Another kiss to his head seals her promise, and dares anyone or anything to get in her way.
Chapter 36
Saturday comes round at last, and Grace is on the bus to Pelham Chase, a picnic basket on her lap and determined hope in her heart, although as she strides up the driveway towards the red brick building, nervousness creeps up on her.
“If you have any problems, ask for me. That’s what Simon said,” she tells herself. “Ask for me, I’m on duty ten until six.”
With this in mind she steps through the automatic sliding doors and towards the reception desk.
“I’m here to see Colin McLeod,” she says confidently to the young woman behind the desk.
“Can I see your visitor’s pass please?”
Grace hands over the laminated card and steels herself for the rejection.
The receptionist examines the card and then introduces it to the flashing red scanner. A few taps on her computer and she holds out the card for Grace to take.
“Thank you, Miss Dove. East Wing. Room 28.”
Grace just looks at the proffered card. “Really? I can go in?”
“Yes. Through the doors–”
“I know where he is, thank you very much.” She takes the card, turns to leave, and then wheels back. “Is Charge Nurse Gibbs around?”
“He’s about somewhere. Do you want to speak to him?”
“I don’t want to bother him if he’s busy, but if you see him, could you give him a message?”
“Certainly.”
“Could you ask him … if he has the time, if he would like to join Colin and me for our picnic lunch?”
“Your … picnic?”
Grace holds up the small wicker hamper. “He’ll understand.”
The receptionist eyes both the hamper and Grace with curiosity. “Sure,” she says, and scribbles the message on a yellow Post-It.
Grace lets herself into Colin’s room, expecting to find him sitting up in bed, nestling in the pile of pillows.
Instead he is by the window, strapped into his chair, head resting on the support, eyes closed. Asleep?
She shrugs off her jacket and drops it and the hamper onto his bed before tiptoeing over and kissing the top of his head.
“Hey sweetie. You having a nap?”
He opens his eyes, blinks and looks up at her. “No, I’m awake,” he says. “Just resting my eyes.”
“I thought you might still be in bed. That’s what you men do when you get sick isn’t it? Claim to have a dose of the ‘man flu’, take to your beds to be waited on hand and foot. Cough, splutter, moan, whine.” She puts the back of her hand to her forehead in a parody of a Victorian maiden with a touch of the vapours. “Oh, poor me, peel me a grape.”
“Pfft. Ye have a heart o’granite. Ye ken they had me oota ma bed and back in the chair first chance they got. Better for ma breathing to be upright, they said. Less chance of developing bronchitis, or worse, pneumonia.”
“Or in your case new-moan-ia. A wise precaution I suppose, even though you weren’t that kind of sick.”
“S’pose not. Just sick in the heid,” he murmurs, clearly referring to his brainstorm and the trashed garden and smashed up greenhouse.
She kisses him again. “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better and back to your old happy-go-lucky self.”
He sighs deeply. “Aye. It’s bein’ sa cheerful that keeps me going. That and a good shag.” He sniffs. “No trouble getting in today, then?”
“None at all. I gave the lady at the desk my shiny new visitor’s card, flash, beep, and Bob’s your proverbial. Cripes who combed your hair? You look like you’ve got an electrocuted weasel on your head. Where’s your comb? We’ll soon put that right.”
Grace opens the drawer of his bedside cabinet and rummages through the contents.
“Ma hair’s fine. Stop being such a fussbucket.”
“If you’re going outside where others can see you, you need to be nice and tidy. You’ve got standards to keep up you know.”
“Outside? I’m no gain–”
“Yes you are. I told you we would if you were well enough and it was a nice day. You are and it is. I brought a picnic … sandwiches and ginger beer and some rather splendid cupcakes from that new place in Union Square. Where the hell is your comb?”
“I canna eat cake ye silly woman. I’ve got this–” He points to the naso-gastric tube snaking up his nose like a long white worm. “–or did ye no notice?”
