by Annie Murray
On we go, getting gradually out of breath. We double up along Pall Mall, go along Regent Street. I imagine our friends and families all setting out. Kim has said they have to go to a wedding and can’t come, but there’ll be Fred in his car, Sheila and Roy, Prem and Janu on their way with their excited boys. And my Ian. My stomach lurches. It’s my turn to feel like a child, excited that someone will be watching, cheering us through to the end. Things will be all right. He has needed time to think. I knew something was wrong, and I feel myself sending him love and strength. It’s been so terrible, the worst, but we’ll go on together – we will. And I know Ian – he has never deliberately let me down. He’ll come, I know it.
The worst is the middle. It always is. Far enough in to be feeling tired, not quite close enough to the end to feel it is in sight. Miles four to five – kilometres six to eight. The sun has come out and we are red-cheeked and flagging. The ground is strewn with discarded water bottles and their caps from the water stations and we have to keep skipping round them. Ahead of us, someone is running gamely in a bear costume – how do they do it in this heat?
‘Oh, my God,’ Sunita groans. Her face is running with perspiration. ‘Let’s stop for a few minutes.’
I’m relieved. My chest hurts, I’m drenched in sweat and I feel low on energy. It feels endless, pounding along the pavements, as if we are now going to be doing it for ever.
We are in Charing Cross Road. They keep making us do loops along roads and back again, which is demoralizing because as you run, all the time people are coming back the other way on the other side and you realize that’s what you are going to have to do, as if you are getting nowhere . . . Next, the Strand. People by the side of the road wave and cheer: ‘Come on, you can do it – not far now!’
‘Huh – not far for you,’ Sunita mumbles. ‘Still more than two miles.’
We take a few moments. Breath returns surprisingly quickly and after a few sips of water we are ready to go again.
‘Come on,’ Pat says, ‘let’s get singing.’
Suddenly Sunita breaks into life and starts on her ‘Kashmir Main Tu Kanyakumari’ song. As she does so she takes some jigging steps, though no twirls – too risky in this crowd – and we all join in. The people around us start cheering.
‘We have some great dancing here!’ the loudspeaker announces. ‘Someone running for the Bhopal Medical Appeal who’s got the breath to dance and run as well!’
Sunita grins and shakes a fist triumphantly.
People around us laugh at this raggle-taggle bunch of singing women – all good-naturedly.
‘Come on,’ Hayley says. ‘We’re the ladies – of Hollywood . . .’
Gasping and panting we manage to sing, until I see the tag by the road. ‘Hey, only two more K to go!’
We are in the process of cheering this – almost the end: still, 2K is 2K! – when Hayley goes crashing to the ground beside me.
‘Oh, no – Hayley!’
All of us stop. One of the race marshals comes over, in a fluorescent yellow tabard.
‘I’m all right,’ she keeps saying. ‘It’s my ankle again . . .’ I can see she’s grazed her knee and elbow badly. People surge on past us – a sea of feet passing and passing, water bottles skittering across the road.
‘You should rest that by rights,’ the marshal says. He’s a young, friendly white guy. But he can see she wants to finish.
‘I can do it,’ Hayley says and I see the lad blush as this gorgeous girl hauls herself to her feet using his shoulder. She rotates her ankle, grimacing, and takes a few steps but it obviously hurts. ‘I don’t think it’s broken.’
‘We’ll help you,’ I say. ‘Won’t we? Come on – we’ll carry you to the end if necessary!’
Sunita takes Hayley’s water bottle off her and Pat and I, who are closer to her height, get on either side, pulling her arms over our shoulders.
‘Right,’ I say. ‘Come on, girl – we’re going to do this.’
‘You’ve just got to get round Parliament Square and you’re there,’ the guy says. ‘Good luck. It’s not far now!!’
This is understating the case a bit but we are determined to be cheerful.
‘Oh!’ Hayley groans, frustrated, as we hobble along together. ‘I’m holding you all up.’
‘So what?’ Pat says. ‘We’re all going to get there in the end.’
‘Motorway, remember?’ I say. ‘Who wins on the motorway?’
