First Aid

by Janet Davey

  ‘That’s the trouble, though. He’s sleeping downstairs. That’s as far as he got.’

  ‘I suppose I could ask your mum,’ she said.

  ‘She’s not here,’ he said.

  ‘Later,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t even think about it. She’s brewing. She never expected to get them both back, especially not on the same day.’

  ‘It’s still warm,’ Ella said. ‘There’s always the beach.’

  ‘Ray wouldn’t be up for that.’

  ‘I meant me.’

  She turned away from Vince and looked in the vague direction of the sea. It was only about half a mile away, but nobody would have known.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind coming indoors,’ she said. ‘I’m really thirsty.’

  ‘Ray’s in there. But come if you want.’

  Ella followed him up a steep, narrow staircase. The smell was intense – like her gran’s catarrh pastilles but sharper and fruitier. She had only been to Vince’s house once before. She couldn’t remember it smelling. She put her hands on either wall, as if to push them away, because it was too soon to close in on family life, even though it wasn’t her own. The kitchen door at the top of the stairs was open. Vince went in first.

  A man was leaning over the kitchen table with his head covered in a towel. He gasped on his indrawn breath and exhaled loudly. Ella took a step backwards.

  ‘Is he going to throw up?’ she said.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ Vince said. ‘This is Ella,’ he said, raising his voice.

  A wide wet face materialised from a wreath of steam.

  ‘Hi, Ella.’

  ‘Hi,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know what that stuff is,’ Vince said. ‘I suppose he’s got something the matter with him.’

  Ella went to the window and stared out at the town pigeons massed on the opposite roof. Flight had ended uncompromisingly for them too. They looked as if they’d never move again; mutations of the grey composition slates.

  ‘Nan got him shifting the furniture round yesterday,’ said Vince. ‘I think he’s got backache.’

  ‘Bad luck,’ Ella said.

  ‘Did you want a cup of tea?’ Vince said.

  Ella seemed not to hear him.

  Ray rubbed his face with a corner of the towel. ‘I don’t know what he’s on about. Dust. I breathed in dust when I moved the flaming wardrobe. What you got that hat on for indoors?’ he said, blinking at Vince. ‘Boy’s a banana.’

  He leant back over the bowl and began deep breathing again, long gasps on the in, and slow retches on the out. The towel shuddered.

  ‘We’ll go and sit in the other room,’ said Vince. ‘Let Ray get on with it.’

  ‘What about the tea?’ Ella said.

  ‘No,’ Vince said. ‘Forget it.’

  They shut the door and went into the living room. The television was on. A woman was demonstrating how to paint gold stars on the inside of a bath. Vince bent down to switch her off.

  ‘Leave it,’ Ella said. ‘I don’t mind.’

  She sat cross-legged on the floor and started to pull at the loops in the carpet. Vince turned the volume to nothing. The sun was so bright that the picture was nearly invisible. From time to time bare arms gesticulated, veering across the screen.

  ‘So, what’s been going on?’ Vince asked.

  He leant against the sofa. He stretched out his legs, pulled the hat off and jiggled it from one hand to another.

  ‘Nothing. Everyone’s still away on their holidays,’ she said. ‘Maybe some of them will come back this weekend.’

  She didn’t have a particular friend she depended on – not a boyfriend or a best girl friend. The group of girls she was with at school formed and re-formed. Sometimes she got bored and drifted away to spend time with Vince who was one of the loners in the year below. She liked Vince but no one else could see the point of him.

  A long thread came right out of the carpet. She tried to tuck it back in. She kept her head down and hoped Vince hadn’t noticed.

  ‘Why did you want to stay?’ he said.

  She thought for a moment and then picked on a formula substantially true. ‘Mum and her boyfriend had a row. A bad one.’

  Vince knew what a row was. He nodded.

  ‘She’s packed up and gone. With my brother and little sister,’ Ella said.

  ‘Gone where?’

  ‘To my gran and grandad in London. Well, they’re my great grandparents, but we call them that – the same as Mum. Her mum was killed in a road accident and they brought her up.’ She paused. ‘I said I wouldn’t go.’

