by Beth O'Leary
I give her a little wave. Katherin slaps my hand.
“You’re a dreadful mannequin today!” she scolds, and I’m brought back to the moment on the cruise ship in February, the last time Katherin was manhandling me into various uncomfortable positions in the name of crochet. For an instant, I can recall Justin’s expression exactly as it was when our eyes locked—not the way it looks in my memory, faded and changed with time, but as it actually was. A shiver goes through me.
Katherin casts me a curious look, and I snap out of the memory with effort, managing a reassuring smile. As I look up I see a tall, dark-haired man in scrubs push through a door into one of the other wards, and my heart jumps. But it’s not Leon. I’m almost glad. I’m unsettled, off-kilter—it’s somehow not the moment I want to meet him.
“Arms up, Tiffy!” Katherin trills in my ear, and, with a shake of my head, I go back to doing as I’m told.
20
LEON
Letter is crumpled in trouser pocket. Tiffy asked me to read it before I send it on to Richie. But haven’t, yet. It’s painful. Feel suddenly sure that she won’t understand. That she’ll say he’s a calculating criminal, just like the judge did. Say his excuses don’t add up, that given his character and his past he’s exactly what we should have all expected.
I’m stressed, shoulders tense. Barely caught a glimpse, and yet can’t shake the feeling that redheaded woman at the other end of the corridor to Dorsal Ward might have been her. If it was, hope she didn’t think I ran off. Obviously, did run off. But still. Would rather she didn’t know it.
Just … don’t want to face her before I’ve read the letter.
So. Clearly, must read letter. In the meantime, might hide out on Kelp Ward to avoid unplanned mid-corridor encounters.
Pass through reception on route and am accosted by June, who’s at the desk.
June: Your friend has arrived!
Only told a couple of people that this crochet event was organized by my flatmate. It has proven to be incredibly interesting gossip. Everyone seems insultingly surprised that I have a flatmate; apparently I look like a man who lives alone.
Me: Thanks, June.
June: She’s in the Leisure Room!
Me: Thanks, June.
June: She’s ever so pretty.
Blink. Haven’t given Tiffy’s appearance much thought, aside from wondering whether she wears five dresses at once (would explain sheer quantity hanging in our wardrobe). Am briefly tempted to ask if she has red hair, but think better of it.
June: Lovely girl. Really lovely. I’m so glad you’ve found such a lovely girl to live with.
I stare suspiciously at June. She beams back at me. Wonder who she’s been talking to—Holly? That girl has become obsessed with Tiffy.
Do odd jobs on Kelp Ward. Take unprecedented coffee break. Can’t put this off any longer. Not even any seriously unwell patients to keep me busy—I’ve got nothing to do but read this letter.
Unfold it. Look away, heart twisting. This is ridiculous. Why does it even matter?
Right. Looking at letter. Confronting letter, like adult faced with opinion of another adult who has asked them to read something and whose opinion shouldn’t even matter.
Does matter, though. Should be honest with myself: I like having Tiffy’s notes to come home to, and I’ll be sad to lose her if she is cruel to Richie. Not that she will be. But … that’s what I’ve thought before. Never know how people will react until you see it.
Dear Richie,
Thanks so much for your letter. It made me cry, which puts you in the same category as Me Before You, my ex-boyfriend, and onions. So that’s kind of impressive. (What I’m saying is, I’m not a willy-nilly crier—it takes some serious emotional turmoil or weird vegetable enzymes to get me weepy.)
I can’t believe how shit this is. I mean, you know things like this happen, but I guess it’s hard to relate to until you hear the full story from someone’s own mouth/pen. You didn’t tell me anything about what it felt like being in that courtroom, what prison has been like for you … so I can imagine the parts you’ve left out would make me cry even more.
But it’s no use me just telling you how shit this is (you already know that) and how sorry I am (you probably get that a lot from people). I was thinking that before I wrote this letter, and feeling pretty useless. I can’t just write to you and say, “sorry, this is shit for you,” I thought. So I rang my best friend Gerty.
