Simon slept. He dreamt that Mark and Ben were children. He dreamt that Annette had visited him, holding her boys’ hands. She asked him if they’d been any trouble. He’d been about to speak when a voice said, ‘Simon. Simon? Come on now…Dear oh dear, this is no good at all! Getting all upset!’
The black nurse smiled at him. She said, ‘Do you remember where you are?’
He wiped his eyes with his fingers. ‘Yes. I’m not senile.’
‘No, but sometimes people get confused after a heart attack.’
‘No, they don’t. Don’t make excuses.’
‘All right. I need to do some checks on you. See how you’re going along.’
When she’d finished she said, ‘So you’re Mr Walker’s father, eh? I bet you’re proud of him and his brother – such handsome boys!’
‘Boys!’
She laughed. ‘Oh they’re boys to me! I could be their mother.’
‘You’re too young.’
‘Flattery will get you everywhere!’
He squinted at her, wanting to see her better. ‘How old are you?’
‘Now what kind of question is that?’ She leaned close to him. In a stage whisper she said, ‘Fifty-four. Now look surprised.’
‘Too young. Annette would have been sixty-one this year.’
‘When did she pass away?’
He pretended not to hear. ‘Am I to be fed?’
‘You hungry? I’ll go and see what I can rustle up.’
Alone, he thought about Iain, who had been his friend for almost forty years, and had become as he imagined a brother might be, brothers who’d had the right start of course, who had been ordinarily loved.
He remembered Iain saying, ‘You must be out of your mind! Simon – do you realise how damaged those children are? Especially Mark! Think about Joy – it’s Joy who will have all the responsibility, all the heartbreak of it. My God, I can’t believe you’re even considering such madness!’
Iain, dressed in shorts and turning sausages on a barbecue while his wife Sarah wafted in and out of their glass and steel house with beers for their son’s university friends. Iain, whose daughter held her baby and laughed as her husband kicked a ball about on the lawn, calling out goal! as he tackled his brother-in-law. Iain, who had all this, cursed as he bit into a too-hot sausage and frowned at him. ‘Simon, have you even talked about this with Joy? Don’t you think that after all she’s been through –’
‘Don’t lecture me on what my wife has been through!’
‘Perhaps you should be lectured! Perhaps you should have your head examined!’
‘Those little boys need me, Iain.’
‘They need specialist care – not well-intentioned middle-aged surgeons who have never had children and are too wrecked by guilt to think straight!’ Impatiently he added, ‘I’m sorry. But that’s the truth.’
Sarah came over in her long, floaty dress printed with abstract flowers. She said, ‘I’m so sorry Joy didn’t feel well enough to be here.’
Iain said sharply, ‘Tell Sarah what you’re thinking of. She’ll tell you the same as me.’
But Sarah had listened to him in her kitchen with its window looking out over the youngsters on the lawn and said, ‘All children need loving homes.’
Simon touched the monitor pads on his chest. When the pains came Mark had behaved well – he had to give him that. He didn’t panic, didn’t fuss. He carried him to his bed, where the sheets were still warm from his body, and laid him down, reassuring him, his voice calm and steady. He remembered thinking how strong this man was, and being surprised. It wasn’t so long ago that he carried Mark in his arms, a frail child, so timid it was hard not to be repelled because timidity had always discomforted him. To his shame, Simon was afraid of mice, of creatures that scuttled away.
Mark had taken his mobile phone from the bedside table and called an ambulance. Then he’d gone downstairs and fetched Iain. If he had to die in front of any one he was glad that it was Iain. Iain was used to death, he would comfort Mark. But Iain had looked afraid and he remembered that, just as Mark was older, Iain was too, and that death had regained its potency for him. And so he had tried to smile at his friend and say, ‘I’m all right. Mark is fussing.’
And the chatty young ambulance man had said, ‘You’re both doctors! Well – I can’t be telling you two anything, can I?’
And the pain was worse than he remembered any pain before. And he couldn’t help telling Iain he was scared when Mark went downstairs to show the ambulance crew in. Later, as they carried him to the ambulance with its lights casting alarming shadows on the road, Mark called Ben, although he’d told him not to, what would be the point? ‘The point is he’s your son,’ Iain had said.