‘It’s the same ankle,’ she says. ‘The one I ricked before.’ She starts giggling suddenly, realizing she can tell us. ‘I was wearing six-inch heels to dance in, all sparkly – and I fell right off the stage and ended with my bum sticking up in the air. It was so undignified I can’t tell you!’
We are so intent on keeping Hayley going, limping and talking, singing and fooling about, that we hardly notice the Houses of Parliament passing us by and the long haul up and along Whitehall.
What we do notice, suddenly, is that ahead of us we can see another pink rubber archway swaying in the gentle breeze.
‘Look!’ Sunita is skipping around again. ‘The end – nearly there, Hayley, come on!’
Seeing our plight, people in the crowd are cheering us on, and suddenly a little figure who has somehow broken through the barrier comes running up to us.
‘Come on, come on, Auntie!’ It’s Ijay, the older of Janu’s two boys. ‘You can do it!’
He probably shouldn’t be there but who’s going to stop him at this point?
‘Run with me!’ Sunita takes his hand and he runs along with us, cajoling and shouting, and we are surrounded by cheering as we labour our way up to the archway and – finally! – jog through it, high-fiving and cheering. We can stop – at last we can stop!
Almost as soon as we are beyond the finish line, Janu and Prem arrive with Tapu and there are hugs all round, Janu fondly scolding Ijay for escaping. ‘You are lucky the police did not take you away, naughty boy!’
The whole area is full of people hugging and laughing and celebrating. The rest of us look round for family and as we do, we suddenly see Sheila and Roy hurrying up to us, beaming and waving. They look so happy that I realize what a great opportunity this has been for them to get out and have a change.
‘Well done, all of you – you were fantastic!’ Sheila cries, hugging us as well. ‘Oh, Hayley, what have you done?’
‘I’m all right – I just ricked it a bit,’ Hayley says and I watch her, seeing that she is probably never going to tell Sheila exactly how she injured that ankle in the first place.
Then Fred comes bouncing up, grabs Pat and hugs her as if she has been away for at least six months.
‘What a bunch of champs!’ he cries, beaming round at us all as Pat laughs, hugging him back. Over her shoulder he says sweetly, ‘Never thought you could do it – but you did! Congratulations, all of you!’
I’m so pleased to see them all but inside, my own feelings are sinking. Even while talking I’m looking round for Ian. Since there are thousands of people milling about and he is not familiar with London, it’s really not that surprising he is not here this second, but all the same I had hoped. I wanted him to see us running across the finish line, the moment of triumph and happiness – to see that we had really achieved something.
Hayley, I realize, also has no one of her own here to greet her. It only truly comes home to me now, how isolated she is in her life when it comes to family. No brothers or sisters and her nan’s too old to come down for this. I stick with her and give her my arm as we all drift away along the street, to be presented with our medals – heavy bronze rectangles with Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament on them, with bright red and white ribbons. Sheila and Prem take photos of us and I’m smiling away, happy, but aching inside.
Where are you, Ian? Please be here somewhere – please.
And I know Pat knows that I’m looking for him and we all hang around for as long as possible as the other runners move off for picnics and celebrations.
> ‘I s’pose we’d better go back and pick up our stuff,’ I say, trying to sound matter-of-fact. At least then I can check my phone. Maybe there was a problem with the trains.
As we head off, I take one more look round, hoping still that he might come running up through the crowds, full of Sorry I’m so late . . .
But there is no sign.
Thirty-Two
THE NIGHT BETWEEN
A cheap medal is nice – it hangs, heavy and substantial, round my neck. But it is an empty thing compared with seeing the face of someone you love greeting you at the end of all this effort, these weeks of preparation. But we waited until most people had moved on and still there was no sign of Ian.
I trudge along with Hayley. It feels a long way back to the bag drop. I don’t want to show her, but I feel hurt, angry and close to tears. Could he not have managed this – just this, for me?
Hayley seems to sense my mood.
‘Your husband not got here in time?’ she asks sweetly.
‘Apparently not,’ I say, afraid of crying. But then, because she has been honest, I say, ‘To tell you the truth, Hayley, I don’t really know what’s going on with him. He hasn’t been home for three days. It’s all been pretty weird since Paul died. But he said he’d come. I never thought he’d do this . . .’
