Colin snorts.
“He’s frightened, Colin. He’s scared that if he sees you he’ll say the wrong thing and upset you, or get upset himself and embarrass you both. He’s totally overwhelmed with what’s happened. It’s totally out of his sphere of understanding and the best way he’s found to deal with it is to deny it. Sound familiar?”
Colin’s chin juts defiantly. Bang. Another nail hit.
“He said to say that he’s sorry and that he loves you,” she says.
“Bah!”
“He was crying when he said it.”
“Crocodile tears.”
“God’s toenails, you’re a cruel man McLeod.” She scoots off the cot, throwing the sewing onto the blanket. “He’s your brother. Your own flesh and blood.” She pulls open the hut door. “At least you have one to care about you.”
The door slams, and she is gone.
For a full ten minutes Colin sits at the table and sulks, brooding over Grace’s betrayal, straightening out the creased pages of his novel. When he finally decides that she hasn’t done any harm, that her heart, as always, is in the right place, he closes the book, lurches to his feet, and goes in search of her.
He finds her sitting on the stone bench in the rose garden and creaks down to sit beside her.
“I’m sorry,” he says, wringing his tatty cap in his hands. “I know you meant well.”
Silence.
“If ye don’t want ta come and see me now, here or at the centre, I understand. I don’t blame you fer thinking me a … a cad.”
A reluctant smile crawls across Grace’s face. “Cad? Who are you, Terry-Thomas? Nobody under seventy says cad anymore, you daft bugger. How old are you?”
“Old enough to ken better, young enough to no give a fuck.”
She laughs out loud. “Silly sod.” A pause. “Lucas asked me if I was one of your fancy women.” She gives him a nudge in the ribs with her elbow. “You popular then?”
Colin looks to his fingernails. “I’ve had ma moments,” he says modestly. “It’s the uniform and rumours of big… guns. Attracts ‘em like flies round a dog turd. They’ve read stories in the papers and seen things on the news, and they get turned on by the danger factor. And then of course, there’s ma medal ribbons and the pips on ma shoulders when I’m all dressed up, which fer some strange reason they seem to equate that with being loaded wi cash too. But then, when they realise I’m no a jet setting Superman wi balls of steel and a cock like a jackhammer, but an ordinary bloke with sweaty feet, prickly heat and a crappy ten year old Ford Focus, they bugger off to get their jollies elsewhere.”
“What are the medals for? Bravery? Gallantry?”
“Nothing quite sa grand. Jest operational service medals and good conduct awards fer being a good boy and eatin’ all ma greens.”
“Have you never thought of getting married and settling down? Having children?”
“Once or twice,” he says. “But if I’m honest, I’m no’ big on families, and it wouldn’t be fair dragging a wife and kids around the globe from posting to posting, or leaving them behind for months at a time, worrying about what’s going on at home while I’m away, and never certain when or even if I’m ever going to get home again.” Sniff. “Nah. I’m better off on my oan.”
“Me too.”
Colin turns his cap over in his hands. “What you said about me and Lucas, that at least I have a brother to care about me? Did something happen to yours?”
Grace sits up straight, hands gripping the edges of the slab, head tilted to one side, face turned to the sun.
“No, I never had one. I’m an only child.” She sighs wistfully. “I’ve always had a romantic notion that every girl should have an older brother to look out for her, someone big and strong and noble who would slay the metaphorical dragon, who would stand to and defend her honour from a black caped moustache-twirling Dick Dastardly, would keep the base malefactors at bay with his steely presence. I’ve never had any particular male presence in my upbringing and always wondered if it would have made any difference.”
“Fit ‘boot yer faither?”
“He was long gone before I was even born. Don’t even know his name. My mum brought me up on her own as best she could, when she wasn’t in hospital being stabilised because her medication stopped working, or because she didn’t bother taking it. It was like living with a firecracker, never knowing when it was going to blow up in your face, and when it did there was no-one to turn to. No balance. It was really hard work. No wonder I turned out the way I did.”
