“So, do you think you can work with Mal?” Grace asks. “Shall I ask him to come back?”
“I’m gain ta give it a try. I’ve got nothing to lose, so … aye. Do.”
“He’ll be very pleased to hear it. I’ll tell him when I see him tomorrow. I’ll get him to call you and organise an appointment.”
“While ye’re theer, find out where he’s sending the bill will ye?” he says. “I ken it won’t be cheap, but I’m gain ta pay my ain way on this.”
“No need,” Grace says. “Between Mal doing an on the house favour for me and the Centre covering his expenses, it’s all taken care of.”
“I’ll no be owing–”
“I said it’s all taken care of. End of discussion. Okay?”
Colin huffs, “We’ll see about that,” and takes a large bite of his cake. “Why are you still seeing Mal anyway,” he says through it. “I thought you were all better now.”
“I’m getting there,” Grace says. “Close, but no coconut just yet.” She glances at her wristwatch, sighs and picks up her bag and umbrella. “Now, much as I would love to stay and chat some more, I really have to go.”
He gives her his best lost puppy look. “Do you have to?”
“Yes I do.” She kisses him. “I have things to do. Mr Pickles needs to be fed and I have a meeting with some people later this afternoon.”
“Who?”
“I’ll tell you when I have something to tell you.” She pushes her plate and the remains of her cake across to him. “You can finish that if you want.”
He grins greedily. “I want.”
She blows him a kiss from the door and is gone, yet this time, when the mixed feelings of loneliness, anxiety, and the fear she will not return fall over him like a smelly blanket, the light does not go all the way out.
It continues to glow steadily, radiating heat deep inside him and he smiles – a broad, happy smile filled with contentment and hope.
“Colin says he would like it very much if you would agree to be his therapist,” says Grace at her meeting with Malcolm Pettit the next day.
Mal smiles. “I’m very pleased to hear it. I’ll set up a series of sessions.”
“He can’t come here, obviously, so you’re going to have to do house calls.”
“I don’t mind. It’s all in a good cause.”
“Any idea what are you going to do with him?”
“Not yet, but even if I did I can’t discuss it with you, Grace. Patient confidentiality. If he wants to waive that privilege and allow me to discuss his treatment and progress with you, that’s up to him. As yet–” He shrugs.
“Of course. I understand.”
“Suffice to say, as he took the first step and asked for help, that’s a major hurdle overcome in itself. A great start. So long as he continues to want the help and is willing to put in the work, I will do whatever I can to get him back on the road to wellness. It’s no quick fix by any means, though. You both have to be in it for the long haul and be prepared for setbacks and disappointments along the way. Realistically, it could take years.”
“I don’t care how long it takes. Just make him better.”
“I’ll do everything in my power, Grace.”
Grace’s heart, too, swells with hope for the future.
Chapter 44
The first harsh nip of winter is already in the air, the grounds of Pelham Chase coated with a white frost, but the sun is out, the sky is clear and although still chilly enough to make their breath visible, the day is pleasant enough to be taken advantage of, and so a well wrapped up Grace is to be found pushing an equally snugly cocooned Colin’s wheelchair back up the main driveway to the rehabilitation block on the return leg of their walk.
Good food, time outside in the sunshine and fresh air at every available opportunity, and plenty of hard work has brought some colour back to his once sallow face, which has filled out a little, and under his close fitting beanie hat his hair is growing back, although he still has a way to go before he has a full crop of curls.
“The first thing we’ll do when we get you back on your feet is get you some decent trainers,” Grace says, breathing out her own personal fog bank. “And then we’re going to go for a walk. A proper one. Wherever you like, out in the country, round and round the park, up and down the street, anywhere, for miles and miles and miles, and you won’t need to give a single thought to where you step … unless it’s in some doggie doo of course.”
“That’s going to take some time.” Colin pats the tartan mantle covering his thighs. “I’ve only just been fitted for my legs. I’m going to need lots more Physio yet.”
“Another six months tops, Simon says. It will pass in a flash.”
They continue on in silence until they reach a wooden memorial bench, dedicated to an old soldier from Monymusk and his dog, Norman. Grace sits.
“I have something to tell you,” she says.
Colin manoeuvres his chair to face her, regarding her suspiciously with eyes above a nose tinged red with cold.
“Oh aye. Now why do I always get a nasty clammy feeling between ma shoulder blades whenever I hear you say that?”
“Want to hear it or not?”
He stiffens his back as if preparing to take a fist to the gut. “Go oan then.”
She clears her throat. “Remember a little while ago I had a meeting with some people?”
“Aye, but you wouldn’t tell me who with or what about.”
“Well, now I can. It was about you…or more precisely your future here. Simon was there, as was your physical therapist, the occupational therapist, Doctor Henderson and Mal. Lucas appointed me as his proxy because I understand what’s going on better than he does. I have his full authorisation.”
“But not me?”
“No.”
“Well how very cosy,” he says bitterly.
“Shush. We … I didn’t want to tell you about it in case it came to nothing. I didn’t want to get your hopes up only to have them dashed. I only ever want to give you positive news.”
