‘There’s nothing else you need, is there?’ Eileen was already making for the door, and her tone of voice implied that any further request would be as greedy and unreasonable as asking for cream as well as custard on your apple tart. Forget apple tart – a cup of tea would be heaven; a slug of vodka better still.
‘No, thank you,’ Lorna said to the closing door. ‘I’m … fine.’ Fine was a crucial word in her armoury. The Monster hated fine.
She remained sitting up against the pillows. Outside, a few cars sped past, and she could see a plane in the dark night sky, its tiny red and blue lights flashing. Across the road there were lighted squares of windows in a tower block. Other people sleepless? Mourning? ‘No man is an island …’ A lie, of course. Everyone was an island, and at 2 a.m. the bridges were closed and the ferries didn’t run.
She wormed herself down the bed, propping her foot on two pillows. (It had to be kept higher than her heart, to help the swelling go down.) She preferred to sleep on her stomach, but that was more or less impossible with the bandage and the wires, and sleeping on her back felt awkward and unfamiliar.
‘You’re lucky to have a bed. In the war we slept in shelters.’
‘Yes, I know, Aunt Agnes, but it happens to be peacetime now.’
Peace must be what the angels felt, a concept as foreign to her as growing up with parents – the Monster saw to that. Perhaps she could conjure up an angel: kindly and sweet-tempered, with soft, protective wings. Yes, there he was, with a steaming-hot apple tart in one hand (cream and custard) and a bottle of Smirnoff in the other.
‘Come in,’ she murmured sleepily. It must be Eileen again, with more pills.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you at such an unsociable hour, but I’m due at the Royal Free at seven thirty, so I thought I’d look in first.’
Mr Hughes. Impeccable in a dark suit and dazzling white shirt. While she was lying in a jumbled bed, sweaty and dishevelled. If she’d had advance warning of his visits she could at least have combed her hair.
‘How are you, Mrs Pearson?’
Embarrassed. She tugged the skimpy gown over the unprepossessing bloomers, before sitting up gingerly. ‘The feeling’s come back in my foot.’
‘Good. Any pain at all?’
‘No.’
‘We’ve got you on an very high dose of pain-killers, so you shouldn’t experience any discomfort. And I’m glad to say that basically the surgery went well.’
‘Well? But why did it take so long? My husband thought I … I’d kicked the bucket!’
Mr Hughes gave an awkward laugh. ‘I’m afraid there was a slight mix-up, Mrs Pearson. My … saw went missing.’
Saw? The image of a lumberjack came to mind, hacking through a massive tree-trunk. How could a modest bunion require an implement on that scale?
‘They told me it was on loan to another hospital. As you can imagine, I was exceedingly annoyed.’
Was this some kind of joke? Didn’t hospitals have their own saws, or was there only one to go round? And surely the theatre staff checked that all instruments were there before putting a patient under. She couldn’t conceive of a carpenter or plumber embarking on a job without his tools, so why should a surgeon be any different?
‘A motorcycle messenger was dispatched to retrieve it, and was gone for some considerable time …’
It must be a joke. Even the Monster couldn’t have dreamed up such a scenario.
‘Eventually he returned, saying the Gresham didn’t have the saw. Which precipitated another search. And, would you believe, it was here all the time.’
No, she wouldn’t believe.
‘So I’m afraid you had a rather protracted sleep, Mrs Pearson.’ He smiled apologetically.
Sleep? She’d been pumped full of dangerous anaesthetics for four solid hours, simply because of staggering inefficiency. And poor Ralph had been going demented. When he’d asked why it was taking so long, they’d just said vaguely she must still be in theatre. Yes, in theatre while Mr Hughes sat twiddling his expert (and extremely expensive) thumbs.
‘And there was another complication …’
‘Oh, heavens – what?’ Perhaps one of his minions had sewn up a needle inside her foot, or the anaesthetist had ingested his own drugs and dozed off.
‘Your skin is paper-thin, Mrs Pearson. Which is very unusual in a woman of your age. And of course it made things much more difficult. I had to use nylon sutures instead of the absorbable ones.’
