‘Such a shame about Luca,’ said Imogen.
‘I kn-o-o-ow,’ said Melissa, ‘I wanted to stay home and nurse him, but he wouldn’t have it. He insisted I come and sample the mushrooms.’
I bet he did, I thought.
A cork popped loudly in the kitchen and all three of us turned our heads.
Douglas came in and sat down between Melissa and Imogen on the sofa and Nick followed, carrying a tray of champagne flutes, the spume still fizzing up their sides.
‘Ooh, lovely!’ said Melissa, leaning forward to take one.
When we each had a glass in our hands, Nick stood and raised his in the air.
‘Now this is not a speech…’ he began, to amused groans from his guests, ‘no, really. I just want to say a few heartfelt words of thanks. To you, Douglas and Imogen… oh, and Melissa of course, for welcoming us into this really rather wonderful community and for the huge generosity of spirit and resilience you showed on Saturday night in the face of… well… let’s not go there. I never went to Eton – my alma mater was Harlesden Comp – but I still know backbone when I see it and the way you people rallied round after that display of thuggery, well…’
Nick paused and dipped his chin, as if almost too moved to go on.
Douglas mumbled modestly and Imogen flapped her hand to stem imaginary tears.
‘… Anyway,’ Nick rallied, ‘the less said about that the better. Decency prevailed in the end…’
We all raised our glasses, expecting to drink a toast to decency, but Nick appeared to have had an afterthought.
‘… While I’m on my feet, no… indulge me, indulge me…’ he grinned and we lowered our glasses again, some of us less tolerantly than others, ‘I might as well just say…’ he turned towards me and my heart sank, ‘how proud I am of my missus. Not only of her prodigious talents – as a potter, as a wife, as a parent – a talent I’m afraid I conspicuously lack – but well, just of her. Of who she is. If we’re talking resilience, folks, this one wrote the guidebook.’
‘Shut up, Nick,’ I said quietly.
‘… No, love, honestly, I know you’re not one for the limelight, but I do just need to say…’
I looked up at the ceiling. A harvest spider was weaving a cobweb on the underside of the lampshade. I watched it wave its tiny legs in the air, to no discernible effect, before resuming its journey between the copper rim of the shade and the Edison bulb. I wondered how long the web would last when the light was switched on. It seemed a precarious spot to have made a home. Then again, it wasn’t a home, was it? It was a trap.
‘… And for that I shall be forever grateful,’ Nick finished, his eyes glassy with tears.
‘I’m speechless,’ I said with a shrug and everyone laughed with relief.
‘Well, that was first class. Absolutely delicious,’ Douglas said, tossing his napkin down beside his empty plate. ‘Whose recipe did you use in the end? Jamie’s? No Carluccio’s, I bet. Tasted authentic anyway…’
‘It was just one I found online,’ said Nick. ‘I think it’s the Vermouth that gives it the depth of flavour. That and a really good stock.’
‘So nothing to do with the freshly foraged local mushrooms then?’ said Melissa blinking at him in faux innocence. Everybody laughed.
Douglas’s wine really had been something special, even I could tell. It had complemented the dinner perfectly – it was earthy yet smooth, complex, I think they call it, and yes, I suppose you’d have to say mushroom-y. We’d had another bottle after that – perhaps not quite as good, but I was not really in a position to judge by then.
They all had brandy too, except for Melissa who was driving.
I vaguely remember their faces looming towards me, smelling of perfume and alcohol and garlic; I remember a lot of goodbyes and thank yous and I remember trying to say that I hadn’t done anything. I remember hanging onto Nick from behind as he stood at the sink washing up, and imploring him to leave it till tomorrow and come to bed. I’d felt terribly sentimental, suddenly; maudlin even. I suppose it was the drink, but I felt like I’d been too hasty; as though I should give him a second chance; maybe I just wanted him to fuck me. Either way, my seduction technique was found wanting. He just glanced over his shoulder and said rather coldly, ‘You’re drunk.’
A little harsh, I thought, considering his sentimental speechifying only a couple of hours before. I steadied myself on the doorjamb and then started up the stairs.
I had only got halfway when the staircase seemed to swing violently to one side, like the stairs in the Crazy House, and suddenly there were two flights instead of one, neither of them leading where I wanted to go.