  ‘Don’t blame you. He’s got a funny name hasn’t he?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The boyfriend.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think I met him once. Velcro, or something.’

  ‘Felpo,’ said Ella.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Vince.

  ‘I can’t believe you remember him,’ she said.

  ‘It was just the name. I’d know your mum again, though. She looks just like you.’

  Ella glanced at Vince suspiciously, then stared at the television screen as if suddenly absorbed by it. She was disconcerted by other people’s recollections of her. Storing up information was how she thought of it. Though she remembered all sorts of random facts about their lives. Minutes went by and Vince leant forward for the remote control to turn the sound back on for her. Ella shook her head and turned towards him again.

  ‘His real name’s Phil Phelps; it wasn’t wild enough.’

  Felpo had told her his real name because she’d asked. Her mum had given her a look, but she hadn’t seen anything wrong in asking. If she or Rob had suddenly announced they were going to call themselves Roberto and Eloise, Jo would have told them not to be so stupid – she’d have said they were lucky to have names at all.

  ‘What was the row about?’ Vince asked.

  ‘No idea. I wasn’t there. Can’t you stop fiddling with that hat? It’s annoying me,’ she said.

  ‘All right,’ he said.

  He put the hat to one side. ‘What did she say had happened?’

  ‘She didn’t really speak. She was in a kind of trance.’

  ‘Pathetic,’ Vince said.

  Ella shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘You can stop at home without them, though, can’t you? You don’t mind being on your own,’ he said.

  She shook her head.

  ‘Is there something wrong with your wrist? You keep rubbing it,’ he said.

  ‘Must have bashed it. It’s nothing to worry about. Just hurts a bit.’

  She moved her hands apart quickly and placed them on either side of her, palms down. She knew Vince was looking and didn’t raise her head.

  ‘Velcro’s still hanging around indoors, is he? Boot him out,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know where he is.’

  ‘You think he’ll come back?’

  ‘I don’t know. He didn’t take his stuff with him. He took the van though. Mum thinks he won’t come back.’

  ‘Get the locks changed. Your mum should have done that. Ray would have sorted it if you’d asked. Replaced the entire door and fixed a new tune for the bell. He did that when my brother borrowed his car without asking. Kept him busy for hours, whistling with screws between his teeth. I had a really nice day. It would have been a bit of excitement for him, locking out your mum’s boyfriend.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that. We couldn’t talk to her. She trailed round indoors, picking things up and dropping them in bags. My brother started to join in. He’s that type – knows what he’s got to the last end of pencil. He wasn’t going to leave any of his precious possessions.’

  ‘Sad,’ said Vince. ‘What about the neighbours?’

  ‘We haven’t really got any. There are just the people downstairs.’

  ‘What’s wrong with them?’

  ‘Christian,’ she said.

  ‘What about your dad?’


  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to go and stay with him. Can you lend me a fiver?’

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘But I need it back for Saturday.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘In my room somewhere.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  Vince got to his feet.

  ‘And could I have some food, once your stepdad’s got himself off the washing-up bowl?’ she said.

  ‘The fridge is full of crap, now he’s back, but I’ll try and find something,’ he said.

  Ella left the house as soon as Vince’s mother came home. Lauren didn’t smile or say hullo. Her hair was wet from swimming and she was carrying plastic bags full of shopping. Ray had turned up the volume of the sports results so it was hard to hear anyone speak. Vince looked ill after eating oven chips and apple sauce too quickly. He didn’t try to persuade Ella to stay on longer. He came down to the front door, though, and saw her out. On his instructions, she found the stile behind the recreation ground and walked along the footpaths that led to the sea.

