the time

Mrs Blake is lying where her sister found her, face down on the carpet, one arm crooked through the legs of a nest of mahogany tables, a scattering of custard creams and an upended Tupperware container lying on its side just away from her other, outstretched hand. I struggle to disentangle her whilst Rae moves some furniture to make room enough to drag her out. Once Mrs Blake is on her back, I start chest compressions whilst Rae works around me, cutting through her clothes and sticking the defib pads on.

A second crew arrives to help.

We work through our protocols.

After every aspect has been played out – almost an hour in this case - we review the facts, and decide to stop.

‘What time have you got?’ says Rae.

‘Eleven o’clock.’

Suddenly there’s a frantic whirring and popping noise from behind us up on the wall – a cuckoo clock. A little door just below the roof of it swings aside, and a crazy-looking wooden bird crashes out. It hoo-hoos the hour, jerking its body up and down, flapping its wings in time to the striking of a bell inside. The moment eleven has been counted, the bird disappears back inside - and the little door slams shut.