And tears are running down my cheeks.
‘Oh, my God, Jo – I’m so sorry,’ she says, an arm round my shoulder. ‘What, seriously – he hasn’t been home?’
Put that way, it does sound really bad.
‘Yeah, well.’ I wipe my eyes. ‘Sorry. I think my blood sugar must have dipped.’
We wait for our bags. By now I’m jittery with impatience and I pull my phone out straight away. There’d better be a message, Ian Stefani, I think savagely. Or I’ll . . . Or I’ll what?
The screen leaps into life. A few seconds later it beeps.
Jo – Mom’s been taken bad. Looks like another stroke. We’re in the QE. Sorry not to make it today. I wanted to. Please get here soon as you can. I need you here. Love Ian x
Oh, no . . .’ I turn to Hayley, feeling as if I’ve been kicked in the belly. Dorrie, my lovely mother-in-law. I should have been there. I’m the one who’s being selfish, not being there to look after her. ‘I’m sorry, Hayley – it’s Ian’s mom. I’ve got to get straight back to Birmingham – now.’
The train is quiet and I am glad now to be alone. Hayley offered to come back with me, but I sent her off to join the others at the picnic.
‘It’s sweet of you, love – but there’s nothing you can do when we get there. I’ll just be at the hospital. Go and celebrate – give them all my love.’
I wasn’t there, I think, guiltily, watching London fade behind me as we head north. I should have been there. But at the same time, I can hear Dorrie’s matter-of-fact voice: It’s just one of those things, bab – you weren’t to know.
Dear, dear Dorrie. When I went to see her yesterday before I left, I fussed over her, making her lunch and saying Ian would be in later (I was sure he would).
‘I’m all right, Jo,’ she said. ‘I’m not a complete vegetable yet, you know . . .’
I was about to apologize, but she twinkled at me.
‘I’ll be all right. You go and do your thing down there – and good luck to you. I admire you for it. I’ve got the money for you, when you get back.’
‘Oh, Dorrie – you’re so kind,’ I said. ‘I’ll be back as fast as I can.’
‘I know you will. Now stop fussing. You go and do your run – eleven o’clock, is it? I’ll be thinking of you.’
When I left, she said, ‘Bye-bye, bab. Keep together and do your best.’
She seemed fine, bless her – quite lively. There was no sign of anything amiss . . . But I still feel terrible for going off and not being there.
My mind keeps hammering, Don’t die, please don’t go and leave us. The train seems to be crawling. All I want is to be there, but there’s nothing I can do so once again I force myself to think about other things.
The race quickly seems like a dream. But we did it, Pauly, I say to him, reaching for the space in my head where I talk to him, on and off all day. The Paul I talk to is the one who came back to us just before he died – Paul and me walking round the little lake, his laughing at Blackadder DVDs and Family Guy, getting up in the morning, talking about the future. Basically being my boy again.
Then, fondly, I imagine all my new friends having their picnic and feel lucky to have met them. But for the first time in ages, I find myself thinking sadly about Ange. It would be good to see her. I can see her face now, catching sight of me here on the train, still in my running clothes, looking at me, head on one side – God, look at the state of you! It makes me smile.
I change at New Street for the train out to University station.
Getting close – which ward? I text Ian.
Only when I get off the train do I remember that the Queen Elizabeth hospital is still a bit of a shlep from here. So I ask directions, swing my bag on to my back and, cranking my tired legs back into action, start running.
Ian looks up as I approach the bed. His dark eyes are directed blankly at me for a moment, as if I am a stranger. I am chilled by that look, until I realize that his mind is trying to triangulate the face he knows so well with the pink, sweaty, messy-haired apparition in front of him, clad in running shorts and vest. It takes a few seconds. He stands up, looking almost shy, confused.
‘Got here as soon as I could,’ I pant.
In that moment I realize that if Dorrie was able to speak, she would have said wryly, Run all the way from London then, have you? But her eyes are closed and the figure on the bed looks tiny and shrunken and very ill. Oh, Dorrie. I can feel the dismay overtake my face as I look up at Ian again.
