by Vivien Brown
William was fifty-seven years old. He was too chubby around the middle, and his hair was not only thinning on top but what was left of it was going decidedly grey at the sides. When he looked in the mirror he hardly recognised the face that looked back at him through his thick rimmed spectacles. Where had his life gone? How could everything had gone so horribly wrong? He wasn’t happy. He probably hadn’t been happy for years, but he’d never stopped to think about it before. And, worst of all, he was ashamed to realise that he didn’t know if his mother was happy either.
He’d call her. Yes, that’s what he would do. Or, better still, go round there. Unexpected, uninvited, like he used to in his bachelor days, turning up on her doorstep, out of the blue, with flowers and a hug, and sometimes a bag of laundry, and knowing there’d be tea in the pot – whichever of the many pots was his mother’s favourite at the time – and cake in the tin. But that, of course, had been before Susan. Susan had changed things, prised open a little gap between his mother and himself that had slowly, as the years passed, widened and deepened into an almost unbridgeable gulf.
It was time to do something about it, before it was too late. His mother wasn’t getting any younger. Neither was he, come to think of it. And, now that Susan had gone, there was nothing to stop him from being a part of her life again, and letting her be a part of his. They were both alone now. Lonely, even. Well, he knew he was. He had no idea if she felt the same. She did have old Smudge for company, of course, so there was always somebody for her to talk to, even if that somebody never talked back. Which was more than he had. William rubbed the tips of his fingers over his eyelids and yawned. He had to snap out of this self-pitying phase before he started to go all maudlin.
Only one thing for it. He’d go tomorrow, surprise her and take her out for lunch somewhere. A nice roast, with all the trimmings. She’d like that. He’d stop off on the way and buy freesias. Lots of freesias, in lovely bright colours. They were always her favourites. And cat food for Smudge. Tuna, or chicken. The expensive chunky stuff in the little foil cartons. Or maybe something tasty from the butchers, if he could find one open on a Sunday.
He hadn’t realised it before, but he’d missed that old cat. Almost as much as he’d missed his old mum. He had to admit it. Susan certainly had a lot to answer for.
*
Laura had been on shift for five hours already and her feet ached. Saturdays were notoriously busy in A & E, even in the mornings, what with the hangovers and drunken falls from the night before, and then came all the football and rugby injuries, half-dressed men trailing the mud from their boots and the drips from hastily applied bloody bandages across the newly mopped floor. And the mums who hadn’t wanted to take their sick children out of school or risk having their pay docked for taking a day off work, and preferred instead to queue up for hours at the weekend to get their five minutes with a doctor, fretting about meningitis or appendicitis, only to be told that the symptoms they were so concerned about pointed to nothing more serious than a bad cold or a touch of tummy ache. No wonder the NHS was in trouble. But at least she didn’t have to deal with those, even though she got to hear all about them from her flatmate Gina who had trained as a paediatric nurse and had been working here in Children’s A & E ever since she’d qualified. No, Laura only dealt with adult patients, not the kids or, thank God, their parents. Good job really, or she’d probably be tempted to say something she shouldn’t.
After six months in the job, she was getting used to it all now. When she’d first transferred down from the men’s surgical ward, she’d found A & E quite terrifying. Everything she’d had to do before just flew right out of the window. There was never any order. No chance to plan or prepare, so little time to stop and think. You never knew what was going to come through the door next. One minute a dad-to-be dashing in with a wife already in labour and just missing giving birth in the car on the way here, the next an old lady with a twisted ankle or some idiot with his penis stuck up a hoover tube and trying to hide it underneath his coat. From the trivial to the life-and-death to the ‘you wouldn’t believe it!’, it all just threw itself at her from the moment she arrived until she found herself exhausted, shell-shocked and waiting outside for the bus home.