‘Oof!’ I said, grabbing onto a wooden tread to steady myself and watching my hand go in and out of focus.
By the time Nick got me into bed, I had vomited twice, once on the bathroom floor and once all over him as I staggered towards the toilet and decided at the last moment that emptying my bowels must take priority. Now I lay, sweating and panting, the room closing in around me like the shutter of a Box Brownie. ‘You’re burning up,’ he said and the touch of his hand on my skin was agony. He pulled the duvet up and it was as though he was hauling back the earth and laying it over me. I wanted it to stop. I wanted not to feel this. I wanted not to be here.
27
It’s like looking through the wrong end of a telescope. Everything is so far away. I can see people in the distance but I can’t tell who they are and when they speak it’s as though they’re talking from the bottom of a bucket. It’s faint and yet it hurts my ears. They touch me, but I can’t tell which part of me they’re touching. Sometimes they’re saying my name. I know it’s my name, even though it sounds tinny and far away… even though it’s not really what I’m called. When they say it, I try to open my eyes, because if I don’t, how will they know I’m not dead? I try and try, but all I can see is the red scribbles. I think they’re sewn shut. That’s what the Egyptians do. I don’t mind really. I think it’ll be fine.
Jesus came once, disguised as Ethan. I saw him through my eyelids. They went transparent while he was there, and then when he’d gone, they went cloudy again and the sewing happened. That’s how I know he was Jesus.
Night times are the worst. They bring the chariots then. They’re not what I was expecting. Kind of open-plan, but the wheels go twice as fast as normal ones. Sometimes when they’re coming and they’re waiting round the corner, it’s like they’re actually already inside my head and they’re going to burst out all at once and make my brain into clouds.
It’s dark in the wood and the men are here. You are with them.
They’re talking about me. I want to say, ‘I can hear you, you know,’ but actually I can’t. I just know they’re talking about me because who else would they be talking about?
They’re trying to blow me up. Not blow me up like dynamite, blow me up like a balloon. It’s in my arm and they send the air through it and when it comes in I get bigger and bigger and you stroke me with velvet so I don’t know I’m going to explode.
The men look at me through the knotholes. They have carved my name into one of the trees. I don’t know which one.
A crow is here. It’s pretending to be a crow but really it’s you. You are very close, so close that you’re ruffling my feathers. No, they’re your feathers. I don’t have feathers. You’re looking at me with your beady eye and your eye smells of death.
‘Hello.’
‘Thank God! Oh, sweet Jesus, thank you!’
You have gone back into a man. You are pressing your fist into your beak… into your mouth, and you’re crying.
‘Nurse! Matron! What are you meant to call them? Fuck it! Where’s the buzzer? Can somebody—? Yeah… in here. She just opened her eyes.’
Stroking, stroking, stroking; if I tell him to stop, he’ll know I know, so I put up with it, even though it’s making my hand go on fire.
‘I love you,’ he says. ‘Christ. I never even knew how much… when I was waiting
for the ambulance to come… Jesus.’
Tears in his eyes; crocodile tears. He was in the wood with the men. I saw him.
‘It’s OK,’ I say, ‘I’m going to get better…’
Watch him; watch for the sign, but he gives nothing away. He’s good.
I wonder how he did it, so it was only me and no one else. I couldn’t tell from the taste.
‘I’m going to dedicate my life to you. I am going to make it how you want it. I’m going to fix it with Ethan. I’m going to give up work. We can manage. We don’t need the money. Anyway, once you get better and you finish your pots, you’re going to be huge. Cath told me about them. She says it’s an installation. She says it’s serious art, not just pots. I like Cath. I know I was mean about her, but she’s a good person. I can see why you like her. We’re going to be so happy, you and me…’
The light flickered on and there was a scraping sound as the nurse pulled the curtain back.
‘She’s only really supposed to have two visitors at a time,’ she was saying, ‘but I’ll turn a blind eye if you keep it down.’
A face loomed over mine, worried, hopeful.
‘Jude,’ the word formed on my lips, but no sound came.
I could see a second dark shape behind her. I frowned and winced into the light. Was it…?
‘Yep. I’ve brought Dave with me,’ she said. ‘I thought – you know – kill or cure…’
I tried for a smile but everything went blurry.
