Two kind and caring ambulance women were very soon outside, opening the back doors. They came forward making soothing noises, asking her name, and we all helped my mother inside. She didn’t resist, thank God. Indeed, she looked around, wide-eyed with wonder, as we got her into the brightly lit ambulance, like a child going into Santa’s grotto, I thought. The women sat her down gently in a seat and she complied as she was efficiently strapped in. I asked if I could travel with her, and they said I could. Everything happened so fast, before she had time to question it. And then, as they were about to shut the doors, I turned and saw Dad in the driveway, in his dressing gown. He looked so lost.
‘Hang on a sec.’ I hastened back. As I did so, I saw Mrs Cummings, also in her dressing gown, pop her head over the garden fence. ‘Dad, are you going to be OK?’
‘Anything I can do?’ she called, in a falsetto voice. I hesitated, wondering if actually, yes, maybe a pot of tea, a boiled egg. But my father roared in before I could utter.
‘Absolutely not!’ he boomed. Then he hissed to me: ‘I do not want that bloody woman coming round here.’
‘No, quite right,’ I muttered. ‘No, thank you, though!’ I called back over the fence. I lowered my voice to him. ‘And I’ll ring you from the hospital as soon as I can. But I wouldn’t ring Helena.’ I refrained from adding, ‘yet.’
‘Certainly not. Busy girl. And no need.’
He drew himself up to his full height, and suddenly he was the tall tank commander of yesteryear, going into the desert at the front of his men, standing up in his gun turret, like in the black and white photo in the downstairs loo. He shot Mrs Cummings a glance and I found myself feeling grateful to her for precipitating this change in him. I gave him a quick peck on the cheek and ran back to the ambulance.
Off we went at quite some speed, with blue flashing lights, siren blaring, even jumping traffic lights – the full bollocks, as Imo would say. The journey seemed to daze my mother and she sat there quietly without a word. In fact, I wondered for a moment if Dad were right, if we were overreacting. The minute, however, the ambulance stopped outside the hospital, that terrible rasping cough, together with the green slime, began again. She started to shake violently. After that, I was a mere spectator. The ambulance crew jumped out and ran round to open the doors. We were met by a team of two, one a capable male nurse with a wheelchair. When they’d lifted her into it, off he shot.
‘Should I come in?’ I asked his colleague as we trotted alongside her, down the corridor.
‘Just wait in the waiting room when we get there, please. We need to assess her and do some tests. You’ll know as soon as we have any results.’
I was jogging to keep up with her. She was still shaking and hacking away and looked terrible, what I could see of her, bent double as she almost was now, in the chair. Her tiny frame was heaving with the effort. I felt panicky. Why so small? Surely I’d been feeding her? But she ate so little. Some grey swing doors were approaching and I bent down in front of her, without interrupting the flow of the chair.
‘Mum? Mum – I’m going to be right outside, OK?’ I said loudly. ‘You’re in good hands and I’m right here, all right?’ She looked alarmed and it occurred to me she didn’t recognize me for a moment. ‘Mum, it’s Lucy, OK?’
‘Lucy,’ she repeated and her face cleared a bit with recognition.
The male nurse shot me a sympathetic look. ‘All right, love, we’ll take her now.’
‘Yes, of course.’
And they were gone. I stayed still for a moment as the doors swung shut in my face. Then my shoulders slumped and I turned in defeat. She’d be OK. She’d be absolutely fine. Of course she would. And heavens, she was in the best place. The finest hands. We’d got her here in double quick time.
I got myself a black coffee from the machine and took a seat at the back. It was still early, but already it was noisy with children. Worried parents were trying to calm them. A television above the nurses’ station was showing CBeebies. An old wino was stretched out on the three chairs beside me, fast asleep and snoring. Understanding, suddenly, why that seat had been free, I moved to one at the front. Now I was squashed between an enormous man with breathing difficulties and a small boy who couldn’t stop crying. Actually, I’d stand.
