The mood was serious but Lizzie, anxious to return to the lightness they’d been sharing before, broke the ice by unclasping the cheap Timex she always wore when travelling and handing it to Pavel. ‘It’s running a little slow. I’m not absolutely sure it’s worth mending but …’
Pavel ran a thumb over its face and weighed the watch gently in his hand. ‘Of course it’s worth fixing. It’s a perfectly good watch and will carry on working long after your internal clock has packed it in for good. There is no reason at all that a good, solid timepiece like this shouldn’t work for ever, provided it’s looked after. Bring it to my shop any morning. I’ll be happy to sort it out while you wait.’
‘So why …’ Lizzie didn’t want to drag the mood down again, but she needed to understand the feud ‘… why doesn’t one of the ministers simply come and find you at your shop? It makes no sense.’
‘Because then they’d be admitting that they were wrong to fire my father. Stupid pride, I guess. They know I’m the clockmaker, they just don’t want to ask me directly. They’re hoping that if they pull this stunt enough times then one of these days I’ll jump up and offer to fix their clock for them. But they’ll be waiting a long time.’
As the mood darkened again, Pavel brightened at the sight of two young women emerging from the alley between the two bars. He tried to beckon them towards him, but they glanced quickly around the tables as if looking for someone else and disappeared back into the shadows. Lizzie watched his face crumple. ‘Friends of yours?’ she asked kindly.
‘My cousin, Maria, and her friend Claudia,’ he said, with a noncommittal shrug.
‘Claudia was here?’ Elio, looking quickly around him, was more animated than he had been all afternoon.
‘She was, but she left immediately.’
‘Oh, that hurts, Pavel! After you danced all night together!’
‘Perhaps she’s shy?’ suggested Lizzie, recognizing Pavel’s crestfallen expression and wanting to ease his disappointment.
‘She’s not shy. She is incredibly well connected – or, at least, her father is. She’s used to mixing in governmental circles so I doubt very much she’d be shy around you or me. But Maria’s in charge now. Claudia might not know it but she’s appointed the toughest chaperone in the whole of Vallerosa.’
‘And your cousin might not want you to see more of Claudia?’
Both men laughed at the easy mistake. ‘No, no,’ protested Elio, quickly. ‘Cousin Maria will want Pavel seeing much, much more of Claudia. But it’s out of his hands now. There is a way that these things have to happen and Maria won’t want to leave the romance between her best friend and her favourite cousin to things like mutual attraction. Heavens, no!’
Pavel laughed, acknowledging the truth in this and that, of course, things must now evolve at a pace he couldn’t possibly dictate.
Lizzie called for another round of drinks and the three sat in easy companionship. She did her best to stick to neutral topics of conversation and avoided any mention of the clock or the government contracts. There was a history here that she daren’t unravel, but as the afternoon sun paled in the sky, and the swifts emerged to dip and dance in the cool evening air, their banter skipped comfortably from one subject to another, so mindlessly enjoyable, that she didn’t press the point.
CHAPTER 18
In Which Lizzie Makes a Bedside Visit
The following morning, Lizzie had scheduled a visit to the hospital with Dottore Rossini. She rose, bathed and wandered out to the square but was unable to find something that resembled breakfast. Eventually she went to Dario’s bar, the decision made for her by the closed shutters on Piper’s door. Dario was busily sweeping around the chairs and tables and, despite the lack of obvious competition, ignored her approach, trying instead to look nonchalant. He was holding his breath, nonetheless, and only exhaled as she stepped up and motioned towards a chair.
‘Do you mind? Is it too early? It’s just that I’m rather hungry and can’t seem to find anywhere for breakfast. Do you serve breakfast? I don’t need much – a bit of bread and jam would be fine. Or a pastry …’ The idea of a pastry lingered in the air between them while Dario recomposed his face. He beamed his response.
