Calling All Services (Calling All... Book 1)

by Tara Ford

  “Hello Grandma and Grandad,” she sighed as the sight in the kitchen reminded her of the long trail of events stretching back to the early hours of the morning, when she had woken to find her dad with his burnt foot in a bowl, being nursed by a policewoman. Crazy! She wondered how much her grandparents really knew. Her grandad smiled and beckoned her to him for a hug without saying a word.

  “Hello love, are you all right? Your dad’s a silly beggar isn’t he?”

  Rising from her chair, Dot pulled Emma to her and squeezed her around the ribs until the usual crunch and grind of bone meant that she had been cuddled to death by Grandma. “We’re just going to start cleaning up. Do you want to give us a hand, darling?”

  No wasn’t an option in Grandma’s rule book, so Emma smiled sweetly and nodded.

  Knocking the plastic casing of the toaster harder, Grant eventually peeled the melted mould away from the burnt worktop.

  “That worktop will have to go too,” injected Charlie as he examined the surface.

  “Hmm, I think I’ve pretty much lost half a bloody kitchen here Charlie!” panted Grant.

  Nodding his balding head, Charlie collected the toaster remains and discarded them on the patio along with several other pieces of kitchen equipment.

  The April sun still shone bright and strong in the garden where Dot, Emma and Aaron (who had been coaxed back down by his sister) scrubbed plates, pots and pans in the buckets which had been prepared earlier for car-cleaning. Row upon row of cutlery, bowls, cups, dishes and any other salvageable kitchen inhabitants lined the lawn as they dried on bed sheets in the midday heat.

  “Dad, Evelyn is at the door, shall I invite her in?” grinned Aaron, upon his return from an authorised toilet break. Peeping through the window of the front room Aaron had just been able to make out Evelyn’s twig like figure almost crouching, ready to pounce through the door as soon as it was opened.

  The proximity of Evelyn’s good friend Dot, Grant’s mother-in-law, meant that Grant had to oblige and agree to let the arachnid in.

  “Yes, of course!” he shouted from his incinerated empire, as he tutted and rolled his eyes.

  A good hour of interrogation and ridicule later, Grant had gathered enough clean mugs to attempt to make a sooty cup of smoked tea for everyone. Great – no bloody kettle and the saucepans were on the lawn, ready for scrubbing!

  Returning from the supermarket, Grant rushed indoors and unpacked the brand new, gleaming chrome kettle (at least there was one new item in the kitchen now, but Grant knew there would be many more by the time Alex had finished buying a new kitchen).

  Silently, he thanked whoever it was that came up with the idea of around-the-clock shopping, for although it was Easter Sunday, some shops were open for a few hours.

  Five minutes later, Grant burnt his lips trying to sip the hot elixir and then its magical powers renewed his vigour – somewhat vigorously. Ah, that’s so much better, he thought, leaning against the sink unit, before putting the kettle on again to make everyone else a cuppa.

  Thoroughly engrossed in the ill fate bestowed upon the Freys, Evelyn revelled in the glory of knowledge that she would dictate to any web captives in the street later.

  “Ooh, you must be excited about Tuesday, Charlie.” Evelyn beamed. “What are you going to do if Alex isn’t any better?”

  “Dot and Grant will be there. They can do it between them.”

  Charlie glanced from the corner of his eye at Dot, who pretended not to hear him as she continued to scrub an unlabelled tin of baked beans, until it was sparkling clean.

  “I’m sure they will manage perfectly between them,” smiled spidery Evelyn. “I can’t wait to see it, Charlie.”

  Rolling his bottom lip, Charlie tried to edge away from her (like Grant, he knew what she was like and he was well aware that his wife was just as bad) and found reason to return indoors to help Grant with the tea.

  “Oh dear, Evelyn might come to watch on Tuesday,” said Charlie forlornly as he towered in the archway, watching Grant testing out his new kettle.

  No, surely she’ll stay at home and watch my house. It’s far more interesting to her. “Great, that’s all we need, eh?” Grant replied sarcastically.