“You said was. Is she …”
“No, she’s not dead, she’s in Fraserburgh.”
“Much the same thing,” says Colin with a smile.
“She sent me a letter a few years ago, telling me she’d hooked up with some guy who sold stationery, that they were in love and she was happy and he was really good for her, and that they were moving away to get a fresh start together. She said she didn’t want me always worrying about what was going to happen next, that I should forget about her and get on with my own life. So I did.”
“And now you’re all alone in the world?”
“I have Mr Pickles, and Alec and Den … and you.”
Colin takes her hand. “You will come and see me, won’t you?”
“After all the time and effort I’ve put in to get my visitor’s pass? You try and stop me. I had to have my photo taken. Do you have the slightest idea how much I hate that. All I can say is, you’d better be worth it.”
“I hope so too.” He gives her hand a gentle squeeze. “I can’t wait to see you. You’ll be my first visitor. I’ll get to break my duck at last.”
Chapter 27
The wait to find out whether Grace’s application is successful drags on for another three weeks, until the day she has to sign for delivery of a stiff brown envelope. In it is her visitor’s pass for Pelham Chase Rehabilitation Centre and an information leaflet.
She kisses the pass and skim reads the leaflet, then gathers together the bits and pieces she will need for a trip to Kemnay on the bus the next day.
She shows her pass to the guard at the security booth. He takes it, looks at it, looks at her, hands it back and waves her on.
“Turn left at the top of the drive, glass doors, can’t miss it.”
“I know where to go. Thank you.”
“Hi. I’m here to see Colin McLeod,” she says confidently to the woman behind the desk, another soldier, smart as a pin, frizzy hair the colour of Irn Bru pulled back into a reluctant ponytail, name-tag declaring her to be Private Karen Kelly.
“Can I see your pass please?” says Pte Kelly.
Grace holds out the laminated card with black capital visitor, visitor, visitor picked out in staggered rows across its face, over which are printed her mug shot and personal details.
Pte Kelly takes it and offers its barcode to the magic eye scanner. She taps on her keyboard, studies the screen, a frown of perplexity on her face.
“Something wrong?” asks Grace.
“A moment please.”
The card is introduced to the scanner again.
“I only got the card yesterday, so maybe the computer hasn’t caught up,” Grace says hopefully.
Pte Kelly looks up from the screen. “Yesterday? That would explain it then.”
“Explain what?”
“Why you’re in the system, but I can’t find confirmation of an arranged visit. We usually require at least twenty-four hours notice.”
“A what? I didn’t know I had to. I thought so long as I came during visiting hours–”
“It used to be that way until a few months ago when we changed the system. Improved security measures.”
“Then why didn’t it say so in the information leaflet?”
It probably did, but you couldn’t be bothered to read it properly could you, you daft cow! Grace berates herself.
“I can only assume you must have got one of the old stock,” says Pte Kelly. “They have be
en reprinted with the correct information. I’m sorry.”
“So what do I do now?” Grace says.
“Without an arranged visit–”
“Is there a problem?”
A tall athletic looking man in a navy blue polo shirt and matching track suit bottoms squeezes his way past the receptionist to drop documents into a tray.
“This lady has a pass, but she doesn’t have an arranged visit, and isn’t family,” says Pte Kelly.
“And I’ve come a long way … by bus,” adds Grace, as if the ordeal of using public transport will sway her case.
The man examines Grace’s card. “Who is it you have you come to see?”
“Captain McLeod,” says Pte Kelly, and the man’s eyebrows rise, an action which does not go unnoticed by Grace.
“What’s the matter? Am I in the wrong building?” she says, eyes flitting from one to the other.
The man hands back her pass. “No, but I’m afraid you can’t see him today.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not … convenient.”
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t have an arranged visit.”
“Not my fault. I didn’t know I had to. I explained all that. Can’t you make an exception?”
