Bone Deep

by Sandra Ireland

  ‘Lucie, do you want a tissue?’ Fiddling with the zip gives her something to do, somewhere else to look. It’s Arthur who offers me a crumpled bit of kitchen roll. I dab my eyes. The paper smells of suet.

  ‘How is he?’ I manage to whisper.

  My mother looks at me then, her eyes frosty. ‘Jane and Laura are in with him just now. They’re speaking to the nurse.’

  Laura is Reuben’s sister. Their parents are dead, so they’re very close, and because she’s Reuben’s sister I’ve soaked up all the details of her life. Her husband works offshore, like Reuben. She has three kids, another on the way and a nursing career she’s put on hold. I feel I know her intimately, but in reality I’ve only met her twice and I’d be hard pressed to recognise her.

  Mum is looking at Arthur, and awkwardly I make the introductions. I’d thought he would just drop me off, I’m sure he has more important things to do, but he accompanied me all the way in; guided me into a lift when I got lost, pointing out the signs. He’d kept up a conversation of sorts: ‘I know this place well. My mother is always having tests. My father, he was never in hospital a day in his life. They brought him here, after the accident, but he was already . . .’

  I hadn’t known what to say, couldn’t really get my head round any of that, with Reuben lying in the building somewhere, stretched out under cold sheets. I’ve always had a fear of hospital beds: they look so hard, so unfamiliar. Had Arthur’s father been in a car crash too? I’d let the notion drift away, kept my head down, plodded on.

  Arthur is making some small talk about the cost of the car park. Father has gone down to get coffee, Mum says – it could be a long night. I realise we are here for the duration, a family, a show of strength. I must be a sister, a dutiful daughter. I cannot weep at Reuben’s bedside. I must distance myself, as I have always done. I recall the scrap of poetry I’d scribbled in Mac’s study. It’s still love, isn’t it? Had I picked it up? Chucked it in the bin? I can still feel my hand in yours. I hope I’ve thrown it away. What if Mac reads it? We will never have a Christmas tree together, you and I.

  I don’t want people knowing this; judging me. Arthur has guessed. My mother knows. Did she ever tell my father? Oh God. I am waiting for another chance to be alone with you. Oh God, oh God. I act restrained, as if I couldn’t care less.

  Oh God oh God oh God . . .

  Perhaps the one person who doesn’t know me at all is my sister.

  Cold overhead light burns the white sheet. I can’t quite believe the bump beneath the sheet is Reuben. He should be more restless, to be Reuben; take up more space. This is a line drawing of a man, plugged into machines I don’t recognise. There’s some kind of cage keeping the linen from his legs.

  I remember that other light, so recently: sunshine spilling through a gap in the curtains, illuminating his nose, his chin; spidery black lashes, and the steady rise and fall of his sleeping chest. I’d wondered what he was dreaming about. Now his mind has been emptied by drugs; I can hear the drip of them, somewhere, in a tangle of pipelines. I don’t want to look at all that stuff, but it saves me having to make eye contact with Jane. Laura has excused herself to go to the bathroom. I was shocked by the size of her bump. How awful it must have been to receive this news, to find childcare, transport. To be at her brother’s side in that condition. I realise with a shock that I have more empathy for this stranger than for my own sister. What am I turning into?

  Jane is wearing a yellow cardigan; it was the first thing I’d noticed when the nurse said I could go in, and I thought it was too optimistic for a situation like this. And then I remembered – Jane doesn’t even like yellow. I gave her a big fluffy yellow cushion one Christmas and she took it back and swapped it for a pale pink one. Jane has an irritating habit of cuddling cushions when she’s watching the telly, or on the phone to Reuben.

  Maybe the yellow cardigan was all she could find in that moment of panic, when Laura called. She would have gone numb, breathless. She tries to function, looking for her shoes, her jacket. She grabs a cardigan, any cardigan. She can’t do up the buttons because her fingers are shaking.

  Feeling sick, I reach for my sister’s hand. My palms are sweating. Her hands are stone cold.

  ‘He’s strong. He’ll pull through.’

  She glances at me. Her eyes are dry, and I’ve made sure mine are too. I’m trying so hard to keep a lid on it. She doesn’t speak, and my heart winces. Does she know? How can she know?