Gerty is a superb human being in the least obvious way. She’s mean to pretty much everyone, totally obsessive about her work, and if you cross her she’ll cut you out of her life completely. But she is deeply principled in her way, and very good to her friends, and values honesty above all else.
She also happens to be a barrister. And, if her ridiculously successful career is anything to go by, a bloody good one.
I’ll be honest: She looked at the letter as a favor to me. But she read the transcript of your trial for her own interest, and—I think—for you, too. She’s not saying she’s taking on your case (you’ll see that from her note, enclosed), but she has a few questions she’d like answered. Feel free to totally ignore this—you probably have an awesome lawyer who has already looked into this stuff. I mean, maybe getting Gerty involved was more about me than you, because I wanted to feel like I was doing something. So feel free to tell me to piss off.
But if you do want to write back to Gerty, send something in your next letter to Leon and we’ll get it over to her. And maybe … don’t mention it to your lawyer. I don’t know how lawyers feel about you talking to other lawyers—is it like adultery?
Tons of stamps enclosed (another victim of the “wanting to help” impulse I’m struggling with here).
Yours,
Tiffy
Dear Mr. Twomey,
My name is Gertrude Constantine. I suspect Tiffany will have given me some sort of grandiose introduction in her letter, so I shall skip the pleasantries.
Please let me be clear: This is not an offer of representation. This is an informal letter, not a legal consultation. If I offer advice, it is as a friend of Tiffany.
1. It appears from the trial transcript that the friends with whom you visited Daffie’s, the nightclub in Clapham, were not called as witnesses by either prosecution or defense. Please confirm.
2. “The Bloods” are not mentioned by you or any other person in the trial transcript. I presume from your letter that you only became aware of this gang’s chosen name while in prison. Can you confirm which information led you to believe that the group you saw at the nightclub, and the man who assaulted you in the toilets, were members of this gang?
3. Did you report the assault in the nightclub toilets?
4. The bouncers at the nightclub gave evidence that the gang (as we shall refer to them) left the club soon after you did. They were not questioned further. From where they stood, might they have been able to indicate whether you and the gang were traveling in the same or a similar direction?
5. It appears that the jury made their decision on the basis of only one segment of CCTV footage, filmed from within the establishment. Was CCTV from Clapham Road, Aldi car park, and the adjacent laundrette requested by your legal representative?
Yours faithfully,
Gertrude Constantine
21
TIFFY
When it comes to the part where we take crochet hooks and wool out to the crowd, I head toward the little girl who was staring at me earlier. She grins as I approach, all big front teeth and cheekiness.
“Hello,” she says. “Are you Tiffy?”
I stare at her, and then duck down to the level of her wheelchair, because looming feels weird. “Yeah! People keep asking me that today. How did you guess?”
“You are pretty!” she says gleefully. “Are you nice as well?”
“Oh, I’m horrible, actually,” I tell her. “Why did you think I might be Tiffy? And”—as an afterthought—“pretty?”
“They s
aid your name at the beginning,” she points out. Oh, right, of course. Though that doesn’t explain all the creepy nurses. “You’re not really horrible. I think you’re nice. It was nice of you to let that lady measure your legs.”
“It was, wasn’t it?” I say. “I think that particular act of niceness has gone quite underappreciated up until this point, actually, so thank you. Do you want to learn how to crochet?”
“No,” she says.
I laugh. At least she’s honest, unlike the man behind her, who is valiantly having a go at making a slipknot under Katherin’s supervision. “What do you want to do, then?”
“I want to talk to you about Leon,” she says.
“Ah! You know Leon!”
“I’m his favorite patient.”
I smile. “I bet. So he’s mentioned me, has he?”
“Not very much,” she says.
“Oh. Right. Well—”
“But I told him I’d find out if you were pretty.”
“Did you now! Did he ask you to do that?”