“Because that’s what it says in the book? Don’t upset the man in the wheelchair. Don’t ask his opinion because he’s in no state to have one. His legs are made of tin and plastic so the rest of him is too. Treat him like a child–” Colin’s words come out contemptuous and mocking.
“Stop it!” Grace says sternly. “That’s not what–!”
“And what momentous life changing decisions did you all make on my behalf that I have to follow like a good wee sheep?”
Grace bites down on her lip, moderating her retort, not wanting to start an argument. “There’s no need to be snippy–”
“Me? Snippy? Heaven forfend.” Colin pounds the padded arm of his wheelchair with a gloved fist. “Of course I’m bloody snippy! All and sundry are making decisions about my life, my future, without so much as a by your leave. I think I’ve every right to be snippy, don’t you?!”
Silence.
He stares down the driveway to the road beyond, and the world outside, and then up to the building that has been his home for nearly two years.
“So what did you decide?” he says after a long, drawn out pause.
“That you don’t need to be an inpatient any more,” says Grace. “That you can leave here and move in with me and continue to have your Physio and other treatments as an outpatient.”
“Be yer bidie-in? People will talk.” Colin’s brows pull together, hooding his eyes with a scowl. “You live in a pokey one bedroom flat on the third floor with no lift. How is that even remotely possible? Which idiot came up with–?”
“I did, and I’ve already instructed my estate agent to find me a three bedroom bungalow with access to a garden, and I’m looking into what grants are available for any necessary adaptations.”
Silence.
“Look, Colin, nothing has been decided for definite,” she says. “I can tell her to stop looking and stay where I am. If you don’t want to move, that’s fine. You can stay
here and find your own place when you’re ready. We were just exploring alternatives to help get you back into–”
“Normality?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“Why three bedrooms?”
“One for me, one for you, altered to your own specifications and needs, and one for my workspace. I’ve decided to set up the interior design business again, working from home. I’ve thought long and hard about it and the pros outweigh the cons, so I’ve decided to go for it. There’s definitely a call for it, I’m good at it, I like working for myself, the commute is fairly short, about eight feet all told, and the freedom and the flexibility it will give me will free up more time to spend with you, and to oversee a… venture I’ve set in motion.”
“And there was I thinking I was yer one and only. You got time fer another project, ‘cause this oan’s pretty high maintenance.”
“If you’ll shut up with the sarcasm for a minute and listen, I’ll tell you.”
Colin pulls his mouth into a tight cat’s bum pout.
“Thank you. Now, do you remember the dead man at the Larches?”
Silence.
Grace barely manages to stop herself from rolling her eyes. Give me strength. “You can answer that,” she says.
Colin does. “Fit ‘boot him?”
“I got an email from the police. They’ve identified him at last. His name is … was, Benny Lawson. Ex Marine, like we thought he might be. Served two tours in Iraq. Used to be a regular at the homeless shelter and the soup kitchen, but when he stopped going about two years ago nobody noticed because there was another to take his place, and one man in a raggedy coat and tatty old hat looks much like every other. He just fell off the radar. They did a post mortem but can’t be sure how he died. Whatever it was, he was only fifty-two. Poor bugger.”
“Aye. Shame indeed.”
“And finally putting a name to him set the seal on my plans.” She rummages in a bag slung over the back of Colin’s chair, pulls out an envelope and hands it to him.
Colin’s scowl unfurls. “Fit’s this?”
“Open it and see.”
He opens the envelope and takes out several sheets of paper stapled together.
“That first page is a purchase agreement,” Grace explains. “Signed, sealed and delivered. I always believed I was shown the Larches for a reason. This time next month it will be mine at a knockdown price. The owners practically gave it to me, couldn’t wait to get rid of it. The exact phrase they used was ‘millstone around our necks’. Nobody wanted it because first, it’s such a mess; second, because nobody wants a cemetery in their back garden, and third, nobody but nobody wants to buy a house where a homeless man died and rotted away in one of the bedrooms. Nothing more guaranteed to put them right off. Not me though. I think the house is lovely and it has masses of potential.”
“I’m no seeing the connection.”
“Think back to the lazy days of summer, the day of our picnic,” Grace says. “Remember we saw that poor guy with that vacant look on his face, like he wasn’t really there? The thousand yard stare you called it, damaged inside you said. And then you told me these guys are everywhere, walking the streets, homeless and frightened, dying in lonely neglected houses like poor old Benny. You said yourself they would rather sleep in doorways and on park benches than in a proper home because they are too fearful to be around other people. I want to make a place where they and everyone around them can be out of harm’s way.”
“Still no seein’ it.”
“In plain English - I’m going to convert Larches into a hostel for those who need it. I want to get some of those guys off the street, give them somewhere clean and warm and dry to go, if only temporarily, with bathrooms and kitchens and comfy beds, with access to good food and medical treatment, where they can get help sorting out housing and jobs and benefits. Look at the plans and tell me what you think.”
Adorning the next page is an artist’s impression Grace has cobbled together on her computer of how the finished project might look. The rest are sketched plans of proposed room layouts and external elevations. There is also a breakdown of projected expenses
“I think it’s … ambitious,” Colin says at length.