I leaned against the wall in the corner, registering now that I looked a fright. I’d thrown a jumper and coat on, but I was basically in pyjamas and Ugg boots. Although these days it could easily be taken for leisure wear, I realized, looking around at the track-suited crew. Happily my phone was in my coat pocket. I took it out and checked it. No messages – good. No family members I had to reply to and lie to by omission. I wouldn’t reply, I decided, if anything came through from Helena or the children. Could easily just be out of signal. I also held off from ringing Dad. I’d wait until I had something concrete to report, and if it was bad, I’d go home and tell him myself. I shut my eyes. Please God, don’t let it be bad. Please God, don’t let me have to break terrible news to my father.
Finally, some people left and I nipped to a chair. They’d left a copy of The Times behind, so I made myself read it from cover to cover. That was no quick feat, so when I glanced at the clock, an hour had passed and it was mid-morning. The waiting room was thinning out so, confident I’d keep my chair, I approached the desk, behind which sat a team of nurses. They didn’t look up. I cleared my throat, and asked about Mum in an apologetic, British way.
A ginger-haired nurse looked away from her screen and regarded me wearily. ‘Name?’
‘Cecily Hartley.’
She scanned her computer. ‘We’ll let you know.’ She resumed her tapping.
‘Right. Thanks.’
I crept back to my seat. No news is good news, I told myself. If there was anything badly wrong, they’d come and find me. Time ticked by.
‘Lucy?’ I’d been in the far corner of the room, scrabbling around for another newspaper on the plastic coffee table. I glanced up. Dan was standing over me in an old Barbour jacket. He looked kind and concerned.
‘Oh – Dan! Gosh, what a coincidence. What are you doing here?’
‘Mum rang your mother for a chat this morning and got your father. He told her what had happened. I’ve just dropped her off. To sit with him and have some lunch.’
‘Oh, that’s so kind, thank you.’ Dad had been on my mind. ‘He’ll cheer up immeasurably with Nance there.’
‘Exactly. And Mum’s delighted to be in a strong capable role for once. She was heating up soup we brought and telling him it’ll all be fine when I left them. Will it be fine?’
I swallowed hard. ‘Who knows. I mean, she’s eighty-four. It’s an occupational hazard at that age, isn’t it? Death?’ I made myself say it.
He looked at his shoes. Nodded. ‘It is.’ We went to a couple of free seats at the front of the room and sat. ‘Your father said it might be pneumonia.’
‘Possibly, yes. And she’s so frail. I’m not sure I see her recovering easily.’
We sat looking glumly at the floor. I was pleased to see him, though. It was horrid being here alone. Worrying alone. So kind of him to come, and I told him so.
‘Oh no, no trouble. These places are the pits on your own. And Lucy, good that you’re – you know. Facing it.’
I shrugged. ‘Being realistic.’
‘Exactly. When Dad died, my brothers were so taken aback and I thought – surely it must have crossed your minds?’
‘Helena will be like that.’ It occurred to me that Helena would be devastated. She relied on Mum more than she would ever admit, whilst I’d weaned myself off her a bit, with difficulty, for fear of worrying her, at a younger age. ‘Were you close to your father?’
He hesitated. ‘Ish. No, if I’m honest. Not really. But we got on OK. It’s just, I was the eldest, so expectations … you know.’
I managed a smile. ‘Except you’ve done fine?’
‘Sure, but always hoping he approved. And he didn’t always. Milo and Toby had it e
asier, I think.’
‘He’d approve of you now,’ I told him. ‘Looking after Nance.’
He gave a wry smile. ‘Perhaps that’s why I do it. Wondering if he’s watching. Influencing me from beyond the grave.’ My father had said something similar recently to me, about Michael: don’t let it happen. Dan shifted in his seat, a regrouping gesture. ‘But I certainly don’t want to do it forever. I’d like my life back.’
‘Well, you won’t have to,’ I consoled him soberly. ‘As discussed earlier.’
‘Quite.’ He grinned. ‘Sorry, Lucy, shouldn’t really be discussing it. Can’t think why we are.’
‘I can. Much worse to pretend it’s not happening. I find it helps to go to the – you know. Worst outcome.’ I swallowed. Found my mind fleeing from it, nonetheless. ‘My main worry is Dad …’
‘Your dad’s as tough as old boots. Like my mum.’
‘He was … and still is, sometimes. But he’s a softy at heart. He adores her. Plus, I don’t know if I see him in that cottage on his own. With maybe me at Pope’s Farm. God, you’re right, why am I even talking like this!’
