‘Certainly, Mrs Pearson.’ He flashed her a reassuring smile. ‘When you have your second foot done, we can make some minor adjustments to this one.’
‘Minor my arse! It’ll be major, that’s for sure – another major cock-up. And another major fee. Don’t let him near the other foot or you’ll be left with nothing but a pair of stumps.’
‘Look, Mr Hughes, about the second foot … I’m not sure if I really want to go ahead with …’
‘I quite understand. You’ve had a bit of a rough ride with the left one, so it might be advisable to allow a little time to elapse before we proceed with the right.’
‘Rough ride? Let’s face it, you’re crippled.’
‘Yes, I think that would be best. I am very busy at the moment. We’re … moving house, you see.’
‘My goodness, that is an upheaval, isn’t it? I hope it doesn’t mean you’re overdoing the walking. You still need to rest that foot as much as possible.’
Rest didn’t figure on her current schedule – only estate agents and prospective purchasers. She wasn’t sure which breed was worse. The brash young men from Gascoigne-Pees and Mann & Co. (reeking of aftershave and breath-mints) had mercilessly exposed every defect of an elderly house and every deficiency in maintenance, but at least they didn’t have children in tow. The first people who had come to view brought obnoxious eight-year-old twins who had upturned a potted plant and smashed her favourite vase.
As well as hobbling up and down stairs showing round other families from hell, there was the task of finding somewhere else for her and Ralph to live. They would probably end up in a block of flats similar to Oshoba’s – imitation clapboard, covered in graffiti, and with the odd syringe or used condom littering the stairwell. Or would they still be together? Although they had reached an uneasy truce, Ralph didn’t know about Oshoba, of course, and were he to find out it would blow everything apart.
She must stop dwelling on Oshoba. But each time she looked at Mr Hughes the two men seemed to blur together, despite the enormous physical contrast. Closing her eyes she imagined their penises side by side: one long and black, one pale and slender, both brazenly erect.
‘Are you all right, Mrs Pearson? Not feeling faint or …?’
‘No, I’m fine. Just thinking.’ She returned to the matter in hand. ‘I do really need to be mobile, so it’s an awful nuisance not being able to drive, or walk far. When do you think the foot will improve?’
‘Well, the orthoses will certainly help.’
‘Could you make me an appointment now to see the podiatrist?’
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible. I was talking to him only yesterday and it appears there’s a problem with the scanner.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘It seems the more complex these machines are, the more temperamental they become.’
‘And the more expensive these surgeons are,’ the Monster put in contemptuously, ‘the more useless they become.’
‘Well, when – if – it’s mended, how long does it take from the scan to the finished product?’
Mr Hughes smoothed his silver hair. ‘It depends on how busy Mr Weekes is. He’d have to give you at least a couple of fittings once the prescription’s made up. And I’m afraid there is another factor. The devices are manufactured in the States, so they have to be sent by post. There can be quite serious delays. One pair I ordered went permanently astray.’
‘So are we talking about a month? Or longer?’
‘Let’s say six to eight weeks.’
So she’d be stuck with the pain for another two months, and just when she was hectically busy. Apart from anything else, she wanted to spend time with Agnes and also arrange some permanent help for her at home. (In fact she had planned to phone Kathy this evening to ask advice about live-in nurses.) ‘Is there no chance of this transfer meta-whatever-you-said getting better on its own? What I need to know is when I can drive again and when I’ll be able to walk at least as well as I could before the operation. Surely that’s not asking much.’
Mr Hughes clasped his hands together.
‘He’s praying, look!’ chortled the Monster. ‘He’s so inept he needs divine intervention.’
‘As far as the driving’s concerned, I wouldn’t advise it at present. And as for the foot in general, it’s difficult to say. You see, Mrs Pearson, with any bunion operation there’s no guarantee that there won’t be complications. Normally, whatever improvement there’s going to be would happen in the next three to six months. If you find you’re not free from pain and not walking well by, say, September, I’m afraid you probably never will be.’
She stared at him aghast. Never? After all she’d been through?