  ‘Can I get you anything?’

  Jane licks her lips. It’s hot in here. The air is dry and chemical. ‘It’s okay, Dad’s gone to get coffee. Lucie . . .’ She squeezes my hand. ‘Thanks for being here.’

  Then I begin to cry again.

  The cakes are fresh and appealing. Too luscious for a hospital cafe. I think they should be past their sell-by date and taste of dust, in line with the emotional tenor of the place. Arthur is tucking into a croissant. Why is he still here?

  ‘Why are you still here?’

  I’m staring at him across the Formica table. Steam rises from the cappuccino between my elbows. Arthur stops chewing, as if he hadn’t realised he was under scrutiny and is now embarrassed. His cheeks colour up and he wipes crumbs from the corners of his mouth.

  ‘I’m just checking out the baking.’ His eyes, behind the smeary spectacles, hold a glint of humour. ‘They do a nice line in almond croissants. Good, but not as good as the one I had in Budapest in 2006.’

  ‘You remember where you were when you ate good cake?’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone?’

  ‘No. I remember where I’ve had good sex.’

  I want to shock him. That’s the anger coming out, now that the initial shock has passed. I’m fucking angry. Why did Reuben crash? Why have I now got to go through this charade, when all I want to do is throw myself on the bed beside him? Poor, quiet Arthur is fair game for my rage.

  ‘Oh, you do?’ He isn’t so easily shocked. ‘Where was your best place?’

  It’s my turn to blush. I glance down at my cup, bathe in the steam. ‘An old pub on the coast. A sea view and a brass bed.’

  ‘With Reuben?’

  I nod slowly. I can feel his gaze on my forehead. ‘Do you know what? I just want to go home.’

  ‘I’ll take you home. You’d better say your goodbyes.’

  Straightening up, I glance at the overhead signs. There are crowds of people all milling around, buying sweets, fags, magazines. Some are in their pyjamas and robes, drips still attached as if this, this, is reality, and we’re all incomers. I don’t want to get used to this reality.

  ‘Which ward is it again?’

  ‘Orthopaedic trauma. Do you want me to come up with you?’

  I don’t reply, but he scrapes his chair back anyway, and ushers me out.

  Mac

  There is mischief afoot. My mouth is dry and I’m getting the smell of horses – no, saddlery. The old heart is pattering along like a train and I’m trying to call out to Elspeth. I can see her in the distance, dangerously close to the water’s edge. Where is Bella? Bella should be watching out for her, but try as I might, I cannot catch a glimpse of that dark hair, that pale face. The trees are in the way. Then I hear gunshots: one, two. Close range. Elspeth! Come away! I think I’m screaming . . .

  I gasp into wakefulness, finding myself slumped in my comfy armchair. My head is wedged at an awkward angle against the wing of it, nose pressed into green leather. No wonder I’m smelling saddles. I shift cautiously, face all scrunched up in anticipation of pain. This is how we get bloody wrinkles, anticipating the crap life throws at us. The telly is still on, some awful cop show, Yanks shooting each other all over New York City. Close range. One, two. The dream recedes. I remember I’ve been reading ‘The Cruel Sister’, and the book has fallen to the floor. Elspeth, and Bella, wherever she is, draw back into my imagination.

  Oh Lord . . . I wipe a hand across my face. It feels clammy and my neck hurts. Worse, my heart is still skidding around like a hype
ractive spaniel. Pressing both palms against it, I feel hard bone beneath the soft padding of my breasts. Am I losing weight? A glance at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece – just after ten. I must have dropped off during The One Show. Groaning, I lurch to my feet. The dogs will have peed all over the damn kitchen.

  Those two sisters running through my dreams: Bella and Elspeth. Up to no good, slinking around the mill, picking quarrels. The events of the day have unsettled me, and I can’t get Lucie’s reaction out of my head. She seemed so distraught, and yet I hadn’t got the impression she was close to her sister.