“Only in case of emergency and only then for next of kin or close family–”
“Who haven’t been able to visit for … personal reasons, but that’s by the by. So I’m here instead, with their permission, on their behalf you might say, and he’s expecting me. He said I would be his first visitor who isn’t medical, Physio or some-such other professional. I’ve just come to chat with him and he’s so looking forward to it, and I don’t want to let him down.”
The nurse is staring at her as if she had just sprouted a second head. “I’m sorry, back up a bit. Did you say Captain McLeod told you he hadn’t had any visitors, and that he’s expecting you?”
“That’s right.”
“And when did he tell you this?”
“Couldn’t say exactly. Time gets a bit muddled. We’ve talked about it off and on; the last time was … day before yesterday.”
“The day before–? In person?”
“Yes … well, sort of.”
The nurse continues to regard her confusedly and he scratches at his brow with his thumb nail. “Miss Dove, I don’t mean to … I mean, I’m sure you think you have the right Captain McLeod, but are you absolutely sure?”
“Why? How many have you got?”
“Describe him to me.”
“Late thirties. Tall-ish. Scots accent that ventures into the unfathomable when he gets cross. Lovely brown eyes. Dark curly hair gone a bit wild and needs a cut. He has a burn scar on his neck, here–” She touches the area on her own neck. “–it goes across his shoulders and all the way down his back, past his waist. Shrapnel scar here–” she touches her right cheek. “And a tattoo on his right arm. Still haven’t worked out what it is and he won’t tell me, so it’s probably something rude.”
The nurse shakes his head, smiling now. “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake Miss Dove. Your description certainly fits someone we have here, but if you say you’ve been talking with him recently it couldn’t possibly be the same man.”
“Why not?”
“Because–”
The glass doors slide apart and admit two women in pale blue nurse uniforms.
The man frowns at them and comes out from behind the desk. “It’s getting crowded in here,” he says. “Let’s go somewhere more private.”
His trainers squeak on the tiled floor as he leads Grace to a door marked ‘Strictly Private’. It opens onto a small cramped room, three of its four walls lined with shelves loaded with folders and files. He puts on the light and lets the door swing closed.
Grace takes hold of his identity badge, tugging its orange lanyard tight around his neck, pulling him forward so she can read the details.
“Charge Nurse Simon Gibbs,” she reads, and lets the badge go. “What’s going on, Charge Nurse Simon Gibbs? Why can’t I see Colin? I already know he’s here, you’ve as good as admitted it, and you wouldn’t be asking all those questions if he weren’t, so why are you hiding him?”
Gibbs tucks his card into his breast pocket. “We’re not–”
“If you’re worried I’m going to get all hysterical and have a fit of the vapours when I see that he’s burned and scarred and has no legs, you can rest assured, I won’t. I know all about his injuries and if I am shocked or upset, I promise not to let it show.”
“It’s for his own protection.”
“Against whom? What is it you think I’m going to do to him?”
“I’ve already said too much by confirming he is here at all. Even talking about him with you is breaching regulations. It could mean my job.”
“And your job means more to you than the comfort and well-being of one of your patients does it? Oh wait, doing what’s best for your patient is your job, isn’t it?”
Gibbs’ mouth opens half an inch, and then snaps shut. There is no answer he can give.
Grace scrubs at her forehead, creasing the fine skin with her fingertips. “For goodness sake.” A pause. “Okay, here’s an idea. If you are breaking the rules by telling me stuff, then don’t. Don’t say another word, just take me to him. Let me visit with him for just a few minutes and then I’ll go away. That’s all I’m asking for, Simon. Nothing more, nothing less. Just a few minutes. What can it hurt?”
Gibbs chews on the inside of his cheek, twisting his mouth, considering his options, pondering which of the lesser of the two evils he should opt for – facing discipline for breaching confidentiality and security by allowing the unknown Grace access to a vulnerable patient, or denying someone in his care a much needed visitor who might do him some good.