‘Hey, hey. Come on,’ Dave’s voice, panicky, humorous, ‘no need to get sentimental. We’re not back together or anything. We’re just saving on the petrol. Next time you have a life-threatening illness, can you try and have it a bit nearer London?’
There was laughter, then an awkward pause.
‘Right, well,’ it was Nick’s voice, ‘I might just pop to the canteen. Leave you guys to catch up. Coming, Dave…?’
‘No, I’m all right, ta. You can bring me a coffee though. What…? Oh, right-o. We’re going to the canteen apparently. See you in a bit, ladies.’
I heard their feet squeak across the lino and then it was quiet again except for the tick of the drip. I tried to turn my head but it lay stubborn in the pillow like a watermelon.
‘What the fuck, Karen?’ There was a wobble of real emotion behind Jude’s humorous tone. ‘Are you trying to turn this into the worst year of my entire life?’
‘Sorry,’ I whispered.
‘I’m kidding. Hey, I’m kidding!’ She touched my cheek tremulously with her finger and I felt a tear brim over the edge of my eyelid and trickle down my face.
‘Jude,’ I said and it came out like the last gasp of air from a beach ball.
She leaned close and, fishing for my hand on the blanket, took it gingerly in hers so as not to disturb the drip.
‘I want… to go… home…’
‘Of course you do, honey,’ Jude said. ‘And you will. You just have to get your strength back first. Nick’s going to spoil you rotten once you get out of…’
It felt like an earthquake but it was just me shaking my head.
‘No,’ I croaked urgently, ‘not there. I don’t want to go there with him…’
‘Shhh,’ she said, patting my arm, ‘don’t upset yourself. You’re off your tits with the drugs…’
He was reading a book. The room was dim, except for the pool of light around his pages. He looked across at me and smiled.
‘Have they gone?’ I asked.
‘Who?’
‘Jude and Dave.’
He smiled indulgently.
‘That was yesterday,’ he said. ‘Go back to sleep.’
I was tap dancing in my dream like Danny Kaye in Singin’ in the Rain and the rain was made of milk and the umbrella was a big spotty toadstool, dripping poison.
I opened my eyes and the brightness made me wince.
‘Hello,’ he said, reaching for my hand and pressing it to his lips. It felt different. Freer than before. ‘Big day today!’ he said. ‘You’re off the drip.’
I turned my head. The walls of the room had receded. There was a sense of light and space and precariousness, as if my bed had been wheeled onto a cliff-top.
‘It’s a general ward,’ Nick explained. ‘You’re out of intensive care. We’ve won!’
He lifted my free arm off the bed and waggled it in a feeble victory gesture.
‘They said you’ll need another round of antibiotics to see off any last traces of infection, but the good news is, these ones can be taken orally so once they’ve dotted the “i”s and crossed the “t”s, I get to take you home!’
‘Infection…?’ I frowned and shook my head. ‘What do you mean? I thought it was…?’
‘What?’ Nick smiled at me in puzzlement.
‘Oh no, only…’ I hesitated, ‘I thought it might have been… something I ate.’
‘What, you mean the…?’ Nick’s face contorted in genuine horror as my meaning hit home.
‘Jesus Christ, Karen! Do you honestly think I’d be that fucking irresponsible?’
‘No, but I just thought… maybe by mistake… one of them was… a bad one might have slipped through…’
‘It was sepsis,’ he said and his quiet tone spoke of his hurt. ‘It was from a scratch on your leg. You should have told me about it. If it had been properly cleaned and bandaged we’d have had none of this.’
I winced at the memory of a tearing pain as I’d hurled myself over a barbed wire fence in my flight from Luca. It had left a nasty gash, but I had showered afterwards, had noticed nothing amiss…
‘Yeah. Bloody good job they caught it when they did. It’s a killer. Surprisingly common apparently,’ he shook his head regretfully. ‘I blame myself… should never have let you out of my sight on that mushroom hunt. I knew you’d get yourself in a pickle.’
He looked at me and he shook his head, his eyes full of regret and admonishment and love.
My mouth was dry and tasted of pear drops. I tried to reach for the cup of water on the bedside locker and accidentally knocked a forest of ‘get well’ cards onto the floor.
‘Hey, Missus!’ Nick chastised me. ‘You tell me when you want something. That’s what I’m here for.’