  Shuffling down the hall, I wonder if Arthur is back. Did he just drop Lucie off at the hospital? Why didn’t he come in to tell me the news? If there is any news. They’re very cagey, these days, doctors. It’s the same every time I go for tests. You could fill up Loch Ness with the amount of blood they’ve taken out of me, and still no one will offer a proper diagnosis. Arrhythmia, is the closest they’ve come. An irregular heartbeat. But why? Why is my heart out of sync with the rest of me? Nobody will hazard a guess, because if they guess, and guess wrong . . . well, they’re all afraid of the big lawsuits these days.

  The dogs go wild, but at least nobody has peed, and I let them out the back door. The night is crisp and very dark. No moon, even though I look for it. It’s one of life’s pleasures, a starry sky and a moon of some description. It doesn’t have to be full, a nice neat sickle will do. It just makes you feel less alone in the universe, to look at that moon and think that the one you love is somewhere beneath it too. Connectivity, that’s what it’s all about.

  Of course, none of that applies to me now. Back in the day, when Jim was here, I could let myself think like that. I was always the one who was absent. There was always some conference or other claiming my attention, or a teaching assignment, or a book festival. It was always me in a strange hotel room, flinging open the window, looking for the moon. Jim never strayed far, and I always felt sorry for him, somehow.

  The dogs are out there in the dark, nosing around. One of them lets out a short, sharp bark. I can hear a fox yipping a reply in the distance and the pungent scent of rosemary invades my nostrils. My heart is still uneasy, and slowly the reason is slipping back to me. There was someone else in my dream, someone I haven’t thought of for such a long time.

  The bang of a door echoing through the silent house makes me jump. Max, the ringleader, starts to bark in earnest. Is that him? Is that Arthur now, at this time? A logjam of furry bodies in the back doorway prevents me reaching the kitchen first. I think I can hear two voices.

  ‘Ma?’

  I meet up with Arthur in the kitchen. Lucie is just behind him, skulking in the hallway.

  ‘Come in then. I’ll put the kettle on.’ My voice comes out quite harsh. Arthur is rubbing the dogs’ ears. He looks exhausted. I make shushing motions at the girl, as if I’m herding geese, and she emerges into the sharp kitchen light. Her face is pinched and white. I hold the kettle under the gushing tap.

  ‘You can have a hot chocolate,’ I call out, competing with the noise of the water. ‘Sugar for shock.’

  Yes, she’s in shock. I can see that now. She’s shaking and Arthur is guiding her to a chair at the breakfast table.

  ‘I just feel a bit sick,’ she says, burying her head in her hands. Her dark hair cascades onto the pine surface and I long to stroke it, to comfort her, as I would Floss or any of the others. Maybe if I’d had a daughter I’d be softer, less afraid of contact. I busy myself with the mugs.

  ‘Come along now, chin up. What news from the hospital?’

  Arthur speaks for her. ‘Reuben – her sister’s boyfriend – is stable, but unconscious. He’s got internal injuries, a busted leg and a fractured skull.’

  ‘So quite bad then?’

  Arthur makes a stern cutting gesture with his hand and I shrug apologetically, placing a steaming mug of chocolate in front of the dark hair, which is all I can see of Lucie. The hair shivers a bit and draws back.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice is squeaky. ‘I haven’t eaten anything. I feel a bit . . .’

  ‘Sick? Is she going to be sick?’ I’m looking at Arthur; I don’t know why. I’m already seeing in my mind’s eye the old bucket under the sink, the scrubbing brush, the disinfectant. The dogs are always barfing on the carpet. ‘Maybe a Rich Tea biscuit? Arthur, get the biscuit tin. Have a Rich Tea biscuit, it will settle your stomach. Or a tablespoon of brandy. My grandmother always swore by a tablespoon of brandy.’

  The hair groans. The biscuit tin is produced and the dogs gather round, brown eyes reproachful, already anticipating a refusal.

  Lucie looks up suddenly, as if she’s forgotten something important.

  ‘Mac,’ she says. ‘I have a favour to ask.’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Is it okay if my sister, Jane, stays with me for a few days? It won’t be any hassle, I –’ She rushes the words out, as if I’m about to say no. I shake my head.

  ‘It’s fine. Of course she may. She’ll want to be near the hospital and there’s things to be taken care of. Has she spoken to the police? Where did it happen, the accident?’