The Monster was smirking. ‘Strange he didn’t tell you that at the outset. These surgeons can’t wait to get their grubby little hands on your money, but if you’re left a cripple it’s never their fault, is it? Well, they’re hackers and slashers, aren’t they, so why should they give a damn about a piddling thing like being able to walk?’
‘I do feel you could have warned me, Mr Hughes.’
‘But I did, Mrs Pearson. Several times. I made it absolutely clear that –’
‘You never said I might end up worse than before.’
‘Far worse,’ the Monster sneered. ‘In fact why not call it a day? I mean, what have you got going for you? No house, no business, crap feet, a failing marriage. And I doubt if Oshoba will still fancy you when you’re permanently in a wheelchair.’
‘Come, come, Mrs Pearson, let’s not be pessimistic. We may see a considerable improvement in the next three months or so.’
‘Bollocks! Suicide’s the answer – get shot of all the problems in one fell swoop.’
‘And there are measures you can take to help yourself – for instance, continue with those foot exercises I gave you, and be sure to wear good supportive shoes.’
‘But I am doing the exercises, and they don’t seem to help at all.’
‘We must have patience, Mrs Pearson. These things take time, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake stop saying you’re afraid!’
Mr Hughes flinched as if she’d struck him. ‘I’m sorry … I don’t –’
‘You’re not afraid in the least. It’s just a stock phrase with you, isn’t it? You couldn’t give a shit.’
Visibly shaken, Mr Hughes tried to regain his composure. ‘Well, Mrs Pearson, I suggest you, er, pop along for your X-ray now and –’
‘That’s another of your stupid words – ‘pop’. You medical people use it all the time. You talk to us as if we’re children. “Pop up on the couch.’’ “We’ll just pop a little bandage on.’’ “Pop the thermometer under your tongue.’’ “Pop in and see me if you’re worried.’’ Well, I’m not popping anywhere, is that clear? I’ve had enough of X-rays. And pain. And these stupid things.’ Seizing her sticks, she blundered out of the door.
‘And bloody useless fathers,’ she muttered, stumping along the corridor. ‘I suppose you were blind drunk when you did the operation and that’s why you lost the saw. Three hundred and twenty milligrams of alcohol per hundred millilitres of blood. That‘s criminal. That’s evil. Don’t you understand?’
She turned right, past X-ray, and out through the main exit. ‘I don’t need you any more,’ she shouted, hurling one of the sticks against the hospital sign and the other into the street. ‘Fathers, surgeons, lawyers, husbands – you can go to hell, the lot of you.’
Chapter Twenty One
‘Kathy! Come in. Lovely to see you.’
‘I say!’ Kathy was gazing up at the gabled roofs and ornamented chimney-pots. ‘Nice place you’ve got here!’
Lorna was more conscious of the house’s state of disrepair – not as bad as Agnes’s cottage but hardly up to the pukka standards expected in Queen’s Hill Drive. ‘You should hear some of the rude comments we’ve been getting. All people seem to see is missing roof-tiles or chips in the paint. Thank heavens I haven’t got to show you round.’
‘Oh, but
you have, Lorna! I’m terribly nosy about people’s houses. I insist on the grand tour.’
‘Well, let’s have a drink first, to give us strength!’
‘Yes, I could do with one – I’m knackered. We’re so short-staffed, this is the first day I’ve had off in weeks.’
‘How is Oakfield?’
‘Falling apart at the seams.’ Kathy unbuttoned her grey gabardine, revealing a red sweater and tight black skirt. Lorna had rarely seen her out of uniform and was again struck by how different she looked: slimmer and more elegant. Her shoes were the kind Lorna could only dream about – narrow and low-cut, with spindly heels.
‘How’s the foot?’ Kathy asked, as if reading her mind. ‘You’re still limping, I see.’
‘It’s my own silly fault. I threw away my sticks.’
‘Threw them away? You’re joking.’
‘No, it’s true. And I don’t regret it. The house is decrepit enough without me hobbling around like an old crone. The foot’s actually more painful than it was before the op. But I’ve got used to it, and’ – she shrugged – ‘at least it’s not terminal! In fact I’ve just started driving again. I’m not meant to, of course, but frankly I’d rather put up with the pain than be stranded here without transport. Now, tell me, Kathy, what can you smell?’