‘Bread and jam? Of course! It is breakfast time. What else would you do for breakfast than come to my bar to eat bread and jam and to drink tea? Yes, yes, bread and jam. Certainly. And tomorrow, if you’re here at the same time, there will most certainly be pastries!’ He announced the last promise with a flourish of his arm that conjured high stacks of pastries and sweet breads studded with nuts and dripping with honey. That was not his to promise yet, but he had managed, in one deft movement, to buy himself twenty-four hours to deliver pastries and he had arranged for her to return to his bar at the same time tomorrow. For the moment, however, he had to busy himself with his first ever breakfast guest. He dashed up to his quarters, rummaged around in his fridge, cut a small piece of butter, wiped a knife on his apron, balanced several jams of dubious content on a tray and delivered it to Lizzie’s table. He then rushed up the alley in the direction of the bakery.
‘Lanfranco! Lanfranco! I need bread for breakfast!’ Dario yelled breathlessly, as he barged past the empty counter into the warmth of the kitchens beyond.
Lanfranco, the dough-faced baker, was rinsing his hands under a tap and shrugged, barely turning to acknowledge the intruder. ‘Well, it’s late! It’s almost eight o’clock and I don’t keep my doors open all day, you know.’
‘But it’s urgent! I need the finest bread quickly.’ He scanned the empty wooden trays and feasted his eyes on two remaining ciabatta. He reached over and grabbed them both, smelling each in turn, then discarding the poorer example. ‘I will come back later today and we must make an arrangement, an exclusive arrangement, about bread,’ he whispered.
Lanfranco sighed heavily, his big sad eyes suggesting that this was perhaps the worst news he had heard for a very long time. ‘Bread, yes, I suppose that is what I do, so that is certainly what I must arrange for you. I will look forward to hearing the details of your proposal later on.’ He sighed again.
‘And pastries,’ Dario added, whispering directly into Lanfranco’s ear.
Lanfranco froze. His shoulders stiffened and, though the tap continued to run, he stopped rubbing his hands under the water but chose instead to stare into the middle distance. That word had not been spoken in his bakery for many a year. ‘Pastries, you say? You want pastries?’ Immediately his thoughts turned to the sweet treats that so often invaded his dreams at night. Recipes danced in front of his eyes, interspersed with snippets of received wisdom that concerned the plumping of raisins, the crisping and layering of the finest filo, the melting of butter, the glazes of syrup and honey. Fearful that the words he had heard just a moment ago were the delusion of a sad old baker, he turned slowly to greet the man who had delivered the mouthwatering mirage. But Dario was already hurtling back to his bar to slice the loaf and arrange it in a basket. This he presented to Lizzie with another flourish.
‘Bread, Madame, to go with your butter and jam. And you tell me what else your heart desires each day for breakfast and your wish shall be my command.’ He retired to the bar to prepare the tea while Lizzie experimented with one jam after another, smiling to herself at Dario’s exuberance. None of the jams looked wonderful – one was even covered with a thin layer of mould, but she was able to peel this away with the waxed paper disc that was there to protect the jam beneath. And, to her delight, each was uniquely delicious, tasting of the warmest summers, the freshest autumn breezes and the promises that the passing of winter could hold. Spreading them liberally in turn, she ploughed her way through the bread basket and had finished most of the loaf by the time Dottore Rossini had arrived to escort her on her tour.
Better still, Dario was able to remove all trace of Lizzie’s visit before Piper had even unlocked his doors for the day. ‘What a triumph!’ he marvelled, as he washed the dishes. ‘This morning I have cornered t
he breakfast market in Vallerosa and by tomorrow I will have created such a vast chasm of difference between myself and my closest rival that no amount of pastry will ever allow him to catch up! He might well be using paper doilies, but who is it that has the pastry market wrapped up? Oh, yes, oh, yes! That will wipe the lime-stinking smile off your face!’ With that, he went to visit the baker, who had remained motionless in front of the sink, now eyeing the empty wooden trays stacked up against the wall and imagining them brimming with sweet morsels.
Dario surprised them both by spinning the baker around to face him and planting a big fat kiss on Lanfranco’s lips.
Meanwhile, Lizzie and Dottore Rossini were beginning their tour by climbing slowly up to the north-west quadrant, arriving eventually at the big square building that provided all the medical care for the entire population of Vallerosa. The hospital was housed in a beautiful solid building, built of the ubiquitous red stone. The shutters were painted an unusual shade of green, which matched perfectly the corrosion of the copper gutters and the moss-strewn roof tiles. Inside, it was light and airy, with windows thrown open to welcome a breeze that swept through from north to south, casting out the germ-strewn air and replacing it with a cleaner, fresher variety.
