by Clare Curzon
The town centre lay in a deep bowl which extended uphill on three sides. It made a natural auditorium and she was sometimes reminded of the ancient amphitheatre at Epidauros, imagining an orator below whose every syllable came up clearly to her. Which made the apartment’s soundproofing doubly strange. The reality was something between looking down into a goldfish bowl and watching TV with the volume turned off.
Stanford was differently inspired by the scene. ‘Toy town,’ he said of the diminished streets. ‘And you’re Rapunzel in her tower.’
‘I’m no prisoner. I come and go.’ All the same, she admitted to herself, not a lot outside work.
In ITU there wasn’t the companionship of an open ward. The nurses, individualists with families and outside interests, didn’t party together. Few of her patients were ever capable of speech.
‘How’s Audrey?’ she remembered to ask, not that there was any connection. Or not directly.
‘Much the same. Scared, of course.’
At least he appreciated that. Some doctors became desensitized, even about cancer.
‘She pretends it doesn’t matter about losing her hair, but …’
‘It must be very hard when you’ve been so beautiful. She still is, of course. But I can understand the horror.’
‘There are other aspects she hasn’t fully confronted yet. At least, I think not. Trouble is we don’t talk. Never did really. Not about basic issues.’ He slid both hands round the mug and lifted it to sniff at its contents. ‘What’s this? Ovaltine?’
‘I’m not giving you caffeine at this time of night. You work hard too; you need to switch off.’
Wish I could do it here, he thought wryly: just curl up with my head on your gentle shoulder. I’d be good, really I would. For a while, anyway. But don’t tempt me.
He sighed. ‘Guess I’d better make tracks.’ He swallowed the drink down, hot and milky. ‘I’m off on a course in a couple of days. So after tomorrow I won’t be in for a week. Dougie will cover for me, if that’s all right. Anything you need, any change you observe, just ring him.’
‘Right. Make a complete break of it, if you can.’ She wondered what arrangements he’d made for keeping an eye on Audrey. She’d surely have protested at his need to be away from home.
She saw him to the door. Stanford left and she went back to the window, waiting until, a dark shape against the snow, he eventually crossed by the traffic island, stopped and looked back, face tilted upwards.
With the room dim behind her she doubted he could see her, but still he raised a hand, and she did the same back.
Mind how you go, Keith.
The little ormolu clock in the hall struck midnight. Tomorrow already. She went through to look in on Emily asleep. Her face was calm. She looked immeasurably wise.
In her almost ninety-four years she had known three generations, outlived their changes. What tales she might tell if only she were able.
Keith Stanford pulled the collar of his black overcoat up to his ears and trudged round the outer wall of the college to the hospital car park. His red Volvo was plumply quilted with snow on roof and bonnet. Abandoned there half the day, its locks had frozen over and his de-icer was in the glove compartment.
He hunkered alongside, breathing hard on the driver’s door lock, then tried with the key. A few tactical wrigglings and the ice reluctantly yielded. He reached in for the plastic blade to scrape the frost off windscreen and mirrors. It took a few minutes with the engine running for the interior to warm, but he was in no hurry to get home. There had been three text messages from Audrey on his cellphone in the last four hours but it was pointless to reply. By now she should know how it went, emergency building on emergency; even more so in tricky weather like this.
Over the twelve years of their marriage she had never learnt how to cope on her own. Once, as a young bride, her dependence had delighted and flattered him, but his career didn’t allow for the great chunks of time she demanded in his company. Nor had he managed to divert her interest elsewhere. None of the clubs or hobbies he’d suggested had kept her interest for more than a few weeks. It was much the same with acquaintances. The faces of women who appeared occasionally in his home were constantly changing. Those with positive lives soon ran short of patience with her, and she had wit enough to avoid any of her own kind requiring efforts made on their behalf. He was quietly ashamed that when her cancer had been diagnosed he’d seen it as yet one more tentacle she reached out with to bind him close. It was as well after all that they’d never had children.
