DECEMBER 1910. Matt Ballard sat at Joe Docherty’s bedside and watched him die. The doctor had already given his verdict: ‘There’s nothing I can do for him now. The root of the problem is his heart. It’s enlarged and feeble, struggling to do its job and failing. On top of that he’s been drinking very heavily when he should not have been drinking at all. And now that pneumonia has set in . . .’ He had shaken his head and gone away. Joe slept, or was unconscious, most of the time, but late that night he roused and saw Matt sitting haggardly watching him. ‘Matt? I feel bad.’ His breath rasped. Matt murmured softly, ‘Just try to rest.’ But Joe could not: ‘I made you a partner because I knew this was coming and I wanted you to have something, but I think you’re going to find I’ve let it all go to hell. I just couldn’t cope without a drink, and then not for long.’ Matt gripped the thin, bony hand with his big one: ‘Don’t worry about it.’ ‘I’m sorry, really sorry, Matt.’ Joe was silent for a minute or two, just the sound of his laboured breathing filling the room, his eyes closed.