“Couldn’t fail to could I, grumpy drawers, and yes you can. All you have to do is try.” She holds the comb up triumphantly. “Aha, found it. Now let’s see if we can’t make you look halfway decent.”
She teases his hair with the comb, soon snagging it in the unruly nest of waves and curls.
“Ow!”
“Sorry.”
And again.
“Ye did that on purpose.”
“Did not, but I think it proves my point, don’t you? Get-a-hair-cut.”
“Sod off.”
She giggles and combs more carefully. “I hope you don’t mind, but I asked Simon to join us for lunch,” she says.
Colin stares up at her. “Fit the fuck fer?”
“Language, please! Remember where you are. To help you out of the chair so you can sit on the grass, of course.”
“No chance.”
“Yes, chance. And I’ll need his help to–”
“Feed me? Like a baby?”
“Unless you pull your finger out and do it yourself.” She stops combing and stands back to regard him critically. “That’s better, but not much. I’ll have a word with Simon. See if he can get a barber to make a house call.”
Colin shakes his head, undoing most of her good work. “Pah!”
She folds her arms and scowls at him. “Now that was just childish.”
The catches are tricky, tight security at work again, but a little fiddling and jiggling has the French windows open, admitting a softly warm waft of air and giving them an unobscured view of a beautifully maintained lawned area.
“Breathe deep,” she says, filling her lungs to capacity. “I bet that’s the first fresh air you’ve had in here for weeks. Now let’s see … ” She looks around for a good spot. “By the willow tree looks just about perfect. We need something to sit on.”
She is helping herself to a blanket from the linen cupboard when Simon Gibbs enters the room.
“You wanted to see me?”
She smiles across at him. “Hello Simon. You’re just in time. We are going out. If you can push Colin’s chair, I’ll carry the blanket and the hamper.”
“Out? Hamper? I don’t think –”
Grace cuts him off. “Don’t you start. A bit of fresh air and sunshine will do him a world of good. Won’t it sweetheart?”
Colin’s reply is sullen. “No.”
“Stop sulking,” says Grace. “You’ll enjoy it once you get out there. If you’ll do the honours please, Simon.”
She steps over the sill and outside.
“Crikey, there’s no arguing with her is there, sir?” Gibbs says, letting the brakes off Colin’s chair.
Colin keeps his face straight, eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance, silent.
Grace is waving “Get a move on,” at them from across the lawn, pointing to the willow tree, its long delicate fronds swaying in the breeze, offering rippling shade. A few moments later they are with her.
“Is there any way Colin can sit down here with us?” she asks, unfolding and spreading out the blanket, straightening the edges until they are all even and the corners square.
Gibbs shakes his head. “Not really. He needs to keep his neck and head supported.”
“Okay.” She screws up her eyes and juts her chin. “How about I lean against the tree … like this?” She sits with her back to the tree’s trunk. “And Colin rests against me? I’ll take his weight, and his head can go here … ” She pats her collar bone. “He’s all skin and bone so I’ll hardly fe
el him. You’ll be fine on me, won’t you Colin?”
“Wi ma heid in yer boobies? Aye, I think I can cope wi that?” He grins and winks slyly. “They’ll make a fine pair of cushions.”
“Simon can lift you down, can’t you Simon?” she says. “Big strong lad like yourself.”
Colin says, “He won’t do it.”
“Can’t,” says Gibbs.
Grace: “Why not? He doesn’t weigh more than a sack of straw.”
Colin and Gibbs, in unison: “Health and safety.”
Grace: “Rubbish!”
Gibbs: “Rules are rules, Grace. No single handed lifting.”
“Then get help.”
“Which would first require a meeting with my superior, a risk assessment–”
“Oh for goodness sake!”
“–and a winch.”
“What?”
“Told ye. Re-gu-lay-shuns,” says Colin in an annoyingly melodic way.