  “I think you should use these tins quite soon, Grant. They may have been heated up already, in the fire. I’ve cleaned them up but most of the labels have come off. I could number them if you’d like me to,” called Dot cheerily. Doing a good deed for anyone always made her feel more self-righteous than she felt on a normal self-righteous day.

  “Don’t worry about them Dot, I’ll throw them away,” barked Grant in frustration through the open kitchen window. “They’re only a few tins of beans or peas.”

  “Well I’ve just spent the last half an hour cleaning them!” she replied, disgruntled.

  For heaven’s sake, why don’t you just go home and leave me to it. It’s my freaking house and if I want to throw away a tin of beans – I bloody well will do! thought Grant, feeling his temper start to rise as he falsely grinned at Charlie.

  A tall figure of a man, Charlie had aged extremely well. For his 70 years, he stood as upright as anyone else and could still do most things that he wanted to do. White wispy hair curled from the lower parts of his head, skirting a brown, shiny bald top. His nickname was ‘the nutty professor’, given to him many years ago by work colleagues who witnessed his inventions developing and heard about his lifelong hobbies. His placidly quiet demeanour and clandestine hobbies at the end of a long day only stood to enforce his nickname. The small ground-floor room at the front of his house was accessed only by himself. Every two or three years (sometimes even longer), he would allow the family to visit his sacred room of magnificent machinery to peruse his latest creation.

  “We’ll be gone in a bit,” whispered Charlie, sensing the mood in Grant’s voice. A crinkled wink of his eye, and then Charlie carried the tea tray out to the garden.

  “Ooh, a nice cuppa, just what we need out here,” crowed Dot, who was still scrubbing tins and packets of cereal.

  Lounging in the deck chair, Evelyn kept a close watch on the cleaners with her four pairs of eyes, as Grant followed Charlie out to the patio.

  Grant had to be honest and admit to himself that a good job had been done by all parties in the efforts to clean up the kitchen.

  Obediently washing and cleaning plates and all the other kitchen paraphernalia, Aaron and Emma sat on the sunny lawn looking like two orphaned children in a Victorian workhouse.

  “Are you two okay?” asked Grant, realising they were not. Teenagers could not be expected to sit on the lawn and continue to look happy while filling bed sheets with wet pots and pans in the company of their irritating grandma and a predatory spider.

  “Yeah,” replied Aaron without looking up.

  Sitting close by, Emma didn’t say a word but the scowl on her face spoke for her.

  “Why don’t you both have a break now, you’ve done a brilliant job,” smiled Grant, feeling sorry for them both having to sit under the evil glare of Evelyn, which was always well hidden behind a partially toothless grin.

  Without a moment’s hesitation Aaron and Emma quickly jumped up and scooted indoors to the living room to watch television and eat soot-flavoured Easter eggs.

  Four o’clock and the sun had shined all day, although the heat on the patio was wearing thin as the April evening started to creep in. Stubbing out his first cigarette of the last few hours, Grant heaved a big sigh and went indoors to survey the kitchen once more. Well, he supposed they could do with a new one. It had just come at the wrong time but Grant knew he would have to arrange something pretty quick for when Alex returned home.

  Alex!

  A guilty streak ran through him as he realised he hadn’t thought about her at all in the last few hours. It was getting late in the day, and she would probably be wondering where he was. She would also be distraught and positively angry when she found out what had happened, and more poignantly, how it happened.
Another thought hit him – he hadn’t even phoned to find out which hospital she was in.

  The front door opened and Jack and Joe strolled in with tired, burnt faces and muddy knees. The bulging eye glowed blue and purple having been enhanced by the sun, but Jack was too fatigued to care.

  “Have we got a barbeque for tea?” shouted Joe in an elated, hungry voice (he was always hungry) as he threw his kit bag down and slumped in a chair.

  “I’m going to get a shower before tea... then it’s bed for me,” Jack stated firmly as he began to head for the stairs. Apart from a couple of brief catnaps on the trains the previous evening, he hadn’t had any sleep (well, apart from when he was a sleeping spectator on the sidelines of the football pitches).

  “Hang on a minute boys,” said Grant, “I’ve got something to show you.” Beckoning Jack and Joe with his index finger, Grant led the way through to the dining room and kitchen.