The road accidents were the worst. No matter how many seatbelts and speed cameras and anti-drinking campaigns there were in the world, the accidents just kept on happening. She stood now, gazing down at the latest victim as the doctor bent over her, shining a light into her eyes, assessing the extent of the damage. The poor girl didn’t look much older than Laura herself, perhaps even younger, and she was in a bad way, the victim of a hit and run. Her clothes and hair were soaking wet, at least one leg was obviously broken, there was a nasty gash on the back of her head, and although she’d apparently been briefly conscious and trying to talk at the scene, there had been no response beyond a few incoherent mumblings since she’d been brought in, and she still hadn’t opened her eyes.
‘Can we try to get an ID? Did she have a bag with her?’
Laura turned to Bob and Sarah, the paramedics. They both looked tired, and Sarah was stretching and rubbing her back with both hands, through the folds of her fluorescent yellow jacket. Having slid her across from trolley to bed and rattled off a list of readings and what they’d already done to help her, they were getting ready to leave.
‘Sorry, no.’ Sarah shook her head. ‘She hardly spoke before she blacked out. Just muttered her name. Lily. But that’s all we have. No bag found with her at the scene. Or phone. Unless some friendly passer-by had already nicked them, of course. It wouldn’t be the first time. Couldn’t find anything in her pockets either, except a couple of keys. House, not car. There wasn’t even anything on the key ring to give us any clues. No company logo to tell us who she works for. Not even one of those Tesco clubcard fob things. Bit of a mystery girl, I’m afraid.’
‘A pretty unlucky one, too.’ The doctor stood up and wiped a hand over his forehead, a stethoscope strung idly around his thin neck and more than a hint of stubbly shadow on his chin. ‘I don’t like it when patients can’t tell me who they are or where it hurts. We’re getting a few sounds out of her, which is good, and she is responding to pain, but I don’t like head injuries, and I especially don’t like the look of this one. Her airway’s clear now, but she is struggling a bit. Can we get an urgent head CT please, nurse? Her blood pressure is pretty low too, so let’s cross match some blood. Four units. If she’s bleeding into that brain of hers, we’ll need to replace that blood ASAP. I think we’ll need the neurosurgeons to take a look at her.’
He stood back and wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, then carried on assessing his patient’s less worrying injuries. ‘Fractured left tib and fib as well as a couple of ribs, I’d say, and some fairly deep lacerations on the arms and hands, but nothing too terrible. We can deal with those. Abdomen feels okay. No distension. No obvious sign of any internal damage, apart from the head. Shame there’s no way of knowing who she is.’
And no one there waiting for her when she wakes up, Laura thought, as she returned to the nurses’ station and busied herself sorting out the paperwork and making the right calls while her colleagues carried on monitoring and did all they could to keep the girl stable.
Her stomach rumbled ominously, reminding her that she still hadn’t found time to eat. Even in the midst of others’ suffering, life and lunch had to go on. There was a broken custard cream in her uniform pocket. Emergency supplies. She took a sneaky nibble, dropping a scattering of crumbs on the desk, and glanced at her watch. Quarter to one, and she’d been up since 6.00 a.m. The cereal and toast she’d bolted down before leaving for work were nothing but distant memories.
Laura yawned as discreetly as she could and looked across at the mystery girl, surrounded by staff on all sides, unconscious and totally unaware of what was happening to her. And, with no ID, there was no way of knowing who they should call. Not even anyone to sign the consent forms. She’d want her mum at her side
if it was her lying there. And her dad, obviously. But mostly her mum. There’s nothing so scary as facing stuff alone. And nothing like a mum to make it right. God, imagine having all that going on inside your own body and not knowing a thing about it. Laura shuddered and pushed the thoughts away. It’s a job, she reminded herself. Just a job. Don’t let yourself get too involved. But, how awful if the girl should die, anonymous and alone.
Death. In the middle of a normal Saturday, with the traffic going about its business outside the window, someone coughing into a bowl behind a curtain, the radio in the nurses’ kitchen spilling out sports news and tinny pop music and the weather, a vase of droopy flowers and a clutch of Thank You cards propped up along the windowsill. Death, coming out of nowhere, when it’s least expected. That was the part of her job she most dreaded, especially when the patient was so young. She knew the next few hours would be critical. Tests, monitors, ventilators, maybe an operation to relieve the pressure on her brain, everyone waiting to see whether the girl woke up or slipped away. Life and death. Such a thin line between the two, and so frighteningly easy to cross.