As he drove it seemed that the stars were going out one by one. If it clouded over completely the frost would be less severe, and the forecasters had been warning of more snow. Audrey hated the winter, kept on about taking a break in Madeira, Florida, anywhere but Britain. He couldn’t spare time to get away himself, and she refused to go on her own or with friends. By late May, when their holiday was booked, she could be weaker. Perhaps he could persuade the practice manager to grant him something earlier, on compassionate grounds. Not that that excuse would carry much weight with Bullock, his senior partner. And God only knew what extra time he’d have to take off when things reached the final phase.
The car was climbing towards open country. After the close-packed Victorian terraces had come more substantial houses set apart, then occasional dark woodland, bare orchards, ploughed fields. His own home had once been a farmhouse, seventeenth century, retaining many of the romantic features that delight house agents and prove less beguiling for modern living.
It was what Audrey had once set her heart on, but over the years so many alien elements had been introduced to the original structure that it now made him think of a wrinkled crone under layers of make-up and tottering on stiletto heels.
It appeared ahead through winter-bare trees; not just the porch light guiding him in, but every window defiantly ablaze as a rebuke to him that she was unable to sleep in face of his persistent neglect.
It would not be a smiling welcome. But then, he’d had that already, served up with sympathy and a nursery drink.
He was smiling to himself as he turned into the dip of the driveway. Then he saw the flashing blue lights and the cars drawn up by the entrance. Dougie was on the doorstep, pulling on his driving gloves, about to leave.
‘Audrey?’ Keith demanded, bursting from the car as it finished slewing on ice.
‘Not as bad as it might have been,’ his partner said shortly. ‘I’m sending her into hospital for the night. I want Ashton to assess her.’
‘What’s she done?’
‘Changed her mind at the last minute, fortunately,’ Dougie said. ‘Sat in the bath to slash her wrists, with her mobile phone alongside. I’ve fixed her injuries up, but she was in a right old pickle otherwise. Sedated now, but asking for you. You’d better go along with her, old chap.’
‘Of course.’ He turned towards the ambulance, then remembered the house and the lighted windows. ‘Who’s inside?’
‘Mike Yeadings. He’s just checking things out and he’s got your spare keys, so you can leave it to him. His wife’s with Audrey in the ambulance, but she’ll need to get home for her children. A neighbour’s minding them.’
‘Right. Thanks, Dougie, for coming out. What a god-awful mess.’ Ashen-faced he approached the emergency vehicle. The paramedic at the wheel hung out of the window. ‘Sorry, doc. Your car.
‘Blocking the way. Yes, sorry.’ He stumbled back to it, put it in gear and reversed into a clearing by some laurels. He switched off, put his face in his hands and waited for his shaking to steady. Then he walked over and climbed up into the familiar antiseptic smell which Audrey so detested.
‘Nan,’ he said to the woman seated beside the stretcher, ‘this is so good of you. How is she?’
‘Everything’s under control,’ was the answer. ‘She’ll be fine now you’re here.’
‘I had my mobile switched off,’ he mumbled.
‘Understandably. She tried your partner next, and
then us.’
‘Audrey rang you?’
‘Nearest neighbours she knew would understand,’ Nan said comfortably. ‘She probably remembered I’d been a nurse once.’
Or that Mike is a senior policeman, Keith thought grimly. That would have been no coincidence. And no more than I deserved. God, why didn’t I see all this building up?
Chapter Four
The first phone call next morning came at 10.15. Emily was lightly sleeping again after being washed, fed and monitored. Alyson had prepared ahead her purees for the day’s meals, all blended to a regrettable sludge of varying brownish greys or foggy yellow, although nourishing and as palatable as possible. She slid their tray into the fridge and lifted the kitchen phone.
A woman’s voice replied when she gave the number. ‘I have Mr Timothy Fitt for you. One moment, please.’
There was a pause with a metallic clank and paper rustling while Alyson pictured the solicitor, small, fussy, myopic, his hands forever in nervous movement, searching, patting, sorting. She’d always thought of his name as a contraction of Fidget.