  Alex

  A kind, old-fashioned, elderly woman, Nurse Gower had assisted me in the bathroom in a most respectful and dignified way. Wondering whether she was on borrowed time for her pension rights, I gratefully accepted her help in getting onto a chair under the shower head. The warm, refreshing water cascaded over my entire body as I smoothed over the Hibiscrub I’d been asked to use.

  Initially, I had been somewhat offended when Nurse Gower gave me the small container and told me to have a wash with it. Looking like a bottle of disinfectant in my hand, I worried that maybe I smelt so bad that the staff had wanted me to sterilise myself. As paranoia started to get the better of me I decided to take control, convincing myself that it was routine to wash with a gel form of sterilising fluid. With an ever-present risk in hospitals of the MRSA virus, I assumed it was a precautionary measure rather than my body odour being so unbearable to the ward staff and other patients.

  Dried and warm, I dragged the tattered, clean underwear up my legs. Coming to a halt above my knees, I realised they would not comfortably go any further without cutting off the blood circulation.

  Nurse Gower had said I could pull the cord if I needed any help in the bathroom, but I was not going to ask her to wrench the pathetically small piece of fabric, otherwise known as a thong, any further. Admitting defeat, I pulled them back to my ankles and reached for the two-day-old pair I’d recently peeled off. I stretched over in the chair and just about managed to grab them.

  Startled by a tapping noise on the door, I seized the old underwear and dragged it up as quickly as possible.

  “Are you okay in there, Mrs Frey?” called Nurse Gower.

  “Yes I’m fine, thank you!” I replied, inching the material past the seat of the chair. Becoming an expert in underwear dressing while seated with dead legs, I concluded that I’d had enough practice while using the commode on numerous occasions in the hospital, to warrant calling myself an expert. The drugs injected directly into my veins had ensured that my bowels had no problems whatsoever in emptying themselves in a very unprofessional way, and therefore, copious amounts of commode usage had given me my new proficiency status.

  “Remember to pull the cord if you need anything.”

  “Yes I will, thanks,” I articulated through the wide bathroom door.

  Nurse Gower was wise enough to sense that I desperately needed some dignified privacy, after the last 36 hours of personal invasion by countless medical staff.

  The fresh smell of disinfectant rising from my skin became a pleasant and comforting experience as I sat on the plastic chair behind the shower curtain, refreshed and clean.

  Surely things could only get better from this point of renewed vigour and optimism, I pondered, rubbing the remaining traces of pink Hibiscrub from my arms. Even wearing the same underwear again had a fresh, renewed feel as my skin tingled and glowed after the warming shower.

  The fear of getting my hair wet, had ensured that I just managed to fling my head backwards and away from the shower head enough to keep most of it free from the pre-frizz-bomb water.

  “Don’t wash your hair with this,” Nurse Gower had informed me earlier when she handed the bottle over.

  Have no fear! I have no intention of washing my hair at all! I’d replied inside my head.

  My hair, water and no straighteners in the hospital was an inconceivable idea. I would make Hair Bear from the Hair Bear Bunch look like a decidedly well-groomed member of the trio. There would be carefully considered expletives added to their famous catchphrase, ‘Help! It’s the Hair Bear Bunch!’ if I had to endure a wet mop.

  Sliding myself back across and onto the wheelchair, I was ready to leave the bathroom and return to the ward, wearing a fresh hospital issue, rose-print gown.

  It was heaven-sent that I was still able to use both arms and the rash was starting to fade on its travels upwards past my navel. Hopefully, today would be judgement day and I would finally discover what was wrong with me, get some tablets, borrow a wheelchair and go home. Sunday was my favourite day of the week. It was cupcake-baking day and by the look of the weather outside, it would also be barbeque day at home, so I didn’t want to spend any longer stuck in the hospital.

  More importantly, I had Easter eggs to eat!

  Returning to the ward, riding on my new form of transport, expertly driven by Nurse Gower, I noticed that the curtains had been drawn on the ward. The sun glared through the large windows, highlighting the view I had been eagerly looking forward to. Disappointingly square, the landscape outside bore sections of the hospital, built in all shapes and sizes dotted across the skyline.