‘Smell?’
‘Yes.’
Kathy cocked her head and sniffed. ‘Coffee, and sort of … honey-suckle.’
‘Not pipe-smoke?’
‘No.’
‘Good. The estate agent said that nice smells are a useful sellingpoint. Freshly baked bread is supposed to be best, followed by freshly brewed coffee. I draw the line at baking bread, but I do try to keep the coffee on the go. The honeysuckle’s the bottled sort. I hope I haven’t overdone it.’
‘No, it’s fine. And I love your staircase. Very grand!’
‘Faded grandeur,’ Lorna said with a smile, ushering Kathy into the sitting-room. Looking at the room through Kathy’s eyes, she found it oppressive and unwelcoming. Even after eleven years of marriage, practically everything in it was Ralph’s – not only the sombre colour scheme but the furniture, the pictures, the stern-faced grandfather clock with its ponderous tick, the stubborn wine stains on the carpet. (And memories of recent quarrels added their own dark tinge.)
‘God, you’re tidy!’ Kathy remarked.
‘You have to be when you’re selling a house. You’ve no idea how fussy people are. The couple who came yesterday must have had X-ray eyes. They spotted cracks in the ceiling that weren’t even there.’
Kathy moved to the window. ‘Maybe you could cut those bushes back? They do tend to block out the light.’
‘Ralph won’t let me touch them. He likes that gloomy laurel.’
‘Honestly, Lorna, you shouldn’t let him be so domineering. Where is he, by the way?’
‘In Salisbury. We’re in the middle of a job there’ – she grimaced – ‘another tennis-court.’
‘I thought you were closing the business down.’
‘Yes, but we still have to look after our existing clients. And actually I’m not sure what he’s decided. He seems to change his mind from one day to the next.’
‘Surely you have a say?’
‘Yes, of course, but –’
‘I’m amazed you’re still around. I’d never have forgiven him for stopping the insurance. I’d have walked out there and then and left him to rot.’
‘Let’s not talk about it, please, Kathy. Do you mind?’ She had no wish to be deflected from her new serene persona. She was reading a book called Conquering Panic, which suggested role-playing the type of placid character you’d ideally like to be and repeating the exercise until it became automatic. So today she was Ms Unflappable. (The only problem was, she and Ms U kept splitting off from each other.)
Kathy took a sip of wine. ‘OK. Let’s talk about Agnes. That’s what I’m here for, after all. I’ve brought you some bumf about Marie Curie Nurses.’
‘Thanks. That’s sweet of you. But first I want to hear your news. You said it was exciting, so I presume it’s about a man.’
‘No fear! I’m better off without men just now. No, it’s about work – I’m leaving Oakfield and going to help a friend manage a brand-new residential home.’
‘Really, Kathy? Well, that should be a good career move.’
‘Yes, definitely. You should see the place! The Cedars, it’s called, and it’s incredibly luxurious. There’s a library and a health spa and landscaped gardens with four huge cedar-trees. They’re two hundred years old, would you believe!’
‘It sounds fantastic!’
‘Oh, it is. Straight out of Homes and Gardens. I’m going to be in charge of the residents and Chris’ll handle the business side – well, her and Jeremy, her brother. He’s providing the financial backing. In fact the house belongs to them – a great, rambling mansion their father left them in his will.’
‘Where is it?’ Selfishly, she hoped Kathy wouldn’t move too far away.
‘Weybridge. They badly need somewhere in that area. Hayes Court is due to close this year and Belmont’s closed already. Homes for the elderly are disappearing at a rate of knots, you know. Mostly because they can’t meet the new government regulations. I wouldn’t be surprised if Oakfield goes under too.’
‘But what will happen to the residents?’ Lorna had a vision of poor Frances turfed out into the street, Dorothy Two fulminating about such iniquitous treatment.
‘Well, I suppose we could take one or two at The Cedars – those who can afford it, and are relatively fit. It’s not a nursing-home, you see, only residential. Chris was clear about that at the outset. It means you don’t need so many specialist staff. And she’s aiming at the private market, to avoid hassle with local authorities. Chris is in it for the money – she doesn’t pretend otherwise. And her brother even more so. He’s something big in the City. He made his first million before he was twenty-five, and God knows what he’s worth now.’