On Mark’s eighteenth birthday, Iain had given him a first edition of some book of poetry or other. He remembered that Mark could hardly bring himself to look at it, that Joy had to remind him to thank Iain. Which he did, of course, in that terrible, stilted way he had when he was embarrassed. Mark and Iain had never got on, and he understood why. Besides, Iain always felt uncomfortable around such introverted people.
On Mark’s eighth birthday, watching the other children run around as Mark sat alone and ignored, Iain had said, ‘Do you think he may be autistic?’
Simon wondered where that black nurse had got to. She had smelt of Camay soap and it had reminded him of Joy: Joy tucked up in bed after her bath, a novel open on her lap, the news half-listened to on the clock-radio. And once, during the Falklands war, listening to the announcement that the Sir Galahad had been sunk, she had said, ‘Oh Lord, Simon. I can’t stand it! How could that dreadful woman start another war and put one of our sons in such danger?’ Our sons. Even after so many years it had still touched him to hear her say that. Despite his worry over Mark, despite the anger he had still felt over his chosen career, he was moved. There was even a tiny spark of pride when he thought of Mark in his officer’s uniform; he had been a soldier, too, and for once he felt he understood Mark a little.
In the corridor outside a nurse laughed loudly, was still laughing over her shoulder as she pushed the door open and came in. She said, ‘Here we are. Breakfast!’ She’d gone again before he could thank her. He struggled to sit up. He removed the steel cloche covering the plate; the little room began to fill with the smell of bacon and sausage that had stood too long under heat lamps. He placed the cloche back. He drank the cup of tea she’d brought. He wondered if Ben would bring Nathan to see him.
Ben had said, ‘You don’t disapprove, do you Dad?’
They had been watching Kitty and her bridesmaids have their photograph taken outside the quaint little church where Ben had chosen to be re-married. There had been a forced lightness in Ben’s voice that only served to emphasize his desperation for his blessing. He had turned from the pretty picture his new daughter-in-law made to smile at him. ‘She’s lovely. I wish you a long and happy life together.’
Kitty was just a child. Ben shouldn’t have married a child like Kitty. He blamed himself, sometimes, for making too many allowances for his sons.
Here we go in loops and circles: blame, guilt, blame, guilt. Exhausting. The nurses had taken his leg off when he arrived, without comment of course. Such an ancient wound, the skin all patched round the stump. The surgeon who had amputated had been a major. Major Harold Greenbeck. Tough as a terrier. ‘Soon have you running about again,’ Major Harold Greenbeck barked from the end of his bed. ‘ As long as the war is over by the time I’m doing the running,’ he’d said under his breath. That’s all he wanted, the war over and Grace naked in his arms in their bed in their little flat near London’s St Thomas’s Hospital.
He should sleep; sleep was a good cure. But he thought of the nightmare the nurse had woken him from and was scared to close his eyes. He never thought of Annette any more, except occasionally when she appeared in some fleeting expression of Mark’s. He hadn’t had the dream for years – odd how it hadn’t changed, how it had remained preserved
in his brain like a corpse kept on ice. Annette had been such a pretty child, a child like Kitty. He hoped Mark would keep away from Kitty. He hoped he would keep away from Kitty and not behave as he had with Susan.
Susan and Ben married in Chelsea Registry Office. Susan wore a white trouser suit and carried orchids. She had pinned some of the purple flowers in her hair too, her long blonde hair that fell around her shoulders and was lustrous and heavy and caught the sunlight that played on the Chelsea Registry Office steps. Ben, standing on the steps beside her, looked so proud, but elated, too, as though he had won a prize. A big prize, the lottery jackpot. A trophy wife, Simon had thought, although Susan had a career; Susan loved work and London. Susan was clever and bright and marvellously funny; she made jokes; she changed his opinion of women; he thought Ben had met his match at last. He thought Mark hated her on sight.
Susan teased Mark. She teased him most about his writing. Gentle teasing, that no one else would have minded. She went out of her way to introduce him to her friends as a novelist, that eyebrow-raised, mock awe in her voice. But Mark was so bad at being teased. His shyness hardened into superciliousness and he couldn’t see how this set him apart and made others think he was not quite normal.