  She sat down on the upper part of the beach where the pebbles were dry. It was an empty time of day. The sea was turning pale and opaque, paler now than the sky. The horizon was a white vacant line. Through narrowed eyes she saw the boats as silhouettes without depth, like dark paper cut-outs. It was possible to forget where she was. She pretended that she was somewhere on the other side of the world, not hemmed in by Calais and the northern coast of France. The little kids had gone back to eat and watch television and the late lot hadn’t arrived – the before-bed dog walkers and the teenage lovers with nowhere to go but the shadows of the breakwaters. Ella knew their habits. She spent a lot of evenings on her own wandering along the shore. She took off her shoes, picked them up and walked down to the water’s edge, then along, in the shallows, on the shingle. London seemed far away.

  The others would be there now. Gran and Grandad would be pleased to have them, but worried by the suddenness, failing to hide either the pleasedness or the worry, letting both come out in the wrong ways. She wasn’t with them, but she knew what it would be like. That back room where they ate so real, clear as a dream, the look and the smell of it, the dark green curtains with roses on, steamed limp by years of plain boiled vegetables. She knew what they would be talking about, not just the words, but the words behind the words.

  Lovely to have the family all together again, like Christmas, like the days when we made all the decisions and everyone was happy as Larry. We won’t ask, but we don’t have to, the question lives with us. Do you have any plans, any you-don’t-have-to-tell-us-now plans, we-wish-you-were-happy plans that will guarantee that we’ll never have to fret about you again?

  Ella picked up a pebble and threw it out to sea. It was a good throw. She couldn’t even hear or see where it fell.

  5

  ‘HAVE ANOTHER POTATO,’ Dilys said.

  ‘No, Gran, I couldn’t,’ Jo said.

  ‘You don’t seem to have eaten much, dear. You’ll have another, won’t you, Rob?’

  Rob’s hesitation was taken for agreement and his plate was revived with extra potatoes. He made the face of one overwhelmed.

  ‘You don’t have to eat them, Rob,’ Jo said.

  ‘Leave him alone, Jo, he’s growing,’ Dilys said. ‘You could do with eating more, filling out a bit. You needn’t worry about getting fat. You’re not the type. It’s ageing, losing weight. The skin stops fitting without a bit of flesh.’

  ‘I’m not worried,’ Jo said.

  ‘You need to keep an eye on your mother. Get her to look after herself a bit,’ Dilys said to her great grandson.

  Rob kept his head down and focused on the side of his plate, which was reassuringly empty.

  ‘He does look after me,’ Jo said.

  ‘All this eating out of the fridge they go in for now, it doesn’t do any good. Families should sit round the table,’ Dilys said.

  Her position at the table allowed her to look square on at Jo’s face. Jo knew what her grandmother was looking at.

  ‘Did you go and see the doctor?’

  Jo didn’t reply.

  ‘Did she, Rob?’

  Rob shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. There wasn’t time. But we put some stuff on it.’

  ‘You should have had it seen to properly and taken something for it,’ Dilys said.

  ‘Taken what?’ Jo asked.

  ‘Painkiller. Something to stop infection. Something for shock. You never did like taking things. How deep is it?’

  ‘Not very.’

  ‘Tripping over like that and catching your face on the corner of the stove. I still can’t see how you came to do it. What time of day was it?’

  Jo said nothing. Underneath the table she gripped her left hand with her right till it hurt.

  ‘How’s the seaside?’ asked Geoff, putting his knife and fork together and laying his hands on his knees. He had left a potato and there was still some meat on his lamb chop. He never cleared his plate when life was difficult. He and Rob had had the chops, Dilys and Jo the fishcakes, meant for their Saturday supper. The family had, after all, arrived unexpectedly. Dilys never ate fish on a Friday in deference to her chapel-going ancestors. Her mother and father, her grandfather with his watch chain and white whiskers, the minister of the Congregational chapel she had been taken to as a child. She carried on taking notice of them although they were dead.

  ‘You know, it’s funny your ending up at the seaside, Jo, and your gran and I retired and still in the smoke. It’s us retired ones who’re supposed to be by the sea,’ Geoff said.

  ‘Yes, you’ve said that before,’ Jo said.

  ‘Seen anything of Peter?’ he said.

  ‘Not really. The kids see him,’ Jo said. She wished she’d let him dawdle on.