She thinks about it. “No. But I think he wanted to know.”
“I don’t think he does…” I realize I don’t know her name.
“Holly,” she says. “Like the Christmas plant.”
“Well, Holly, me and Leon are just friends. Friends don’t need to know if friends are pretty.”
Suddenly Martin is right at my shoulder. “Can you pose with her?” he mutters in my ear. God, that man knows how to creep up on you. He should wear a bell, like cats that eat birds.
“Pose? With Holly?”
“The leukemia girl, yeah,” Martin says. “For the press release.”
“I can hear you, you know,” Holly declares loudly.
Martin has just enough decency to look embarrassed. “Hello,” he says in a stilted sort of way. “I’m Martin.”
Holly shrugs. “All right, Martin. My mum hasn’t given permission for you to take my photo. I don’t want my photo taken. People always feel sorry for me because I don’t have very much hair and I look sick.”
I can see Martin thinking that that was pretty much the idea. I am overcome by a sudden but not unprecedented urge to punch him, or at least kick him in the shins. Maybe I could stumble over Holly’s wheelchair and make it look like an accident.
“Fine,” Martin mutters, already off in Katherin’s direction, no doubt hoping that she’s located a similarly cute patient with fewer qualms about being plastered all over the Internet in order to further Martin’s career.
“He’s horrible,” Holly says matter-of-factly.
“Yes,” I say, without really thinking. “He is, isn’t he?” I check my watch; we finish up in ten minutes.
“Do you want to go and find Leon?” Holly asks, looking at me rather cannily.
I glance over at Katherin and Martin. I mean, my work as a model is done, and I’m not even any good at crocheting, let alone teaching other people to do it. It’ll take them ages to get all this wool cleared up, and it would be quite nice not to be here for that bit.
I tap out a quick text to Katherin. I’m just heading off to find my flatmate to say thanks for organizing. I’ll be back in time to tidy up xx (I definitely won’t.)
“That way,” Holly says, and then, when I totally fail to push her wheelchair, she laughs and points to the brake. “Everyone knows you have to take the brake off.”
“I just thought you were really heavy,” I tell her.
Holly giggles. “Leon will be in Coral Ward. Don’t follow the signs, they take you the long way. Turn left!”
I do as I’m told. “You really know your way around this place, don’t you?” I say, after being directed down a dozen corridors and, at one point, through an actual closet.
“I’ve been here seven months,” Holly says. “And I’m friends with Mr. Robbie Prior. He’s on Coral Ward and he was very important in one of the wars.”
“Mr. Prior! Does he knit?”
“All the time,” Holly says.
Excellent! I’m on my way to meet my life-saving knitter and my note-writing flatmate. I wonder if Leon will talk the way he writes, all short sentences and no pronouns.
“Hey, Dr. Patel!” Holly yells suddenly at a passing doctor. “This is Tiffy!”
Dr. Patel pauses, lowers her glasses down her nose, then flashes me a smile. “Well I never,” is all she says before disappearing into the nearest patient’s room.
“OK, Miss Holly,” I say, spinning the wheelchair so we’re facing each other. “What is going on? Why does everyone here know my name? And why do they seem so surprised to see me?”
Holly looks mischievous. “Nobody believes you’re real,” she says. “I told everyone Leon is living with a girl and he writes her notes and she makes him laugh, and nobody believed me. They all said Leon couldn’t…” She scrunches up her nose. “Tolerate a flatmate. I think that means he wouldn’t want one because he’s so quiet. They don’t know, though, that actually he saves all his talking up for the really good people, like me and you.”
“Seriously?” I shake my head, grinning, and set off down the corridor again. It’s funny hearing about Leon from someone else. So far my only point of reference has been Kay, who hardly ever pops round these days.
With Holly’s instructions, we finally reach Coral Ward. She looks around, bracing herself on the arms of her chair to get a better look. “Where’s Mr. Prior?” she calls.