The Monster burst back in. ‘See, you’re falling to pieces! When he takes the stitches out your skin will probably pull away in great lumps.’
‘And your second toe was, frankly, a mess. There was a lot of debris in it and severe arthritic changes, which again is unusual in patients under forty.’
She swallowed. It was obviously time for her bus pass, or a merciful injection from the vet. Agnes was a martyr to arthritis, but it hadn’t come on till her seventies. And what on earth did he mean by debris?
‘There’s very little movement in that toe. It’s essential to keep it mobile. I want you to wiggle it up and down for a minute or so every half-hour. Up down, up down – like this.’
She flinched as he yanked the poor aged toe almost at a right angle to the others.
‘Now you carry on doing this as often as you can. I must be off now, but I’ll look in again this afternoon.’
‘Told you so,’ crowed the Monster after Mr Hughes had gone. ‘What an incredible balls-up!’
‘It went well. He said so himself.’
‘’Course he did. Saving face, that’s all.’
‘My foot’s straight, isn’t it?’ Which was indeed a triumph, although with the trauma of the anaesthetic she had hardly taken in the fact. Whatever else had gone awry, all her toes now pointed in the same direction – on one foot anyway.
‘Don’t you be so sure. That bandage hides a multitude of sins.’
She turned her back on the Monster as the door opened again and a lanky, dark-skinned man appeared. ‘You like breakfast?’ he asked.
‘Yes please!’
‘What you like?’
Bacon, eggs, mushrooms, beans, fried bread. ‘What is there?’
‘You not see menu?’
‘No.’
‘I fetch.’
Half an hour went by. She tried to use the time profitably by exercising her second toe, ignoring the Monster’s jibes that it wouldn’t do the slightest good since that toe was already a write-off. Eventually she turned on the news to drown him out: a massacre in the Congo, a bomb scare in Calcutta, flooding in Bangladesh and more casualties in Afghanistan.
‘All right, Aunt Agnes, I know I’m lucky not to live in a war zone. But I do happen to be extremely hungry. I haven’t eaten for twenty-four hours, and then it was only a slice of toast.’
The lanky man returned with two impressive-looking menus. Unfortunately they were for lunch and dinner, not breakfast.
‘This not breakfast,’ she said, unconsciously lapsing into pidgin.
‘You not want breakfast?’
‘Yes, I do want. But this isn’t it.’
His soulful eyes stared at her in bafflement.
‘D’you think I could have a boiled egg?’ Best to keep it simple. If she mentioned kippers or black pudding, God knows what would turn up. ‘Boiled egg,’ she repeated slowly, wondering whether to mime the action of tapping an egg with a spoon. Except it might confuse him into thinking she wanted a hammer (if the hammer hadn’t gone the same way as the saw).
She reached across to her bedside drawer for a pen and a scrap of paper. ‘Boiled egg, tea and toast,’ she printed clearly. If he couldn’t understand it, maybe someone in the kitchen would. She passed it to him with an encouraging smile, but he looked still more dismayed. Perhaps he imagined it was a billet-doux – a lonely female patient making unwanted advances to him.
‘Give note to kitchen, please,’ she instructed, wishing she’d brought a translator with her, or, even better, a private che
f.
To pass the time she studied the two menus, which were illustrated with colour pictures of fruits and vegetables. The food sounded remarkably good, despite the spoilsport caveats: ‘Unsuitable for Diabetics’ or ‘Not Recommended for Slimmers’. Ignoring the healthy dishes, she selected the highest-fat, highest-sugar options, restraining herself with difficulty from ticking two choices for every course. While she was deciding between banoffi pie and tiramisu, the phone rang – Ralph, asking how she was feeling.
‘Ravenous!’
‘Well, that’s a good sign. Blast! The other phone’s ringing. I’ll call you back.’
Ten minutes passed without the promised call, so she turned on the television. Gruesome pictures of the massacre, close up. She switched to another channel: violence in Ireland now. The shrill of the phone coincided with an explosion in Belfast. ‘Hello, darling,’ she muttered, shuddering at the carnage.
‘It’s not darling, it’s Anne.’