  ‘Never could make any sense of that,’ he said.

  ‘Someone should have got a heavy object and knocked some sense into him,’ Dilys said.

  Jo flinched and looked across at Rob, who was still cheerlessly tackling his potatoes. The time she most felt a bond with Peter was when her grandparents started on about him.

  Dilys seemed to gather her thoughts to say something more conciliatory. A look of unaccustomed sophistication crossed her face.

  ‘We can’t all choose right the first time,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll clear away,’ Jo said.

  ‘No, you stay there. You’re on holiday. You’re to have a good rest. Besides, we’re not finished. I’ve got the pie to bring in.’

  Jo sat there. The apparent reasonableness of her grandmother’s wisesaw was shocking. The burden of choosing bore down on her, not just the first, but the next and the next. As if potential lovers and husbands appeared in a kind of identity parade and when you messed it up they lined up again. God, not him again. Did anyone get better at it?

  ‘You fetch in the pie, Dilys. I’ll clear away,’ Geoff said.

  Jo heard them moving about, the clatter of plates, the oven door opening and shutting. They came back to the table. Dilys put the dish down and the pie breathed out hot fruity vapours.

  ‘I forgot the cream,’ Dilys said.

  Jo watched her go back to the kitchen. There was one step down between the two rooms and Dilys stopped on the edge, as if contemplating a precipice. Soon, she’ll be afraid of the stairs, Jo thought. Then what will happen?

  They were all sitting down again. Dilys looked happier. It had offended her that they had had to eat different things. Choice for pudding was acceptable, though, in this case, there wasn’t any, because she hadn’t had warning.

  ‘You’ll have some pie?’ she said.

  ‘Just a small piece. No, smaller than that,’ Jo said.

  ‘Rob?’

  ‘No.’ It came out too loud. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Well, you can change your mind if you want to. Cream?’

  ‘No, thanks, Gran,’ Jo said.

  ‘It doesn’t harm you, you know, darling.’


  ‘No, I know that.’

  ‘You have a bit, Rob, in the middle of the dish.’

  ‘No, Gran.’

  ‘Please yourself. I’m not forcing you.’

  Geoff lifted the jug of cream in the approximate gesture of a toast.

  ‘It’s lovely to have you all here. Under one roof.’

  ‘No Ella, though,’ said Dilys. ‘It’s not the same without Ella.’

  There was a pause while they all thought of her. She was almost conjured up. She would have glared at them and disappeared behind her hair. Rob looked across at his mother, but she avoided his eye.

  ‘Where did you say she was?’ asked Dilys.

  I didn’t, Jo thought, and aloud she said, ‘She wanted to stay behind with her friends.’

  ‘As long as she’s all right,’ said Geoff.

  ‘She’s got some nice friends, has she?’ asked Dilys.

  ‘Just normal kids. You know.’

  ‘She helps out at Lois Lucas’s too, you were saying,’ Dilys said.

  ‘Every now and then.’

  ‘She seems young to be working,’ Dilys said.

  ‘It’s only informal, a bit of pocket money. Nothing to get excited about. It gives me a lie-in at the weekend.’

  Jo pushed back her chair. She had left most of the pie.

  ‘Rob and I’ll do the washing up,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ said Geoff, ‘That’s my job. You sit and talk to your grandma. She doesn’t often see you. Rob will give me a hand.’

  Dilys smiled and patted Jo’s arm. ‘That will be nice. We’ll go and sit in the other room.’

  ‘I’m fine here. Really. Let’s not move,’ Jo said.

  The idea of relocating and stimulating a new, more vigorous line of questioning appalled her. More of the same seemed simpler and, with any luck, shorter. She knew where her grandmother’s edginess came from. Dilys had a nose for ruin. She would rather have been dead, than sit on a train looking wretched. The grubby child on the floor, the bag-lady luggage, the fresh scar down the face, the attitude so detached that a girl – one of her great grandchildren – had jumped out between stations. Even recalling the scene seemed dangerous, as if Dilys would get a glimpse of the train compartment through the back of her head.