Lizzie and the doctor washed their hands before beginning the tour. They set off at a leisurely amble, heading up the grand marble staircase to visit the wards. As they ascended their footsteps rang out, echoing into the hall beneath them. The doctor spoke softly to Lizzie and she had to strain to hear him.
‘I have studied all my life for this job. Elementary, primary, secondary and tertiary education, followed by a degree, a post-graduate degree, a PhD and two specialist degrees to qualify for surgery and for cancer care. My father before me had this job. He was a respected physician until his retirement twenty years ago. At that point, I stopped my education and stepped into his shoes. Physically.’ He gestured towards his shoes. ‘These were my father’s. Ironic, I know.’ He smiled. ‘The doctor’s education is extremely important – the textbooks, the demonstrations, the expansion of understanding of medical terms and treatments. I can honestly say, with my hand on my heart, that I am the most accomplished and experienced doctor in the land!’ Lizzie looked for a trace of a smile, but there was none.
He opened the double doors to the first ward where women, young and old, recovered from their ailments. Even to her untrained eyes, Lizzie could tell that the women suffered in varying degrees, from a minor injury borne stoically by a chirpy young mother to the stillness of a dying woman in the far corner. Her sickness was grave, and she had reached the point where she could only swivel her eyes in greeting; moving the rest of her body was just too painful. At either side of her bed sat other women, her family. One was holding her hand while another was fussing around, tidying, sorting and bustling as people bustle when they’re comfortable in their own homes.
‘How are we?’ Dottore Rossini asked, in a gentle tone.
‘We’re good, aren’t we, Mother?’ said the woman holding the dying woman’s hand. ‘We’re doing what you told us to do, just being quiet now.’
The doctor squeezed her shoulder while smiling warmly at his patient. ‘Yes, my dear. Slowing down for a bit of peace and quiet is just the right thing at this stage. You’re doing a wonderful job.’ And he left them to it.
At another bedside a woman was dishing out what looked like stew onto a plate. She sprinkled some chopped herbs on top, then gave it a quick stir.
‘Mmm,’ said Dottore Rossini, appreciatively. ‘It smells delicious. That will put the colour back in your cheeks!’ The patient’s eyes sparkled as the tray was set up in front of her.
‘We don’t have any catering facilities in the hospital,’ the doctor explained. ‘Our patients are served the food that their families are eating at home. They’ll take it in turns to come and eat with their relative at mealtimes. That way, the patients get what they like, with the people they like most. The quickest way to recovery, of that I’m certain.’
‘Well, that makes sense. But is it hygienic, bringing food into a hospital?’ Lizzie wondered. How odd it was for the smell of boar stew to be stronger than that of disinfectant.
‘Well, who is most likely to be careful about ensuring your food is free of germs? Your loved ones, or a caterer you’re never likely to meet in a kitchen that you’re never likely to inspect? Think of it this way. Each meal is prepared to the exact specifications of the patient and served at a time to suit them. Can any of your big London hospitals boast that?’
‘No, I suppose not. Not when you put it like that.’
They went into the men’s ward. Here, Lizzie’s arrival had greater impact than it had had on the female ward. A group of men were gathered around one bed and their game of dominoes was immediately halted by her entrance. To a man they stopped play and examined every inch of their visitor with their eyes.
The doctor laughed. ‘Look at you, Paolo, I do believe some colour is returning to your cheeks. Would that be the effect of the dominoes … or something else?’
The patient coloured further. ‘I feel fine, thank you, much, much better.’ He nodded at Lizzie. ‘I’m sorry if we were rude. We don’t get many women, or, rather, we don’t get many women like you, around here.’
Lizzie dismissed his apology with a wave of her hand. ‘Well, if you tire of dominoes, I’d be happy to come and read to you, if you thought that might aid your recovery.’
A visitor at the sick man’s bedside spluttered, and the others joined in with a big display of nudging and winking. The patient, however, remained focused on Lizzie. He coughed weakly into his hand. ‘Well, thinking about it, that might indeed make me more comfortable.’ He bit his lip, shocked by his own audacity, while his friends stifled their laughter.