“I’m going to approach some of the charities to see if they can help, and you’ll have a very important part to play too.”
Colin looks up from the paperwork. “Me?”
“Of course. I’m going to need a lot of help from someone who knows the ins and outs of the military mind, someone who understands what these people need. I need an insider. In short, Captain McLeod, I need you.”
“Now hud oan a mintie–”
“I need you right there with me, guiding me, keeping me on the straight and narrow, helping me to understand without being patronising. I need your expertise, your leadership, your–”
“Forget it! I can’t even brush my ain teeth let alone oversee the conversion of a house or supervise the…what will you call them? Inmates? Customers?”
“Tenants. And you won’t have to be anything more than an adviser, although your name will be on the deeds as part owner… for tax purposes.”
“I’ve nae money fer investing or part owning anything. I’ve nae money full stop. I’ll need my compensation ta live on, and my invalidity pension won’t even scratch–”
“I don’t need your money. I’ll be paying all the bills–”
“I’ll no be a kept man.” His raised chin juts like the prow of a ship. “I have ma pride.”
And don’t I know it. “We can talk about that later, but I have more than enough to make a start,” she says. “And I can make savings here and there through contacts. That’s the beauty of networking. I’ve already got an architect friend working pro bono on a proper set of plans, and while I’m waiting for the council to give me planning permission I’ll be putting in some specialist grant applications and shopping around for trades people and some bargain but good quality fittings.”
Colin sniffs. “Seems like ye’ve already got it all well in hand whether I say yay or nay.”
“Yes, I have. I thought I might change the name of the place too. Lawson House has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
Colin reaches the last page, a scale diagram of the house and grounds – the boundary wall, the gates, the driveway, the location of every tree and shrub, all marked out, and behind the house, a distinct rectangle filled with small crosses. He knows what this is.
“Ye’re keeping the cemetery? Ye’re no having the bodies moved?”
“Of course not,” Grace says. “They are the original residents. They’ve been there a very long time. I wouldn’t dream of uprooting them. The little cemetery will be lovely when it’s all tidied up and the stones cleaned. It will give you something to do, taking care of them, keeping them nice.”
“Our very own garden of stones,” he says wistfully, and she can see what he is thinking about.
“We can go back to ours whenever we want to,” she says. “Just because we will be spending most of our time here together doesn’t mean we have to abandon the garden or your little hut altogether. All we have to do is imagine it, and we’ll be there again.”
“It’s been a while,” he says, tucking the papers back into their envelope. “I miss it.”
“So do I.” Grace shivers. “It’s warmer there.”
A sly glint comes into Colin’s eye. “Fancy a trip, for old time’s sake?”
“Love to.”
“Tonight?”
“Will you light the stove in the hut and make it all cosy?”
“Aye.”
“And make me a cup of tea in that old cracked pot?”
“Aye, and I’ll pick you a whole trugful of strawberries too.”
“And will you cut me a rose, just like you did the first time we met.”
“It will be my pleasure.”
“It’s a date then.” She gets to her feet, and stamps them to get the circulation going aga
in. “You ready to go back inside before it gets too cold?”
“Too late fer that. Ma bat and balls turned blue and dropped off about half an hour ago. Some squirrel’s probably buried ma nuts somewhere already.”
Grace lets the brake off the wheelchair and they resume their walk towards the warmth and light of the centre.
“You want to stay for tea?” Colin asks.
“Depends on what you’re having.”
“I’m dining in tonight, so I chose lamb chops, spuds and veg, followed by apple crumble wi custard. I thought I’d have a go at the cheese plate too.” He slaps his abdomen. “Pack in a bit of protein. Build up the muscle.”
“Good idea. You can’t beat a bit of Stilton.”
They keep up a continual stream of chatter, bantering over the varying merits of individual cheeses, until they get back to his room.
“About that third bedroom,” he says, as she helps him out of his outdoor coat. “I don’t really think we’ll need it, do you? Two should be ample. One for us, one for your bits and bobs … if you don’t mind sharing that is?”
“I don’t mind at all.” She pulls off his hat and kisses his head. “As long as you don’t snore.”
Chapter 45
A handmade notice dangles from the handle of the door to room 28 at Pelham Chase Rehabilitation Centre, STRICTLY PRIVATE - DO NOT DISTURB, marked out in large red letters on a stark white background, the ‘not’ underlined three times, ‘disturb’ followed by two fat exclamation marks for emphasis.
Simon Gibbs, there to collect the used dinner trays, smiles at Grace’s ad hoc handiwork.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, and turns away and strides off down the corridor to see to another patient who has also decided to dine at home tonight.
Inside the room, lit only by the weak light leaking out from over the bathroom door, Grace and Colin are lying comfortably together in the bed, naked under the covers, arms wrapped around each other, deeply asleep.
Far away, in Colin’s hut at the edge of the garden of stones, two others are doing the same.
The flames bobbing behind the glass in the wood burning stove bathe the two people on the cot in a golden glow.
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