‘It doesn’t sound like you, though, Kathy, all this talk of profit.’
‘No, but the great thing is they’re giving me a free hand to run it the way I want. Which means the highest possible standards of care. And that isn’t incompatible with profit. If you offer the best, you’ll get customers. It’s a growth industry, after all. We’re all living much longer these days. There are nine million people in Britain now who are over sixty-five, but by 2030 there’ll be fifteen million. And three million of those will be over eighty-five, compared to only nine hundred thousand at the moment. So if you take –’ The front-door bell interrupted her. ‘Are you expecting anybody?’
‘It’s probably the toner for the fax machine.’ Lorna went to the door, to find not the expected courier but a gaggle of people on the step – six in all (or seven counting the massive black Alsatian, growling in a threatening manner).
One of their number stepped forward – the only man, as far as she could see. He wore a royal-blue blazer, a yellow-spotted cravat and several chunky rings. ‘Hello, love. We saw the For Sale board and wondered if we could look round.’
Lorna quickly summoned Ms Unflappable, who spoke in calm but resolute tones. ‘I’m afraid it’s appointments only. If you phone the estate agents I’m sure they’ll –’
‘No can do, darlin’. It’s now or never.’
‘I’m sorry but it’s not convenient.’
‘Oh, come on, just a dekko. You’ll hardly know we’re here.’
Doubtful, thought Ms U, eyeing the dog’s raised hackles, the squalling babe-in-arms and the truculent-looking toddler. ‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated. ‘I have someone with me at present.’
‘Not much point advertisin’ if you don’t want buyers.’ The thin-faced woman curled her lip. ‘Let’s not waste our time, Ed. It looks a dump, anyway.’
‘Phew,’ said Lorna, returning to Kathy. ‘We nearly had company for lunch! And, talking of lunch, you must be starving. I just need to check if a fax has arrived and then we
can eat. Come into the office. I won’t be a sec.’
‘So this is where you work. Goodness, two computers! I’d never cope. Put me in front of a VDU and I turn into a gibbering wreck. Mind you, I’ve got to do some training – Chris insists. Perhaps you could give me lessons!’
Lorna wasn’t really listening. She was annoyed that the promised fax hadn’t come. Why were clients so unreliable?
‘Are these all the jobs you’ve done?’ Kathy was studying a large framed map hanging on the wall, stuck with a scattering of different-coloured pins. ‘I never realized the business was so big.’
‘It isn’t really. Only the green-headed pins are completed jobs. Red means jobs in hand, and pink we’ve quoted for but haven’t had the go-ahead.’
‘You are efficient.’
Lorna laughed. ‘Hardly. It just helps me keep track of things.’
‘Oh, and this must be your publicity stuff.’ Kathy picked up a brochure from the desk. ‘It’s quite a work of art, Lorna.’
‘I’m glad you think so. I designed it myself. It’s not bad, I suppose, although Ralph and I look horribly smug. We decided to put our picture on, to make it more personal.’
Kathy scrutinized the photo. ‘Ralph’s so much younger here.’
‘Actually it was taken not that long ago. The business has worn him down, poor soul – especially the past two years. It isn’t easy being self-employed.’
‘Nothing to it,’ Ms Unflappable put in. ‘I could run a business in my sleep.’
‘You’re not exactly short of phones,’ Kathy remarked, continuing her tour. ‘No wonder you’re so busy.’
‘Luckily they’re quiet at the moment. I daren’t turn on the answering-machine in case a prospective buyer rings. Let’s just hope we can get through lunch without too many interruptions. By the way, do you mind eating in the kitchen? The dining-room’s a bit like a morgue.’
‘It’s a treat to be invited to lunch at all. I’ve been up to my eyes this month, what with Oakfield House and making plans for The Cedars.’
‘Won’t you miss Oakfield in some ways?’
‘I’ll miss the residents, but nothing else, I assure you. That home’s so badly run it makes my blood boil! I couldn’t say anything when you were there, Lorna, but the amount of abuse that goes on is scandalous. They don’t pay the staff enough, so of course they get the dregs.’
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