One turned to the doctor: ‘Come to think of it, I’m not feeling so well myself. There’s a couple of spare beds over there – perhaps I could have a little lie-down and partake of some of your special treatments, Doctor?’
‘You’re a fool,’ the doctor admonished him. ‘But, nevertheless, you’re very good to your brother. If Miss Holmesworth wishes to come and read to him, I think that would be an excellent idea, but I shall make very sure none of you is here to share in his good fortune.’
He moved on to the next bed where a man lay dozing, his wife knitting beside him and two children playing quietly at her feet.
‘Oh, Doctor, I can’t thank you enough. He’s made a remarkable recovery. We’ve had him up and walking around today – worn him out as you can see. We’ll have him home in no time at all.’ She smiled shyly at the doctor, clearly awed by him.
The doctor and Lizzie continued their rounds, encountering similar scenes of familial comfort as they made their way around the hospital. ‘In the same way that the best food to prescribe is home-cooked, I believe that the best nursing care is given by those who care most for you. Families, this is what they are for. To care for each other.’
The two continued their walk, the doctor proud of the hospital and Lizzie quietly thoughtful. They walked downstairs together, passing busy nurses on the way. ‘So, if the nursing is being done by the families, what are the nurses tasked with?’
‘Strictly speaking, the nursing isn’t done by the families, the caring is. That is not to say our nurses aren’t caring, don’t misunderstand me. Our nurses are trained here, at the hospital, to a very high standard. They administer medication, assist with operations and work alongside the junior doctors. What they are not here to do is to clean, to feed, to wipe up after the patients. Families do that better. And it’s a fair exchange. If you are sick, your family looks after you. If they are sick, you look after them. To bathe a sick person in a bed, surely that is the role of a mother or daughter, son or father. The families bring their own bed linen in because patients, particularly really sick patients, respond better to having familiar things around them. When the linen needs changing, it goes home to be washed.’ The doctor paused for a moment. ‘An
d there is another important benefit, too. When somebody becomes sick within a family, the whole family suffers. They are all contaminated with that same sickness, a sickness of the heart through empathy. Keeping busy is vital in everyone’s recovery. If you know your mother is dying here, do you want to suffer at home while she lies lonely among strangers? Absolutely not. What a ridiculous notion! Your role is to be busy caring, cooking, wiping up after her, holding her hand. And through your busyness you will feel stronger and more useful, so more able to care for her. You follow me?’
Lizzie nodded slowly, her head lowered. She thought of her own grandmother’s slow demise back in a London nursing home. She had been put there because it was the best place, everyone had agreed. But now she was wondering who had made that decision. Her mother had rationalized it before the transition had taken place: ‘I’m just too busy to give her the care she needs,’ she had said, signing the paperwork and grimacing at the vast sums she must commit to that care. But what had her mother been busy doing? Lizzie couldn’t remember. Good works, she supposed. Her committees, her charities, and she was a school governor, depended upon by so many people, strangers all.
The doctor was striding down a long, cool corridor. He pointed through round glass windows at the three operating theatres. Two lay idle, bathed under a cool blue light, with the glint of stainless steel winking at the onlookers. The third was being washed down by a young doctor and nurse who were slowly wiping instruments and laughing together as they worked. Rossini and Lizzie watched them, enchanted by the intimacy of the moment.
‘We have incredible care here. Our junior doctors are very well qualified, and among them we have specialists to cover the broad spectrum of medical requirements. We have an oncologist, cardiologist, two paediatricians, two geriatricians, our own orthopaedist … There is little room for them to be promoted, however, as the structure here doesn’t allow it. For one of them to reach a more senior role, I or one of my fellow doctors must retire, and none of us is ready to hand over yet. I fear for them sometimes, wondering if a better opportunity lies elsewhere, outside our borders, but so far I can ease their frustration by offering them further educational opportunities. We have a generous allowance here for students. Our government is very proud of it – and the beauty of medicine is that it is never fully understood. There is always so much more to learn.
The Museum of Things Left Behind Page 14