“I shall be loyal to my work AND devoted towards the welfare of those committed to my care.” Thank you, Florence Nightingale. Thank you very much.
“Okay, you can see him,” he says at last. “But just for a few minutes.”
“That’s all I’m asking. Thank you very much, Simon. You’re doing the right thing.”
Gibbs harrumphs. “Yeah. Tell that to my disciplinary hearing.” He opens the door. “If you’ll come with me I’ll take you to him.”
They pass through a pair of self closing doors below a sign reading ‘Residents Accommodation – No Unauthorised Access’, and she follows him down a wide carpeted corridor, walls lined with photographs and paintings and other works of art, through a second set of fire doors and down a shorter corridor spurring off to the left, stopping when they come to a slab of pale wood inset with a disc of obscured glass and carrying the brass numbers 28.
“Here we are,” says Gibbs.
A white plastic rectangle attached to the wall beside the door frame has the name Capt. C D McLeod and a number, all marked out in sharp black figures.
Gibbs knocks on the door and pushes the wood against its self closing mechanism just far enough for him to poke his head through.
“Sorry to barge in Captain McLeod, but there’s a visitor for you, sir. A young lady.”
No reply.
He holds the door open, inviting Grace to enter. She hesitates in the doorway before stepping into the room.
It is bright and airy, if a little small, painted in fresh clean magnolia and white, its sparse furnishings reflecting functionality and efficiency rather than comfort.
A good proportion of the room is taken up with a regulation hospital bed, its safety sides let down for ease of access, neatly made up, its mountain of pillows tidily arranged. There is a panel affixed to the wall at the bed’s head housing an array of knobs and buttons and pipework; a bright red emergency call button, an outlet and valve for oxygen and suction, a secure wall cabinet for medicines. Attached to the wall itself is an articulated swing arm at the end of which is a television - internet - telephone combination.
A structure like a miniature monorail crosses the room at c
eiling height, disappearing through a gap in the wall, above a door which does not reach all the way to the ceiling. An en-suite bathroom she assumes, and recently used if the lingering smell of disinfectant overlaid with a zesty lemon air freshener is anything to go by. Smells which are at the same time both cheery and depressing.
There are no personal items on show on the bedside cabinet. No photographs. No flowers. Not even a get well card; only a jug of water, a glass and a box of tissues.
A wheelchair with a high back stands parked at a window overlooking a landscaped garden area, a mess of tousled unruly hair just visible over the padded neck rest entangling the afternoon sunshine leaking through the blinds.
Halfway across the room Grace stops again, doubts lapping at her like waves at a pebble beach.
What if it’s not him? What if I’ve got the wrong man? What if…?
Chapter 28
“Miss Dove?” Gibbs is waiting.
She approaches the chair with trepidation, keeping her eyes on the mop of curly hair. When she gets her first proper look at the man in it, the ripple of doubt becomes a wave strong enough to almost knock her off her feet.
This can’t be her Colin, hers is robust and tanned, full faced with intense brown eyes. This man looks like death warmed over with his thin sallow face, skin the colour of milk pulled tight against the underlying bones as if he’s lost a lot of weight very quickly. A thin rubber tube is taped to his sunken cheek, one end tucked behind his ear and closed with a blue valve like contraption, the other snaking up his right nostril.
Closed purple lids hide eyes sunken into dark swollen shadows, and from one corner of loose pale lips hanging slightly agape, a fine sliver of saliva is escaping. He looks like a young man turned old overnight.
This isn’t him. I’ve made a mistake.
Then she sees the puckered scar running down the side of his neck from behind his left ear and into the collar of his khaki T-shirt, and the crescent shaped mark on his right cheek, and she knows she hasn’t.
What did she expect? Her Colin is an illusion, a projection, an avatar of his real self. The poor creature here in this chair is what the real Colin looks like.
In The Garden Of Stones Page 18