He hauled me up against the pillows and I felt frail in his arms, like something badly super-glued. He handed me the water and then set about picking up the cards, grunting and squeaking his chair legs with the effort of reaching them all.
‘You’ve not seen these, have you?’ he said, pleased; it seemed to provide a focus for our conversation. He started to show me each card in turn, first the picture on the front, then the words inside, as if I were a child.
‘“A heartfelt wish for your recovery. From Min and Ray, with love. Kiss kiss.”’
‘“To Karen, Get well soon from all at The Fleece,” oh… you’re going to like this one…’
He tilted the picture towards me – a blue teddy holding a magic wand, the words, ‘WISHING YOU WELL’ embossed in a silver arc above it.
‘Ta da!’ he opened it to reveal the dedication.
‘To Mum, Get well soon, luv Ethan and Sally xx’
The ‘u’ of luv was a biro heart.
‘Was he here? Was Ethan here?’ I grasped his hand urgently, my heart lifting with hope.
‘’Course he was! He brought his new lady friend. Nice girl, actually. He’s done all right there, I reckon.’
‘Oh!’ I said. ‘That’s good.’
I tilted my head up at the ceiling and blinked hard. Nick patted the back of my hand sympathetically and then reached for the next card.
‘This one’s from my work mates, this one’s from Jude – no mention of Dave, sorry to say. This one… Linda somebody?’ He showed me the handwriting and I shrugged, none the wiser. He was getting bored now, rattling through them in perfunctory fashion, until he came to the last one.
‘Ah, now, this one’s very you.’
I knew it was from Cath straight away. The front showed a photo of
a modernist sculpture, a hollowed-out metal sphere set on a plinth in a sunny garden – it was a lovely image, un-showy, yet uplifting in its quiet way. Nick flipped the card open and read portentously:
‘“Nil carborundum illigitimus.” That’s a joke, it means don’t let the…’
‘I know what it means,’ I said.
‘She’s got it wrong though,’ Nick added smugly. ‘Should be illigitimi. Bastards plural.’
I took the card from him and ran my finger over the dedication, carefully written in what looked like fountain pen.
‘If you say so,’ I said.
‘She brought you some flowers too,’ he added, ‘but the Gestapo confiscated them. Breeding ground for germs apparently…’
‘When was she here?’ I asked, aware that my voice sounded petulant, accusing even. ‘You should have woken me.’
‘Monday… I think,’ Nick said vaguely, ‘I’ve lost track. It’s like a time warp in this place. You were well out of it anyway. Don’t worry, you’ll see her soon enough.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘That’s if the doctor gets her skates on.’
It was early afternoon by the time the doctor came with the lab results. She was very apologetic for keeping us so long. She advised bed rest and reassured Nick in a low voice that although the side-effects of the antibiotics sometimes resembled the illness itself – bloating, nausea, diarrhoea – they would not be discharging me were they not completely satisfied that the bacterium had been eradicated and my immune system returned to normal function. She congratulated him on his decisive action in calling an ambulance and added sotto voce that it was not an exaggeration to say he had saved my life. Then her pager went off and she wished us well and hurried away.
‘Fucking state of me…’ said Nick, wiping tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand. He laughed and a bubble of snot ballooned out of his nose, so that he had to snatch a tissue from the box on the night stand and honk into it loudly. I smiled at him, feeling nothing.
A cheerful orderly called Basil conveyed me to the reception area in a wheelchair, transferred me to a moulded plastic chair with great ceremony, and then haughtily refused Nick’s proffered tip. Nick settled me with a copy of Closer magazine and went to fetch the car. I sat in a daze, the magazine unopened in my lap, and watched people shuffle through the revolving doors, stopping to gaze at the signs, before moving off purposefully towards Radiography or Orthopaedics, Coronary Care or Oncology. What might confront them at their destinations, I wondered; perhaps, if they were lucky, a bed-bound relative recovering from a hernia operation; if less so, a sober oncologist with a sinister-looking X-ray. This was where Death stalked his victims, not on the lonely country road or in the dark wood; here under the strip lights, between the Costa Coffee franchise and the hexagonal fish tank. He was not coming for me this time, but he would come soon enough. Would I be ready when the time came? Would I be able to say that I had lived?
The Move Page 23