Quarter of an hour now since she’d been brought in, and they’d come to wheel her away already. One of the other nurses went with her. Her expression remained grim. She looked across at Laura as they entered the lift, and shook her head. There was still no change.
CHAPTER THREE
Ruby
The rain has stopped, but I can’t go out to play. I’m not feeling very well. Mrs Castle has put me to bed with a hot water bottle and my favourite doll. She’s called Betsy, and I think she’s wearing her best yellow dress, but someone has closed the curtains and the room is so dark that I can’t tell for sure. Her small plastic hand feels cold against mine. The room is quiet, but I can hear some of the others talking outside. They sound so far away, almost as if they’re whispering, but I know they’re not. Nobody here ever whispers.
My head hurts and I feel really hot, but I’m shivering with cold. That doesn’t make any sense at all, but I do as I’m told and stay tucked up under the blankets, only reaching my arm out when I want to take a sip from the big beaker of water by my bed. My legs ache as if I’ve been running for miles, but I don’t think I have. Mrs Castle says what I have might be catching, so the others can’t come and see me. I feel very alone in here, but I know Mrs Castle doesn’t mean to be unkind. She’s trying to help me get better, and she usually knows what’s best. She’s not as nice as a real mum, but she’s the next best thing, and I do trust her. I hope I don’t spill the water in the dark and make her cross.
I must have gone to sleep for a while. One of those deep dark sleeps, with no dreams in it. I don’t know how long I was asleep, but when I wake up, something feels different. No, everything feels different.
I can’t move my legs. I try hard but nothing happens. I can tell that Betsy has gone. I can’t feel her hand any more. In the darkness, I try to find her, but I can’t move my arms either. Or my eyes. I can’t open my eyes. Why can’t I open my eyes?
I try to think, try to remember, try to recapture the colour of the yellow in my head. Betsy’s yellow, the brightest happiest yellow ever, but everything’s just black. Black and dark and empty. And I know she’s not here. Betsy.
Is it Betsy I’m searching for? No, not Betsy. Not Betsy at all. Betsy was a long time ago. It’s Lily. Lily was this morning. Where is Lily? I try to call for her, try to speak, but nothing happens. My mouth doesn’t open. My voice doesn’t come.
Where’s Lily? And where am I?
CHAPTER FOUR
Geraldine opened the front door and dropped her bag on the hall table. It was a warm afternoon, despite the drizzle, and she was glad to shrug off her coat and slip out of her damp shoes. The feel of the soft wool carpet between her toes always cheered her up and made her feel instantly glad to be home.
‘Anyone for tea?’ she said as Michael and Patricia slammed the car boot shut and lugged their cases up the drive behind her. ‘Only, I can’t stop long. I’ll have to go back to the shop, if only to help Kerry cash up the takings and lock up properly. Heaven knows what she will have got up to while I’ve been gone.’ She glanced over her shoulder as they reached the step. ‘Shoes, please …’
She saw Michael raise his eyes to the sky and shake his head. Once inside the old familiar house, their shoes left at the door, he guided Patricia into the living room and plonked her down in a chair, then followed his mother along the narrow hallway to the kitchen.
‘You still haven’t asked me,’ he said, lowering his voice to a whisper and opening the fridge door to grab the milk.
Geraldine busied herself at the sink, filling the kettle and pulling cups out of the cupboard. ‘Asked you what, love?’
‘Mum, you know what! Oh, you can be infuriating sometimes.’
