I had leaflets on cardiac rehabilitation, diet and lifestyle choices. Appointments with the various medicos had been lined up. I thanked everyone who’d treated me. It cost eight hundred dollars to get out of the hospital-my meals and phone calls-but they assured me that the health insurance would take care of the rest. I’d resented paying the insurance for decades but now, not wanting to even think about what American surgeons and anaesthetists charged-I was grateful.

Megan picked me up in the car she’d hired. I wore the clothes I’d been wearing for my walk on the pier, the only difference being knee-length elastic stockings to combat the danger of post-operative blood clots. Outside, in the car park, I sucked in the first free-range, non-conditioned air in ten days. It had a touch of the sea in it as well as the ever-present American smell of petrol. My chest felt tight, my legs felt weak, my breathing felt shallow but I felt great. Megan stowed my bag and helped me into the car without any fuss.

She drove straight to a bar more or less attached to the marina. It had an outdoor area with tables shaded by umbrellas. The air was salty; surf beat on the sand; close your eyes, ignore the accents, and you could have been in a Manly beer garden. Megan ordered a pitcher of light beer.

‘It’s even more pissy than at home,’ she said. ‘But I thought you should start quietly. Would you believe I had to show ID to get a drink in here the other night? What’s the legal drinking age-thirty?’

The beer came. I poured; we touched glasses. ‘I think it’s twenty-one,’ I said. ‘Be glad you don’t look your age.’

‘You look OK, Cliff. A bit pale.’

‘I’ll sit in the sun and clean my gun.’

‘You’re going to miss it, aren’t you?’

The beer was thin and sweet but it still had enough bite to feel like a drink, a return to one of the great consolations of life. ‘I suppose I will, but in a way this could be some sort of signal. Time for a change.’