Lorna gritted her teeth. Anne Spencer-Armitage was an acquaintance rather than a friend. (What friend would phone at this hour?)
‘I expect you’re in agony, aren’t you? They say it’s one of the most painful operations you can have.’
‘I wouldn’t know. I’m drugged to the eyeballs with pain-killers.’
‘You want to be careful, Lorna. Those drugs can cause bleeding of the stomach. In fact a girl at work developed a full-blown ulcer after just two weeks on ibuprofen.’
Who needed the Monster when Anne was about? Only half listening, Lorna tried to turn off the television, but succeeded merely in increasing the volume.
‘What’s that awful noise?’
‘Gang warfare in Chicago. Oh dear, there’s someone at the door.’ Breakfast, with any luck. Which she had no intention of sharing with Anne. ‘Can I ring you back?’
‘Yes, do. I’m dying to hear the gory details.’
The lanky man slunk in again, with a piece of paper in his hand. Another menu? A reply to her note?
No, another consent form. Would she accept the risk of eating a boiled egg? Presumably it referred to salmonella but, having just survived major surgery, she would doubtless survive a few germs in an egg. As she signed her name, the phone rang once more: Ralph’s return call at last. This time she asked him how he was, inventing the ideal reply: I miss you desperately. The house is bleak and empty without you. It’s lost its heart. I’m bereft.
‘What d’you mean, how am I? There’s nothing wrong with me. Bugger! There’s the other phone again. It’s Patrick Gillespie, I bet. He’s …’
With the TV blaring, she couldn’t hear the rest of the sentence. She punched the buttons on the remote-control, with no more effect than before. It would probably switch off at the set, but she wasn’t allowed out of bed until she had seen the physio and been issued with her crutches. Enforced immobility was frustrating. She longed to go to the bathroom to clean her teeth and have a proper wash, but could only lie and listen to atrocities – all the crises and accidents beloved of the Monster. Existence must have been easier in medieval times, when you didn’t hear about events beyond the confines of your own small village. She tried to turn herself into a thirteenth-century goodwife, with nothing to worry about except a hen not laying or a faulty stitch in her tapestry.
‘No anaesthetics,’ the Monster sneered. ‘No penicillin. No fridges. You’d be panicking before you could say Black Death.’
‘Go away!’ she ordered, then ‘Come in’ as she heard another knock at the door.
The egg at last, with any luck. By now her stomach was rumbling audibly and her mouth felt like the bottom of an ancient, boiled-dry kettle.
In walked a bouquet with a small, red-haired man on the end of it. ‘Flowers for you, Mrs Pearson.’
She looked nervously at the pompous blooms shrouded in Cellophane – the sort of thing one might order for a funeral.
‘I’ll fetch a vase.’
‘Thank you.’ She prised the card from the bouquet: ‘From Heather and Sebastian, with fondest love.’
There must be some mistake. She didn’t know anyone called Heather and Sebastian. Perhaps she could eat the flowers for breakfast, though – scrambled lilies on toast – and drink the water in the vase.
Swiftly reappearing, the red-haired man proved a model of efficiency. He turned the television off (having first explained the controls), filled her water-jug, promised to sort out the mystery of the flowers, and finally gave her the number of the kitchen.
‘Hello. It’s Mrs Pearson in room twenty. I ordered a boiled egg … Oh, on its way? Wonderful!’
Within a couple of minutes there was a tap on the door. ‘Yes!’ she whooped. ‘Come in. I’m so hungry I could …’
In walked Diane Morris, the wife of one of their wealthiest clients. ‘Lorna, how are you? Do forgive me barging in like this, but I’m on my way to work and I literally pass the door. I just couldn’t resist popping in to see you. Did everything go well?’
‘Mm … fine.’ She was rigid with embarrassment. Diane’s appearance – elegant cream suit, immaculate hair, scarlet lips and nails – highlighted her own state of dishabille. Worse was the contrast in their feet: Diane’s shod in dove-grey kidskin ankle-boots; hers ignominiously naked – the right twisted and deformed, the left bloody and bristling with wires. Quickly she pulled the sheet over them and forced her face into the semblance of a smile, although making stilted conversation with a comparative stranger was not a welcome prospect.