He beckons me away and we go and stand outside the ward. Memories come rushing back. My body goes cold. Here we are again – this hospital, the shiny-floored corridors and hushed atmosphere. And there is still a distance between us, a real awkwardness.
‘I went in this morning – that’s how I found her.’
Ian’s control begins to crack and I can see he is close to tears. I put my arms round him and we hold each other for a moment. It feels nice, but still we are far from each other, too many things unsaid and unresolved.
‘I’m a bit sweaty, sorry.’ I try to smile, pulling back.
He doesn’t quite manage a smile either.
‘D’you think – I mean, had she been like it long?’
‘I don’t know, that’s the trouble.’ He looks away, along the corridor for a moment. ‘Could’ve happened any time in the night. She was out of it when I got there. I just called an ambulance and . . .’ He gestures towards the ward. ‘They say it’s on her left side, which apparently means it’s the right side of her body that’s affected. She did come round for a bit – she looked at me, in the ambulance.’
I feel my heart lift with hope. Indestructible Dorrie. She’ll come through this, won’t she? But I also know that with a stroke, you need to get help soon and there’s no knowing how long ago it happened.
‘Have you let Cynth know?’ I ask him.
‘Yeah, she’s coming – soon as she can. Tomorrow, I think.’
‘Right. That’s good.’ I nod slowly. ‘Look, shall I get us a coffee or something?’
‘Have you had anything?’ Suddenly he is considerate Ian again and my heart lights with hope.
‘No – well, a bottle of pop after the race.’
‘I’ll go and find us something – you sit with her.’
Grateful, I go back to Dorrie’s bed. A couple of the other visitors on the ward eye me with puzzled expressions. Perching on the edge of the chair I lean forward and reach for her hand. She is on her back, huddled-looking, as if she is cold. Her left hand lies out on the pale blue blanket and I reach for it, a bit scared of how it might feel. Her hand is cool, but when I take it, I feel a faint reaction, a squeeze, as if she is glad someone is t
here.
And then she opens her eyes. My heart starts to thud.
‘Dorrie! Dorrie, it’s Jo. We’re both here, Ian and me. You’re in the Queen Elizabeth. Everything’s all right – we’re all looking after you.’
I’m not sure if she can focus because her eyes look vacant. But again, I feel that minuscule squeeze of her fingers before her eyes slide shut again and I sit stroking her hand, her arm, and I tell her about the race, about how we did it and how I’m sorry I wasn’t at home when she was taken ill. I just keep talking softly, not sure if she can hear but hoping the sound of my voice is some sort of comfort to her.
Ian comes back with coffee, biscuits and a cheese roll for me. As there’s only one chair he stands and it all feels a bit strained. After I’ve finished eating, and have drunk my coffee, he says:
‘Look – you go home and have a shower, get changed and everything.’ He fishes in his pocket and gives me the car key, tells me where to find the car outside. ‘Come back a bit later, yeah?’
‘OK.’ Grateful, I stand. ‘I’ll come and take a turn when I’ve got cleaned up.’ Our eyes meet. We are both being careful with each other, shy. But I can’t bear it any longer.
‘Are you coming home?’ I can only whisper and my eyes fill with tears. I don’t want to be angry. I want him home and I want harmony.
Ian looks upset. For a moment he turns away, then back to me, looking almost afraid. ‘Yeah.’ He nods. ‘Yeah – I’ll come home tonight.’
Thirty-Three
We take it in turns to sit with Dorrie. She just seems exhausted and she sleep and sleeps. I take over from Ian late in the afternoon and stay on until eight o’clock when the other visitors start leaving. I have slipped into a kind of emergency mode, imagining that I will be camped by her bed all night. But as the ward empties, one of the nurses comes over to me. She is young with a pink, kindly face and gentle voice.
‘Go and get some rest,’ she says. ‘Visiting’s over and really, there’s nothing to be gained from you getting exhausted. Mrs Stefani is stable and if there’s any change we’ll let you know at once.’ She smiles. ‘We’ll look after her.’