  “Do you want to sit in the chair by the window?” asked Nurse Gower sweetly as we approached my bed.

  “Yes please.” I smiled. “It’s another beautiful day out there, isn’t it?”

  “Oh yes,” she replied, beckoning the other nurse over to help lift me onto the padded, old-fashioned chair.

  Breakfast was a glorious affair! Hunger grew inside me as soon as the sound of the clinking trolley came onto the ward, followed by the potent aroma of hot buttered toast. Having voluntarily skipped every meal over the last day and a half, much to the annoyance of the medical staff, I now devoured every crumb of toast on offer, every flake of cereal and every last drop of tea. I actually felt a little better today! The proverbial bus that had hit me and then morphed into a high-speed train had now been demoted to a three-tonne lorry.

  Listening to classical music in the earphones, which had been provided, I lay motionless as the giant magnetic machine whirred and knocked, sometimes loudly. Claustrophobia was like a nightmarish sixth sense for me, and one that I struggled to deal with.

  “It won’t take too long,” the radiographer said calmly through the earphones before returning my ears to the delights of Andrea Bocelli, having noted the fearful gaze in my eyes earlier, as I lay inside the machine. “Just keep very still in there,” she said from the kiosk.

  Well I’m hardly going to get up and walk away, am I? I smiled back, as I surveyed the tunnel around me.

  On my return to the ward after the caving expedition with Andrea Bocelli and Sarah Brightman inappropriately singing, Time to Say Goodbye, Nurse Gower assured me that the doctors would be doing their rounds shortly. (I’d heard that one before.)

  The furry film of what I could only surmise would be a battlefield of bacteria on my teeth had faded away during breakfast but now it was returning with a vengeance. Daydreaming on the chair, I cogitated over the idea of cleaning my choppers with Hibiscrub and then quashed the thought instantly, reaching into my handbag in search of a mint. Maybe Emma would realise she had forgotten the toothpaste and tell Grant to bring some in – fat chance of that happening! Inwardly giggling, I concluded that if Emma’s last package was anything to go by, she would probably end up bringing K-Y Jelly in for me to clean my teeth.

  Oh, how I missed them all and could only guess what they would be up to on a Sunday morning. Grant would be reading his Sunday paper and then complete the crossword whilst eating a cooked breakfast (but I wasn’t there and I coul
dn’t imagine anyone else bothering to cook breakfast, so maybe not).

  Perhaps he was cleaning his car – and mine! Grant always told me off for the state of my clapped-out old Mondeo. I was a house cleaner, not a car cleaner!

  “For heaven’s sake, Alex, filth and utter mess is one thing, but then there’s your car - which is another. It’s ridiculous!” I could hear him saying.

  Of course, he was right. It was an embarrassment really, compared to his pristine model, but I couldn’t part with my faithful, ancient ‘Blondy-Mondy’, as I’d named her for her champagne colour.

  “You have got to stop parking under the trees Alex, the paintwork is going to rot away and I’m not paying out for another re-spray!”

  I had tried desperately to find somewhere else to park but it wasn’t always possible, especially when I had a boot-load of stock from the wholesaler. Convinced that the trees around my shop had pterodactyl-sized birds watching and waiting in them, I attempted to park strategically between two trees, but this just meant that my car got bombarded by low-flying bird poo from both sides. It always managed to splatter artistically all over the bonnet and windscreen.

  The interior of my car was another story – well, it was my mobile office, restaurant and launderette. I was a busy businesswoman and a multi-tasker!

  My thoughts drifted to Jack and Aaron, I guessed they would be home (I hoped) after the fiasco of Aaron getting lost, but they would probably stay in bed until way past midday.

  Joe would be at his football tournament for most of the day and arrive home tired, muddy and temperamental.

  As for Emma, she would spend the morning (what she would see of it), in her bedroom, listening to music and experimenting with make-up. Then she would go out with her best friend Annie for the afternoon, maybe swimming at the new sports centre or hanging out at the local park. (Actually, I’d forgotten that she was now grounded, so maybe she was just going to spend the whole day scowling.)