She turned to look at him. It hadn’t been that long since she’d last seen him but she could have sworn he’d grown. Older, taller, wider, more like his father than ever. And so suntanned, she hardly recognised him any more. Not for the first time she felt a pang of something she couldn’t quite put a name to. A feeling that she was losing him, as his life headed off in new directions, slowly but surely, bit by inevitable bit. ‘Michael, you know I don’t like to pry. Yes, you said on the phone that you had something to tell me, but I was waiting for you to do just that.’ Oh, she really shouldn’t snap at him quite so abruptly. No wonder he came back home so rarely. Not that he probably saw this house, or Brighton, as his home any more. He’d long since put it all behind him. ‘I was waiting for you to tell me, when you were ready, that’s all. I didn’t realise I was expected to ask …’
‘Well, come into the front room then, and Patsy and I can tell you together. Leave the tea for a minute. No one’s going to die of thirst for having to wait a bit longer.’
Geraldine sighed. She’d have to be blind or stupid not to have spotted the ring on Patricia’s finger the moment she’d set eyes on her at the airport, but it wasn’t her place to comment, was it? And now she’d have to pretend to be surprised. And pleased.
Michael had that look in his eyes. The same one he would come home from school with when he’d come top in maths or scored a goal at football. He was almost bouncing with the urge to tell her, and she knew she must play her part.
So, with the sound of the kettle starting to bubble and let off steam behind her, she let her son lead her along the hall, hand in hand, glad of those last few precious seconds to part her lips and practise her best ‘welcome to the family’ smile behind his back.
*
Agnes was worried about Smudge. She looked at the clock on her kitchen wall and gazed out at the small back yard, the rain still bouncing hard against the window. Five o’clock, and it was already starting to get dusky, the shadows fading to big shapeless chunks of grey on the concrete below. Poor old cat. He was quite a big chunk of shapeless grey himself these days. She smiled to herself. He was fifteen years old now, getting stiffer, lazier, just like her, and he didn’t usually stay out this long when the weather was bad, although he still liked a prowl around, and still came back with a cut ear or a new battle scar from time to time.
She leaned out over the sink and struggled with the rickety window catch, pushing the window open just enough to feel the rush of chilly air and the splash of rain on her arm.
‘Smudge. Smudgey Boy, come on. Dinner time!’
She reached for a can of his favourite cat food from the little cupboard under the sink, feeling the pull in her knees as she slowly bent and straightened again. She would keep the cans somewhere else, if only there was space, but every cupboard and shelf in this tiny kitchen was already jam-packed with stuff. Soup and beans, lined up in military order, labels outwards, and umpteen packets of porridge, all bought in as emergency supplies, for the days she either couldn’t or didn’t want to trudge to the shops. Mugs and glasses and cups. Far too many cups. As if an army of visitors was likely to appear, demanding tea. And the teapot itself, of course.
The best one. Her favourite, blue and white Wedgwood, far too good to use, but such a joy to look at. She remembered the day she’d rescued it from the storage boxes, just before they were consigned to William’s dusty garage.
She slotted the can into the opener on the wall and pressed the button, watching the thing turn and the lid disengage easily, smoothly, like magic. Whatever next? Self-filling kettles? Bin bags that took themselves out to the dustbin? Sheets that fitted themselves onto the bed? How technology was moving on, changing, sweeping everything along with it! And here she was, trying so hard just to stand still.
‘Here, Smudge. Smudgey, Smudge. It’s tuna time …’ She was aware of how silly she sounded, her voice high and shrill as it penetrated the near-silence of the small yard outside the window, but she didn’t really care. Not any more. You reach an age when what other people think of you no longer matters, when you can finally say and feel and do as you please, and for Agnes that age had come a while back, soon after the big house move, and the loss of her garden, and the rather symbolic removal of the teapots, when she’d felt, as she still did, that she’d allowed others to take control of her life for long enough and there was nothing much else left to lose.
And then there had been Susan’s departure, of course, and her son left shell-shocked and alone. That was when Agnes had finally let it all out. Let rip, as they say in the American films on the telly, and told her son what she really thought. She may even have used a few swear words. In fact, she was sure she had. The look on William’s face! The frustration, the anger, the sense of loss, out it had all tumbled. If only it had raised its head a little sooner, she might have told that bloody wife of his what she’d really thought of her. To her face, instead of shouting it at William, who just stood there, like an empty shell, and said nothing at all.