A/N: Well, this took a while, huh?

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Slim white telephones are reliable pillars of the establishment when you need – scrap that – want to call for – invite – an ambulance.

'My husband is having a minor syncope of the torso's upper quadrants. You must sent out your most prominent surgeon, nothing less than your top surgeon will do, my good man!'

'Hyacinth!' came the sobbed lament from the kitchen floor.

Mrs Bucket (pronounced Bouquet) just rolls her eyes. 'Don't be impatient, dear! I will speak to this good man on my slim white telephone line until I have made sure you will get the best practitioner in the district and nothing less!' She heard something over the line. 'The best is out of town? Well, then, call him back!'

'Hyacinth!'

She listens some more, disagrees vividly, and bangs the telephone down. 'I don't care for this inconsiderate person on the line. Imagine the state of the NHS has come to... Richard, you can get yourself all better now, I've cancelled the ambulance!'

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Turns out the good people from the NHS emergency services don't discriminate patients on overbearing wives. Richard is a pale shade of sweaty discomfort as he's been carted off into the ambulance at the driveway. Hyacinth is assuring everyone not to falter, her candlelight supper shall not be extinguished tomorrow night!

'Poor Richard', Elizabeth comments to her brother, both looking very solemn at their door.

'She's gone round the bend', Emmet replies.

'Feels like they've been there for years.' That house, those two, immutable.

'Round the bend, you mean?' The musician asks solemnly.

The first door of the ambulance slams shut just by Richard's feet. That brings his wife to a sudden halt. She turns, grabs her hat on the head with one hand, her dainty purse dangling from her other wrist, and she runs towards the ambulance in the utmost inelegant way, like stampeding elephants, raises her dress' hem to unprecedented heights (half the neighbours turning their faces away) and grabs to the ambulance last open door with an iron grip, hoisting herself up with difficulty.

'Ma'am, you left your front door open', comments the paramedic on the back.

The fixates him with an irate look and sneers 'what does that matter without Richard?'

And it's the first glimpse the street has of the Hyacinth that lays under the surface, disguised by layers of overbearing idiosyncrasies and a misguided need for social enhancement as proof of self-worth.

Elizabeth clumsily climbs the dividing wall and goes dutifully shutting the front door. Her neighbour raises her head in surprise at that, and caught unaware she gives Liz an uncertain royal wave of goodbye, then again turns to fuss over her husband. She's practically ordering the accompanying paramedic as the vehicle's last door is shut forcefully and the emergency lights and sounds come on.

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'It's horrible what happened to Richard. At his age and all...' Elizabeth comments, inside the Bucket's blue living room. She and Emmet have just come in with the spare key that Richard had the foresight to share for such a terrible situation.

'Yes, he'll probably get bedridden for a while and Hyacinth won't leave his side... You get less time for grand theft, you know?'

Liz nods, because that's what she's best at, agreeing with everyone, keeping peace, but this time she's conflicted herself. She thinks she has spotted a crack in Hyacinth's demeanour, a touch of something vaguely more... human... than usual and suddenly she can't quite decide whether to gather the overnight bag her neighbours will need or just to wait for Hyacinth to be her bossy self again and give her the extensive list of package items just to keep up with normality.

Oh, gosh, not the royal dulton china with the hand painted periwinkles!

Liz decides to be a good friend and pack that overnight back before Hyacinth gives her those dreaded instructions!

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'Oh, Richard, must you be this selfish? Lying there asleep from all the tests and medications wearing you out, and what about me? All alone in this hospital, trying to keep you protected and looked after at the right standards for someone our class, and all you do is sleep, and yes Richard, sleep some more, you look so worn out and I want to see you get better.'

Hyacinth leans over and rests her forehead against her husband's, just as the nurse comes to whisk him off for more tests before some form of surgery is attempted.

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'Liz?'

'In here!'

'So this is the bedroom!' Emmet comments as he enters the flowery den. He looks about the space, Liz, who has always been the practical one, is already packing up pyjamas and toothbrushes.

'Think this will do?' She says, holding the pyjamas in front of her. For some weird reason, the top and bottom don't exactly match in shade and Liz is worried this will gravely grate her friend's nerves.

Emmet frowns. 'Try this one instead', and he hand her endless layers of frilly nightgown. Liz obediently holds them up in front of her but she looks tiny and drowned in a sea of dusty pink at once. Her brother starts cracking some joke about a nightie that actually fits a suitcase, but Liz has her eyes set on a piece of yellowed paper that seems to have drifted off the nightgown - pockets? or just tucked away from Richard's interference (for who would expect Richard to still come any close to Hyacinth when she's wearing that, or anything else for that matter?)

'It's a letter, I think, she helpfully states out loud, picking up the piece of paper from the floor.

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