‘Do sit down. How lovely to see you!’ Whatever her feelings, she must make an effort for Ralph’s sake. ‘And what’s the weather doing out there?’
‘It’s perishing, my dear! You’re lucky to be here in the warm.’
Shades of Aunt Agnes. ‘Yes, they do keep it nice and snug.’
‘And how long will you be in?’
‘Oh, barely a week. I’ll be home well in time for Christmas.’
‘Don’t mention Christmas, Lorna! I’ve hardly begun my shopping …’
‘Are you and Bob going away?’
‘Just to our country place in Shropshire. Both the girls are coming, with their families, so it’ll be the usual houseful. How about you?’
She wouldn’t be going anywhere, that was for sure. Well, maybe hobbling on crutches from the bedroom to the kitchen. Christmas was lonely at the best of times, without being incapacitated. If only she could hire a ready-made family: parents, children, cousins, aunts … Her one living relative, Aunt Agnes, was otherwise engaged – spending Christmas in a hotel with an old friend from her teaching days.
‘Lorna, if there’s anything you need I’ll be delighted to help. You only have to say.’
‘No, honestly, I’m fine.’ Fine was true, for once, because at that very moment the breakfast-tray arrived: grapefruit segments, two boiled eggs, buttered toast, and tea and milk in a flower-sprigged pot.
‘Oh, my dear, you haven’t had your breakfast! I’m so sorry. I’m disturbing you.’
‘No, please. It doesn’t matter. It’s sweet of you to come.’
As the phone rang yet again, Lorna began to wish she was in a National Health ward. She wouldn’t have a phone then; nor would visitors be allowed to swan in at breakfast time.
‘It’s me again.’
‘Oh … hello, Ralph.’
‘What’s up? You sound peculiar.’
‘Er, Diane Morris is here. She’s very kindly come to see me.’
‘I’ll ring off then. I’m a bit pushed, actually. I’ve got to see that useless contractor in Staplehurst, so I shan’t be able to ring again till tonight.’
Ring? Wasn’t he coming in person? She couldn’t ask with Diane there. How long was the wretched woman going to stay? It must be getting on for nine by now, but Diane worked in advertising, which was noted for its relaxed attitude to timekeeping. She and Ralph were at their desks by seven.
‘Don’t let your breakfast get cold, Lorna – not on my account.’
‘Actually, I … I couldn�
�t face eating at the moment.’ What she couldn’t face was conversing with her mouth full in front of the fastidious Diane. Or, worse, dripping egg yolk on the sheet. She eyed the untouched food – butter already congealing on the toast. Even the smell of the toast was lost in the blast of Diane’s Chanel No. 5.
‘But what’s wrong, my dear? I thought you said you felt fine?’
‘Oh, just a bit … sick, that’s all. You know how it is after anaesthetics.’
‘Well, I don’t, to tell the truth. I’ve never been ill in my life, let alone in hospital. Bobby says I’m so healthy it’s disgusting. Anyway, if you’re feeling sick you won’t want visitors, so I’d better make myself scarce.’
‘Well, it’s been a pleasure. Thank you …’ Any second now she would be able to sink her teeth into the toast, devour each egg in a couple of gulps, wash them down with pints of glorious tea.
But no, it seemed she wouldn’t. Another intrusion, in the shape of Nurse Pat, accompanied by a porter with a wheelchair.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs Pearson, when you have a visitor, but Mr Hughes has requested an X-ray. Oh, you haven’t had your breakfast yet. Aren’t you hungry?’
Yes! she wanted to shout. I could eat a horse. Why stop at one?
She could eat an entire stud farm. But she could hardly contradict what she had just said to Diane. ‘I seem to have lost my appetite.’
‘Don’t worry, that often happens. I’ll get someone to take your tray away.’
She cast a last lingering glance at the breakfast, tasting the refreshing tang of grapefruit on her tongue, the tea slipping down hot and sweet and strong. Well, at least she was saved from salmonella and – another blessing – the nurse was actually helping her on with her dressing-gown, concealing the offending hospital robe.
Tread Softly Page 5