His hand closed over mine. ‘It’s shock. And one thing is for sure, if you were at Pope’s Farm, you wouldn’t have to be on your own.’
I wasn’t certain what he meant by that, but then I understood. I felt my eyes widen. Oh. Right. Well … maybe. Or perhaps he was just being complimentary? Saying I was too much of a catch, in a general way, to be on my own? I mean, not right now, obviously, in my pyjamas and coat. But trying to buoy me up? Yes, that was it. So kind. Which he was, I realized, as he went off and came back with a couple of coffees. And if Mum died, I could really do with someone like him. Strong, caring, dependable. So I didn’t have to deal with my grief-stricken, elderly father alone. I’d always known Mum would go first. She was so much frailer. And I also knew that this lengthy wait I was having was because she was struggling in there. Poor darling Mummy. I hoped at least it would be quick. If it was as bad as that. I felt a bit faint.
‘Shouldn’t you ring Helena?’ I was startled. Then I realized he really did fear the worst, and I also remembered this was how Martin, his father, had gone. He obviously knew more than me. Knew it probably would be quick.
‘How long did your father …?’
‘Six hours. From the time they took him in.’
‘Shit.’ I regarded him in horror. ‘I thought we were talking days.’ I scrambled for my phone. He stayed my hand.
‘Listen, every case is different, obviously. Let’s find out more, first. Have you asked at the nurses’ station?’
I nodded, suddenly feeling really quite faint. I put my coffee on the floor, about to spill it. That wasn’t helping either. The caffeine. ‘But they were hopeless. And snappy, too, which is unnecessary.’
He looked at the redhead, who was eating a Curly Wurly. So not that stretched. Dan got up and strode to the counter. I saw him override her excuses and ask to see a doctor. Explained that we’d been here hours; some information, surely? The sulky nurse sighed. Then she picked up the phone.
‘Someone will be with you shortly,’ she told him.
‘Well, if they’re not, I’ll go and find my mother myself,’ Dan told her.
‘Your mother,’ I whispered, as he sat down.
‘Think I got away with it.’
As he crossed his legs I realized that this was what had been missing from my life. Someone who looked after me. Looked out for me. I felt really light-headed now. Dan told me to put my head between my knees, which I did. I fervently hoped I wasn’t going to pass out. Once, when Michael had … anyway. I’d obviously been standing in one position for too long. In the broom cupboard. He’d had to bring me round. He’d looked scared. Perhaps he’d wondered if he’d killed me? Dan had his hand on my back as I leaned forward, which was nice. Comforting. He stroked between my shoulder blades and told me to breathe deeply. I did. Felt better. Was able, at length, to sit up. I gave him a weak smile. He put his arm around my shoulders and gave them a squeeze. I didn’t feel nearly so alone. He left it there as I recovered.
Suddenly the swing doors flew open. A young male doctor, in jeans and a checked shirt, white coat flapping, strode through. He had a stethoscope around his neck. He scanned the waiting room.
‘Mrs Palmer?’
I stood up immediately. ‘Yes?’
He came across and smiled. ‘Well, it’s not often I’m the bearer of good news, but your mother is stabilizing. Looking a bit better already, in fact. She’s suffering from a urinary tract infection, but a drip and antibiotics will sort that out. And the suspected pneumonia was just that, suspected. She has a chest infection, which presents similarly, and will likewise respond to the penicillin. You brought her in just in time. She should make a full recovery.’
I stared at him. Couldn’t speak for a moment. Then: ‘Oh! Oh wow.’ Dazzled, I turned to Dan. ‘Oh, Dan – isn’t that marvellous?’
Dan gave a thin smile but something passed over his eyes. A shadow perhaps. ‘It is. It really is. Wonderful news,’ he said flatly.
Later on, and with the benefit of hindsight, I came to wonder if this moment was pivotal, even if, at the time, I didn’t realize it. Dan had hoped I’d need him, and in that moment, I didn’t. And he knew it.
28
‘What a relief,’ I beamed at the doctor. ‘I cannot thank you enough.’
‘Well, as I say, prompt action on your part, so we caught it. Would you both like to …?’