And one day he had visited Mark, a surprise visit, a whim. And Mark had begged him to understand as Susan dressed hastily in his bedroom. ‘What is there to understand?’ He remembered asking, and it seemed a silly question now, or at least one that Mark couldn’t answer, except to say he loved her. Susan had come out then, and she must have heard Mark’s declaration, but she wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t look at either of them, just snatched up her coat and bag and left, an ordinary adulteress who had been found out. He knew then that love had nothing to do with it, not as far as she was concerned.
Simon closed his eyes. He thought he would call the nurse and ask her for something to help him sleep. His father used to sing to him, lying on the bed beside him singing Nelly Gray, which was the saddest song in the whole world and about death. He was older than his father was when he died. Strange to think that if they met in heaven he would see a young man of sixty-two.
Mark had said, ‘I always thought she imagined I was some kind of idiot-savant…but she didn’t – it was just her way of hiding how she felt –’
They had been standing in the Natural History Museum. There must have been something Mark had wanted to see there, something he was researching. A dinosaur skeleton loomed above them. Simon remembered how helpless he had felt, adrift. This tall, elegant, beautiful man at his side made him feel as if he knew nothing but bones. All he could do was listen and feel dull with fear.
Mark said, ‘Neither of us meant for it to happen. I swear, Dad.’
‘It must stop. Now.’
Mark had bowed his head, that familiar shame. ‘I’ve stopped it. As soon as you found out.’
‘You stopped it because of me? Of what I might think? Mark – what if I hadn’t walked in on you both? Would you have carried on? Don’t you have any regard for your brother in this? My God, Mark – I despair of you!’
‘So?’ He’d looked at him sullenly. ‘Haven’t you always?’
The nurse came back. Her skin was beautiful, ebony. He and she were two opposite ends of the human spectrum. He felt like a poor pale ghost beside her.
‘Simon,’ she said, ‘your son is on the telephone asking if there’s anything you need that he can bring this afternoon.’
‘Which son? Mark?’
‘Yes, my love, Mark. What shall I say? What would you like?’
To be left alone, he thought. He smiled at her. ‘Chocolate,’ he said.
Chapter 15
Kitty heard Ben’s car and went out on to the drive to greet him. On her shoulder Nathan drooled, his gums clamped on the Peter Rabbit teething ring that had been chilling in the fridge. She watched anxiously as Ben got out of the car and took his jacket from the back seat. Slamming the rear door he looked up and smiled at her wearily.
‘It’s all right. He’s fine.’
‘He’s all right?’
Ben edged past her into the house. He walked through to the kitchen, tossing his jacket down on a chair before filling the kettle.
Kitty followed him. ‘Was it a heart attack?’
‘Yes. But he’s doing OK now. Out of danger.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Yes. A relief.’
‘Shall I make you some breakfast?’
‘No. I’m not hungry, thanks. I just want a decent cup of tea.’ Glancing at her while taking the tea caddy from the cupboard he said, ‘Did you manage to get any sleep after I’d gone?’
‘Yes. He’s been good.’
‘Makes a change, eh?’ He took Nathan from her and held him at arm’s length. ‘Well, young man, let’s have a look at you. All present and correct?’ He held him closer and kissed his head. Nathan grinned up at his father, giggled as he tickled him. The teething ring fell to the floor and Ben crouched to retrieve it. Looking up at her he said, ‘Dad wants me to take Nath to see him tonight.’
‘Oh. OK.’
‘You don’t sound too sure? I thought the three of us would go.’
‘No – that’s fine. Of course.’
‘I could take him on my own, if you like.’
‘That would look wrong.’
‘Yes. It would.’ Holding Nathan against his shoulder he turned away to make his tea. Casually he said, ‘Steven was there – working, of course. I saw him talking to Mark in the corridor outside Dad’s room. Quite cosy, the two of them.’ He jiggled Nathan up and down as he began to squirm. ‘All right, sweetheart, Daddy’s nearly done here and then we can sit down. Shall we watch Bob The Builder or read Teddy Where’s Teddy again? You decide. Daddy’s at your command today.’