“Shut up.” Grace gets to her feet and brushes herself down. “It’s your own fault, you know, Colin. If you would eat properly and get better–”
Their light-hearted bickering continues back and forth, and Gibbs looks on in bewilderment, his eyes flicking between the two participants.
“Okay, you win,” says Grace, her hands on her hips, fingertips almost touching, emphasising her narrowness. “This time you stay in the chair. But next time–”
Her eye is caught by a nurse crossing the lawn towards them, a tray in his hand. “Looks like we’ve got a visitor.”
“Ah,” says Gibbs, turning to see. “Room service.” He takes the tray from the nurse. “Thanks Terry. I’ll take it from here.”
“What’s that?” asks Grace, when Terry has gone.
“Colin’s lunch,” says Gibbs.
On the tray are two oversized opaque syringes and a pair of purple nitrile gloves. Gibbs points to one container.
“This one is a perfectly balanced meal in liquid form – just the right amount of protein, carbohydrates, a little fat, vitamins and minerals,” he says. “And this … ” He indicates the other. “… is just plain water.”
Grace wrinkles her nose. “Looks disgusting, and not very appetising.”
“It’s what’s keeping him alive, Grace. Will you hold the tray while I get it ready?”
She takes the tray while Gibbs puts on the gloves and prepares the syringe to administer Colin his vital nutrition via his naso-gastric tube.
“And you think this is better than steak and chips,” she says to Colin. “What am I going to do when it’s my birthday next month? Liquidise a piece of cake and shove it up your tube?”
“A birthday? How old will you be?”
“A gentleman wouldn’t even ask the question–”
“Judging by the wrinkles, I reckon about … thirty-nine.”
“You can be an obnoxious dick when you want, you know that don’t you?”
He winks at her. “Admit it, you wouldn’t want me any other way.”
No she wouldn’t, but doesn’t say so.
“Ready,” says Gibbs, the syringe now connected to the valve contraption on the end of the naso-gastric tube. He depresses the plunger slowly and evenly. “Usually takes about five minutes to get it all in. Bottoms up.”
“What does it taste like?” Grace asks, four minutes into the operation. “Not as bad as it looks I hope, because it looks foul. No food should be…beige.”
Colin opens his mouth to speak, but Gibbs gets there first.
“He can’t taste anything. It goes straight into his stomach, bypassing his mouth and the taste buds on his tongue.”
“That’s what you think,” says Colin. “Slow down will ye. Yer gain ta fast. Ye’ll give me bloody reflux…again.”
Grace gives Colin an earnest look. “Well then, your choice,” she says. “This muck .. .or a big, fat, bloody steak. What’s it to be?”
“We’re done,” says Gibbs, and disengages the feeding syringe from the tube. “Should see him through until tea time. I’ll just give him some water. Don’t want him getting dehydrated.”
“Doesn’t stop ma mouth feeling like a dog’s blanket though,” says Colin, “do ye think I could wet my whistle with a drop of that ginger beer instead?”
Grace smiles at him. “Of course you can.”
“I want to taste it. I want to … don’t laugh. I want to feel the bubbles on ma tongue.”
“Then you shall. I’m sure Simon can find one of those cups with a spout on, can’t you Simon? Like the one Granny used when she had her stroke?”
Gibbs has the water syringe in his hand ready to attach it to the tube’s valve. “Sorry … what?”
“A cup with a spout. Can you find one?”
“What for?”
“So that Colin can have a drink of ginger beer.”
“Ginger beer? I don’t think he should –”
“Why not? A little taste won’t do him any harm will it?”
“He could have trouble swallowing. He might choke.”
She turns back to Colin. “Do you have trouble swallowing?”
A shrug.
And back to Gibbs. “There you go then. Simon, your finest spouted mug if you please.”
Gibbs places the syringe of water back on the tray, snaps off his gloves and takes the tray from her.
“Erm … yes … sure. Back in a mo.”
They watch him stride across the lawn and go back inside, returning moments later with a white plastic beaker, one half of its lid shaped to form an integral drinking tube.