‘Oh no, she’s Lucy’s mother,’ said Dan, and actually, I was already on my way. Giving Dan a radiant smile and mouthing ‘thank you!’, I fairly skipped off down the corridor beside the doctor. I did turn back briefly and the swing doors had been propped open by a nurse, so I was able to see him still standing at the end there. He cut a slightly forlorn-looking figure, a long way away. He raised his hand in farewell.
My mother was now in a large ward full of elderly women. Every bed was occupied and they all looked terribly old and frail. Most were asleep. Luckily, her bed was by the window, which made it relatively private. She blinked and smiled weakly in recognition as I approached.
‘Dehydration,’ she told me, and I realized she knew exactly who I was. ‘So they’ve had me on this thing,’ she nodded at the saline drip running into her arm, ‘for ages now.’
‘I always say you don’t drink enough.’ I sat down, kissing her papery cheek.
‘Actually, you always say I drink too much.’
I grinned. ‘Fair enough.’ Jokes too. That lapse in mental control earlier had frightened me. ‘Oh Mum, I’m so pleased you’re OK. How do you feel?’
‘A bit feeble, and a bit chesty too. But apparently I’ve had some extremely strong antibiotics which should do the trick. They’re good, here.’ I thought of the sulky nurse outside. But good where it mattered, at the sharp end, thank the Lord. Thank the blessed NHS. Her eyes were shutting a bit and although we were holding hands, her grip was weak.
‘Mum, I’m going to leave you to sleep now, but I’ll be back later, OK? I’ll bring Dad.’
Her eyes fluttered open. ‘Oh no. No need to fuss.’
‘He’ll want to see you. And I’ll bring anything you need. Your pashmina, maybe? And a clean nightie and sponge bag.’
‘Oh, I won’t need all that. I’ll be going home later today.’
‘I doubt it,’ I told her firmly. ‘No saline drips at home, but I’ll check with the doctor. I should think a couple of days.’ She looked alarmed, but I’d spotted the young doctor again, about to leave another patient. He was giving an elderly lady a kind smile and patting her hand before he went on his way. I beetled up.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I breathed, as a nurse looked on reprovingly. ‘But my mother, in the bed by the window. How long d’you think she’ll be here?’
He glanced across. ‘She can go home tomorrow,’ he told me. ‘As long as she doesn’t overdo it.’
‘She won’t,’ I told him.
‘But I’d
like her on that drip for another eight hours.’ And with that he was gone, followed by the watchful nurse. I hastened back to my mother.
‘Just one night,’ I told her, and saw her face clear with relief. I’d deliberately pitched it high so that this came as good news. She relaxed into the pillows.
‘Well, I still think it’s a silly fuss. I’m as right as rain now, but I expect I can manage that.’ She slurred the last few words, her eyelids flickering. I squeezed her hand gently and told her I’d be back, early evening, with Dad. And then I left.
Outside, in reception, I rang my father. Told him the good news.
‘Oh darling!’ he bleated. He had to take a moment to steady himself. Then he shouted to Nance: ‘She’s fine!’ His voice cracked with emotion when he said it, which brought tears to my eyes. I swallowed. I was so pleased I’d beaten Dan to it; he was doubtless en route to pick his mother up. Not that he’d want to overtake me, but it was lovely to give my father the good news myself, and hear his voice.
It was lovely to see his face, too, when I got home half an hour later; Nance, indeed, had already departed. My father, bathed, shaved and dressed rather nattily in red cords and a pale yellow shirt, damp hair combed back, was coming out of the front door. He’d clearly heard the car and was eager for more news.
‘No drama. Apparently we caught the UTI and the chest infection before they became a problem, and apart from that she was just very dehydrated.’
‘You caught the chest infection and the whatchamacallit,’ he told me, giving my shoulders a squeeze as we walked back into the house together. ‘I was absolutely hopeless. In denial. Wouldn’t have done a thing. Would have told myself she was fine and brought her a cup of tea. For days, probably.’
‘Well, that’s natural, Dad,’ I told him gently. ‘We none of us want to face reality, and there was a good chance it could have been a bad cold.’ There wasn’t, but I wanted to give him this.
‘Well, thank God you were here, love. Can I see her?’
Behind Closed Doors Page 27