An elderly gentleman in a chair over by the window turns and smiles at Holly, his face a mass of deep wrinkles. “Hello, Holly.”
“Mr. Prior! This is Tiffy. She’s pretty, isn’t she?”
“Ah, Ms. Moore,” Mr. Prior says, attempting to stand and holding out his hand. “What a pleasure.”
I scuttle over, desperate for him to sit down in his chair again. It looks like unfolding himself out of that position would not be wise. “It’s such an honor to meet you, Mr. Prior! I have to tell you, I adore your work—and I can’t thank you enough for crocheting all those scarfs and hats for Katherin’s book.”
“Oh, I enjoyed it very much. I would have come to your demonstration, but”—he pats his chest absently—“I wasn’t feeling quite up to it, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” I say. “It’s not like you need the lesson.” I pause. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen…”
Mr. Prior smiles. “Leon?”
“Well, yeah. I just wanted to track him down to say hi.”
“Mmm,” Mr. Prior says. “You’ll find our Leon is somewhat tricky to pin down. In fact, he just slipped out. I think someone tipped him off that you were coming.”
“Oh.” I look down, embarrassed. I didn’t mean to hound him round the hospital. Justin always said I never knew when to let something drop. “If he doesn’t want to see me, I should probably…”
Mr. Prior waves a hand. “You mistake me, my dear,” he says. “It isn’t that at all. I’d say Leon is rather nervous about meeting you.”
“Why would he be nervous?” I ask, as if I’ve not been nervous all day.
“I couldn’t say for sure,” Mr. Prior says, “but Leon doesn’t like things … changing. I’d say he very much enjoys living with you, Ms. Moore, and I do wonder if he doesn’t want to ruin it.” He pauses. “I would suggest that if you want to introduce a change into Leon’s routine, you’re better off doing it very quickly, and all at once, so he has no means of dodging it.”
“Like a surprise,” Holly says solemnly.
“Right,” I say. “Well. Anyway, it was great to meet you, Mr. Prior.”
“One more thing, Ms. Moore,” Mr. Prior says. “Leon was looking a little emotional. And holding a letter. I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that, would you?”
“Oh, god, I hope I didn’t say the wrong thing,” I say, desperately trying to remember what I’d put in that letter to Richie.
“No, no, he wasn’t upset. Just in a spin.” Mr. Prior takes his glasses off and rubs them against his shirt with shaky, gnarle
d fingers. “I would say, at a guess, that he was rather…” The glasses go back on his nose. “Surprised.”
22
LEON
It’s too much. I’m shaking. This is the most hope I have felt in months, and I’ve forgotten how to handle this emotion—insides have gone wobbly and skin has turned all cold and hot at same time. Heart rate has been raised for a good hour now. Can’t slow down.
I should go and thank Tiffy in person. She’s trying to find me and I keep hiding, which is clearly childish and ridiculous. Am just feeling very odd about this. Like if we meet, everything will be different, and there will be no going back to how it was. And I like how it was. Is.
Me: June, where’s Tiffy?
June: Your lovely flatmate?
Me, patiently: Yes. Tiffy.
June: Leon, it’s almost one in the morning. She left after the show.
Me: Oh. Did she … leave a note? Or anything?
June: Sorry, love. She was trying to find you, though, if that’s any consolation.
It isn’t. And no note, either. Feel like a fool. I’ve missed the chance to say thank you; probably upset her, too. Don’t like that thought. But—still buzzing about the letter, and it buoys me through the rest of the night with only the occasional crushing memory of dodging down corridors to avoid social interaction (extreme antisocialness, even for me. Wince at the thought of what Richie will say).
At the end of my shift I leave at a jog and head for the bus stop. Call Kay as soon as I’m out the door. Cannot wait to tell her about the letter, the criminal-lawyer friend, the list of questions.
Kay is unusually quiet.
Me: This is amazing, no?
Kay: This lawyer’s not actually done anything, Leon. She’s not taking on the case—or even saying she believes Richie is innocent, really.