‘Aren’t you going to the hospital?’
He frowned at her in surprise. ‘I’ve been up all night, Kit – I thought my father was about to die – do you really think I’d be any use to anyone?’
‘I meant don’t you want to be with your Dad.’
He sighed. ‘Sorry. Sorry – forgive me, I’m tired.’
‘Maybe you should go to bed.’
‘Later. Maybe when Nath has his nap.’ He held out his hand to her. ‘Come here.’
She went to him and he put his free arm around her, pulling her close. He kissed the top of her head, inhaling. He’d told her once that he loved the smell of her hair, that if he could carry its scent with him he would and it would make him feel that everything was right with the world. It had been months since he’d said anything like that, long before Nathan was born. Sometimes it seemed that their short romance had ended the day she told him she was pregnant.
He smelt faintly of sweat beneath the clean, soapy smell of the detergent she washed his shirts in. She felt his arm tighten around her and she leaned against him, her head against his chest. He was a head taller than she was; he used to say they were the right height for each other. They stood, still and quiet, waiting for the tea to brew. At last he said, ‘We could go to bed now, I suppose.’ He looked down and kissed her upturned face. ‘I love you,’ he said softly. ‘You and Nath. I can’t tell you how much.’
She nodded. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’
The first time they’d made love, afterwards as she lay in his arms, she’d steeled herself to ask him, ‘You don’t think any less of me now, do you?’
He’d lifted his head to look down at her, almost dislodging her head from his chest in his surprise. He’d laughed. ‘Any less of you? Sweetheart, I don’t think I ever want to let you out of this bed again. How could I think less of you?’ He grinned at her, kissing her as he cupped her face with his hand. ‘You’re wonderful.’ After a moment he said, ‘Do you think any less of me?’
‘No!’
‘I mean now you’ve seen me naked.’
She laughed. ‘No! You’re wonderful.’
‘I’m old.’
‘No. Don’t say that.’
‘
Old enough to be your father. I remember the Beatles releasing Hey Jude.’
‘I don’t know what year that was. It doesn’t mean anything to me.’
‘Exactly!’
‘I bet you were only a baby, though. I bet you don’t really remember.’
He said, ‘Yes, I do,’ and his voice was sad and wistful and she’d looked up at him anxiously.
He’d smiled. ‘It’s all right. I was just remembering. I was about five or six. It was played all the time on the radio.’ Hugging her closer, he said, ‘Why did you ask me that silly question?’
‘Sometimes men go off you when you go to bed with them too soon.’
‘Do they? You must know some very old-fashioned men.’
‘Lads, then.’
‘Oh, I see.’ He nodded sagely. ‘Well, I’m no lad.’
Feeling stupid she’d said, ‘I’ve made myself sound like a kid. I shouldn’t have asked you, should I? It’s not as if I’ve jumped into bed with lots of people –’
‘People?’ He laughed. ‘Darling, I think we should drop it, don’t you? Don’t talk yourself into a deeper hole.’
‘Don’t patronise me!’
He pressed his hand to her mouth. ‘Be quiet, now. Grown-ups don’t talk so much after sex.’ Drawing his hand away slowly he said, ‘I don’t care about the past, Kitty. Let’s make a pact, eh? I won’t talk about my ex-lovers and you won’t talk about yours.’
He meant he wouldn’t talk about his first wife, of course, that beautiful clever blonde, a fellow doctor, a woman who knew the insides of other women. She wondered if Susan’s knowledge had excited him, if it added some extra thrill to the sex they had. Too often she imagined Ben and Susan in bed together, and their sex was always fantastic and Susan was never anything less than panting for him. Susan was never bleeding; there was never milk leaking from her breasts; she was never a bit smelly from being too exhausted to shower. Susan would never lie flat on her back as he made love to her because she couldn’t be bothered to pretend even to save his ego. Susan had never listened out for her baby’s cries as her husband climaxed. Susan had never wanted children, he had told her that much. ‘And neither did I,’ he smiled, ‘until I met you.’
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