‘A-a-ah.’ A long-drawn sigh. ‘Miss – er, Orme.’
‘Mr Fitt.’
‘Yes. Well, how are you, m’dear? And Miss Withers, of course.’
What could she say? – both fine?
‘There is no noticeable change in Emily’s condition, Mr Fitt. She’s reasonably comfortable, given the circumstances.’
‘No deterioration, then?’
Did he sound disappointed? She observed he didn’t pursue further inquiries about her own health.
‘Emily? No. In fact at times she seems briefly aware of her surroundings. If the family requires a full report I am sure Dr Stanford will be pleased to furnish one in writing.’
‘No! No, no, no.’ An initial squeak, descending an octave diminuendo. ‘Oh no, not at all. I am sure your opinion will suffice without validation.’
Validation? Lawspeak, she supposed. Even in the negative it sounded slighting. She let a short silence build without demanding. Is that all?
‘Yes. Quite,’ the solicitor bleated. ‘Well it was pleasant to speak with you again, Miss – er, er …’
‘Orme,’ she told him, and spelled it out.
‘Exactly. Goodbye.’
‘And perhaps “thank you”,’ she murmured for him as he cut the call. It was uncharitable to despise him for the way he let others use him, but she had a nurse’s acquired distaste for families who contacted patients through a third or fourth party, and the feeling leaked back on to him.
The phone rang the instant she replaced the receiver. ‘Guess what!’ invited Gina, trainee receptionist in A&E.
‘No idea, Gina. Visit from a Royal?’
‘Next best. Mega-scandal! New case for you in ITU. No less than Keith Stanford’s wife Audrey. Seems she OD’ed on something heavy, probably diamorphine. The good doctor brought her in overnight and now he’s gone off with the police.’
‘Gina, discretion! I hope you can’t be overheard.’ The rebuke was instinctive even while her flesh rippled with sudden chill. She heard again Keith’s voice; the words, ‘She’s scared …some aspects she hasn’t fully confronted yet.’
Even as he’d confided that, his wife could have been facing up to the truth, trying to deal with her ghosts alone, and failing. But where had she obtained the drug? She wasn’t allowed to administer it herself. Surely Keith hadn’t been so careless as to leave the morphine where she could find it. And just when had she taken it? During the night, or so early that when he arrived home it was almost too late to reverse it?
He had sat on here, talking companionably, even relaxing a little, while just a few miles away Audrey could have been taking her own life. Had his returning so late made a near-fatal difference? Had she expected him to find her earlier? And was it a true wish to die or a further means of moral blackmail?
But Gina was a great scandalmonger and more often than not got her facts wrong. She would not have been given access to case notes and merely assumed the OD from Mrs Stanford’s appearance when brought in. Despite the clerical trainee’s guesswork, Audrey might be in coma, as a further stage of her illness. However it was, Keith must be facing the horror of suddenly losing her.
Alyson stared round the kitchen and it seemed to have changed in some indefinable way, tilted to a different perspective. Replacing the handset, she put her free hand against the wall to steady herself.
What was the next thing she’d intended doing? Run the vacuum cleaner round the apartment. It seemed not to matter now. She walked past where she had left the machine in the hall, and continued on to her observation point. Outside, it was snowing again. Large, lazy flakes like white feathers were already settling over the earlier fall.
She was due to take over in ITU at one-thirty. Three hours to fill and she’d meant to clean the apartment before Sheena arrived; but, even as she reminded herself, she seated herself close to the window and gazed down on the diminished world outside. She saw the ghost of a dark figure cross the road, step on to the further pavement, turn, look back and raise a hand in salute. Strangely, it had the fearful impact of finality.
She forced herself to leave the compulsive screen and robotically set about tidying the rooms. Sheena arrived in a flouncy mood, perhaps fantasizing as one of her pop-scene celebrities. Alyson had neither time nor inclination to humour her. There were no fresh instructions to issue.
On the way to work she picked up a plastic box of salad and some slices of smoked salmon, but still she was there ten minutes early. ‘You’ve heard, then?’ Bernice guessed as she entered.