“This what you want?”
“Ideal.”
Grace takes the beaker from him, half fills it with the fiery ginger flavoured liquid and replaces the cap. She offers the tube to Colin’s lips and then remembers what happened to her when she took the water too fast when she came round in HDU, how sick she felt when the cold liquid hit her empty stomach.
Colin’s stomach isn’t empty, but an unexpected inrush of bright orange fizzy sugar water might have the same effect and she doesn’t want him to throw up the nutritional supplement. She suspects it might be much like a baby throwing up a part digested milk feed – cloying, malodorous and very unpleasant for everyone concerned.
“Just let a few drops fall on your tongue to warn your stomach it’s coming, and then take a few gentle sips,” she says. “Don’t guzzle or you’ll be sick.”
If she had chanced to look over her shoulder at the observing Gibbs, she would have seen his mouth fall open as he sees first Colin’s loose lips close around the spout, and then his throat move as he swallows his first tentative drops of the tangy fluid.
When Colin has had enough and Grace removes the tube, half the liquid is gone.
She tenderly wipes Colin’s mouth with a tissue. “There you go. That was nice wasn’t it? And no trouble swallowing. Feeling okay? Not sick.”
“No.”
She leans close to whisper in his ear. “So how about a little taste of the cake to go with it? Want to risk it?”
“Why not?”
“Why not indeed? Who doesn’t like cupcakes? Help yourself, Simon. There’s one for you too.”
She takes a cake from the picnic hamper, releases it from its protective package and dips her little finger into the yellow frosting, picking up a small blob.
“Open wide.”
She eases the sweet teaser between Colin’s lips and into his mouth, while Gibbs, desperate to intervene yet frozen by astonishment simply stares as, with the tiniest of movements, Colin sucks the confectionery from Grace’s finger.
“More,” he says.
She places another blob of frosting in his mouth. “A sweet reminder of what you’re missing. Again?”
“Please.”
Three more times she repeats the action, creating a substantial dent in the golden butter cream.
A shrill electronic peeping emanates from Gibbs’ breast pocket. Captivated by Grace and Colin’s interaction, he does not notice it.
�
��Your pocket is singing,” says Grace, breaking the spell.
He starts. “What?”
“Your pager.”
“Oh.” He snatches the device from his pocket, shuts off the beeping and pulls a face as he reads the little screen. “I’m wanted. Another patient. I’ve got to go.” He stuffs the pager into his pocket. “Grace … can I have a word.”
“Sure.”
“In private.”
Although it is not necessary, he nonetheless leads Grace out of Colin’s earshot.
“What’s up?” she asks.
Gibbs presses a finger to his forehead and begins to rub a tight circle. “When you’re done here, before you go, I want to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“I think you know.” He glances over at Colin. “It’s important, so when you’re finished visiting, come find me in the Duty Room. If I’m not there, wait for me. Do NOT go without talking to me first, understand?”
“’Kay.”
“I’ll let you have another half an hour with him and then send someone to help you get Colin back inside.”
He turns and walks swiftly back to the building and through the open French windows of Room 28.
“That looked all gey hush hush,” says Colin, when Grace returns to him.
“He wants to have a word with me before I go,” she says, picking the blanket from the grass, giving it a shake and draping it over Colin’s legs.
“Fit ‘boot?”
“Didn’t say, but I think he was a bit annoyed that I gave you ginger beer and cake, and you preferred it over his liquid pap.”
She fits the plates and other bits and pieces, along with the left over food, back into the picnic basket, holding back the cupcake.
“There’s still a bit of frosting left. Want some more?”
“Aye, why not.”
“Help yourself then. You’re not a baby. I shouldn’t have to feed you.”
“Ye know I canna.”
“Try.”
She holds the cake steady as a deep frown of concentration creases his brow, drawing his eyebrows almost into one. He grunts with effort, and in his lap one of the curled hands twitches. A weak but definite movement.
In The Garden Of Stones Page 25