Bernard, take your time, I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Having caught his breath, Bernard reached again. More carefully this time, and grasped the handle, a turn, a click it was open. “Wait a minute,” he gasped, “I need to step back.” A shuffle, “Ok, give it a push… please.”

The paramedic on the doorstep brought no flicker of recognition to Bernard’s tired old eyes, “I’m sorry, who did you say…?”

“I spoke to you a few days ago Bernard, remember. Today’s the big day, are you ready?”

“No I…”

“Yes, we went through some stuff, you signed some papers, remember?”

“No…. I don’t remember any papers…”

“No… well, to be fair Bernard, your memory… it’s not very reliable, is it?”

“I don’t remember having any memory lapses at all…”

The paramedic passed Bernard some papers, “We agreed, it might be better, Bernard. Is that your signature on the bottom?”

“I’m not sure, I think so…. I don’t really know…”

“Come on Bernard, let me pack you a few things…”

Through the double iron gates and up the long, curved driveway, the old ambulance stuttered to a halt adjacent to the archway that framed the entrance to the Summertown Cedar Trust Care Home. The ambulance pinked itself into silence.

Bernard looked warily at the doorway.

“Next steps Bernard. It’s lovely inside y’know.”

“Why have brought me here? Am I going home soon?”

The paramedic smiled, reassuringly, “Let’s take a look, Bernard.”

Wheeling a chair around to the passenger door, the paramedic gently guided Bernard down the two steps from the passenger seat and helped him into the chair. “Let’s put a warm blanket over you, we don’t want you getting cold.” Tucking the quilted blanket around him, the paramedic asked, “Are you warm enough now?”

Bernard nodded silently.

Up the gentle ramp, through the main door and into the warm reception area. The chair was steered towards the front desk.

The young receptionist, a very pretty young thing Bernard thought, smiled sweetly as she made eye contact with the paramedic. “Is this the gentleman you told us about?”

The paramedic smiled back, “This is Bernard, Bernard Talbot, I’ve got all his papers here.”

“Lovely.” She turned to Bernard, “Let’s have a look at your room.”

I’ll bring his bags in.” the paramedic offered.

The snow was coming down thicker now, as the ambulance returned to Whitworth Road, the tracks in the snow from earlier invisible now. The paramedic returned to the rear doors, opened them and stepped inside the vehicle.

Inside, he changed out of the paramedic greens and slipped back into his own comfortable old, torn suit. He picked up the first box of the few he still had and stepped out into the cold again.

By the time he had reached the gap where the gate had been previously, the door on 93 was opening. Mrs Beneventi’s curiosity getting the better of her.

“Hello?” she called, “Is everything ok with Bernard?”

He put the box down and gave a sad smile, “Not really, he’s had to go into care. He’s not been looking after himself very well. I’ve just moved him in, I’ve found him a lovely place. He’ll be happy there, once he gets used to it.”

Isabella looked puzzled, “What are you doing with those boxes?”

“Ah yes,” he smiled, “dear Bernard has asked me to look after the place for him for now.”

“Aren’t you the paramedic that took him in?”

He laughed, “No, I can see the confusion though, I just borrowed this ambulance for today. No, I’m not a paramedic. My name’s Morose, Chief Inspector Morose of Oxford Police.”

He took a step towards the door and stopping, turning his head almost 180 degrees, owl like, to face Mrs Beneventi again, “I do hope you don’t mind a bit of Killing Joke blasted out at deafening levels at 3a.m. Because I plan on welcoming myself to the neighbourhood”