‘Gina rang me. How’s our new patient?’
‘Barely with us, but if you want to go straight through you could try talking to her. See if you get a reaction. She’s lost a lot of blood.’
‘Blood? What happened then? I heard it was an OD.’
‘That’ll be Gina, picking up the arse end of everything. No, Mrs S sat in a warm bath to slit her wrists, then rang round the neighbours for help. Including a senior policeman. Keith was in earlier. He’s gone now to make a statement.’
Alyson knew Bernice would have accessed all information available. It was more appalling than she’d been led to believe. She shed her outer clothes, put her purchases in a sterile bag and found a place for it in the ward fridge.
Back in the therapy unit Audrey Stanford, ashen and limp, lay on her back in a bed where old Mr Fennell’s had stood last night. Beside it a blood bag and a saline drip were suspended from an IV stand. In the next cubicle was a young male crack OD who’d also been transferred from A&E overnight. Notes on him probably accounted for Gina’s confusion over Audrey’s condition.
On the whiteboard young Dr McLean’s cabalistic signs recorded his monitoring of the young man’s body fluids. Since he wasn’t padding about between the five occupied beds she assumed he was in the broom-cupboard space of the designated restroom, sleeping off the rigours of the night. He’d have set his alarm in time for the next readings. Nobody could fault his devotion to duty. He was a puppy of the faithful-hound type, all bounding clumsiness and unbounded adoration for herself.
Alyson bent over the woman’s bed. ‘Audrey, it’s Alyson Orme. You’re with us in ITU and doing really well. Keep at it. We’re all with you.’
There was no reaction. Alyson straightened and turned away. They needed Keith here. If he brought in his wife’s favourite CDs they could play music quietly for her comfort, with the headset on her pillow. She wasn’t strictly an emergency any more, but keeping her in ITU ensured a certain degree of privacy when all private rooms were in use elsewhere. And here the consultant from Psychiatry could observe her discreetly.
Where was Keith now? She imagined he’d gone home after seeing the police and would snatch a few hours of rest. Better not risk a phone call waking him. He would certainly come when he was ready, or ring in for a progress report.
Sheena Judd was feeling distinctly elated. Having left home straight after a
n early lunch with the declared intention of walking to work, she had instead taken a bus from the stop beyond her usual one (which could be overlooked from home) and got off at The Crown. It was the quiet before their midday rush and Ramón was polishing glasses. There was no sign of Roseanne.
‘Hi,’ she said, as if to an old friend.
The man’s face stayed unmoving. ‘Vodka Martini, yes?’
‘Actually I fancy something different this time.’ (Never let them think you’re predictable, the style magazine had advised: to be unpredictable is to be feminine.) ‘So what do you recommend?’
‘Uh’ That had foxed him: so, good!
‘You try something I invent, perhaps?’
‘I’ll trust you, many wouldn’t.’ Being provocative for a change.
It came the colour of Mum’s cough mixture. Not too far off the same taste too. Or what she imagined the taste would be, going by the smell. ‘Great,’ she lied. ‘I could get hooked on this.’
It had the desired effect. Perhaps flattered, he left the polishing and rested his elbows on the bar counter opposite her. ‘Roseanne not in?’ she asked him.
‘She come in at three. Relief me, yes?’
‘Relieves,’ she corrected him. ‘I go on duty at one. When you come off, why not drop in and have a coffee on the house?’ She beamed expansively. ‘Actually dropping up’s more like it. It’s the penthouse over the car showrooms. Hit the lift button for the seventh floor. Come up and admire the view. We’re on top of the world there.’
He was looking inscrutable and that irritated her, counting on some reciprocal matiness. But behind the impassive, square features he must have been considering the invitation. ‘Perhaps I find time after I finish.’
‘Great. There’s an entry-phone at the outer door. Just ring and whisper “Ramón” into it and I’ll release the door lock.’
‘I know how these things work.’ Did the stupid woman think he had never been anywhere? She should have seen Hong Kong with its real towers. This female lump and her petty seventh floor!