  Lucie looks at Arthur. Arthur looks at me and opens his mouth. ‘Um . . . not far from here, as it happens. He was . . .’

  ‘Working in the area,’ Lucie finishes.

  I look from one to the other. There is a puzzle here, and some of the pieces don’t quite fit. ‘Right. And what about your parents? I have rooms here if –’

  ‘No!’ The girl shoots up straighter, as if the very notion of having all her family here together is too terrifying. ‘It’s very kind of you, but they’ve booked into a Travelodge tonight, and then they’re going home on the train and leaving Jane the car. She’s taking time off work. We don’t know how long . . . She’s staying at the hospital tonight, of course.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  So that will add a new dynamic – two sisters together, in the Miller’s Cottage. How strange. How fitting. Fragments of my dream return. Two sisters. My fingers itch to start scribbling down the details, before they float away. I turn around to retrieve my own mug from the worktop, absently fiddling in the pocket of my cardigan. The dogs surge forward eagerly, and Jethro sits on my foot. My fingers make contact with a folded piece of paper – Lucie’s love poem to person unknown.

  Interesting.

  Lucie

  March

  Jane has hands like a child, and like a child’s hands they are constantly in motion. No longer smeared with poster paint and glue, they are now elegant, fully qualified hands; pointed nails, a delicate gold watch draped over narrow wrist bones. I check out my own nails, with their chipped navy polish. Mac said it looks like I have frostbite. ‘No wonder, this study is like a fridge,’ I’d snapped. She’d suggested I work from the cottage, to keep Jane company, but the idea fills me with dread. My awful secret has been given a dreadful shaking. I’m terrified it will break loose and destroy us. I tell Mac that I’m fine. Work is a good distraction.

  That first evening, I light the fire in the sitting room of the Miller’s Cottage. It seems like the right thing to do, under the circumstances. Fires are comforting. I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor, feeding the grate with bits of damp wood that stink of rot and are threatening to extinguish what little flame we’ve got. I bought a chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio from the village shop and now it sits next to me, open, in the hearth – not the best place for it, but, thanks to my efforts, there is zero heat coming from the grate and plenty of smoke. Jane is sitting on the couch, legs curled under her, the gold bracelet of her watch shimmering in the firelight as she describes an anecdote with one hand, the other cupped around her wine glass. The watch had been a Christmas gift from Reuben, because Jane hates to be late. I received nothing. A gift may have been taken as evidence, he’d reasoned, and used against him. Jane’s wine is diluted with soda, in case ‘circumstances change’ and she is called to the hospital.

  ‘So we went to view t
his gorgeous little cottage. You remember the one at the junction where the Inveraray road forks to the left?’ A half-moon motion of her hand. ‘Mum used to take us to the woods there, to see the tadpoles in the pond. You were always scared of the water, scared of the little slimy things.’

  ‘We have a pond,’ I mutter.

  She ignores me and presses on with her tale. I realise I’ve invented a new ‘we’ – Mac and Arthur and me, even though I don’t particularly want to be part of a ‘we’ that doesn’t include Reuben. Jane’s ‘we’ has been to view a house. Jane’s ‘we’ is talking about getting engaged. She fingers the watch band, imagining a smaller gold circle, no doubt. There is such sadness in her eyes, I immediately feel guilty.

  ‘Have some more wine.’ I rouse myself to reach for the bottle, but her hand immediately caps the top of her glass.

  ‘No, I’d better not. I need to be able to drive, in case . . . in case the hospital calls.’

  We both glance at her silent mobile, sitting on the arm of the couch. She picks it up, checks the signal, the battery. A loud rapping at the back door makes us both jump. I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s just after nine.

  ‘Could be Arthur with more cakes.’

  There are two cops standing there when I open the back door. I taste the wine on my breath and feel guilty for no reason. They take off their helmets when I invite them in. The male cop has to duck under the lintel. The female cop is shorter than me, but there’s a knowing glint in her eye that says don’t underestimate me. I won’t. I lead them into the sitting room. Jane has put down her wine; she’s clutching a cushion, not knowing whether to get up or stay seated. The cops perch on chairs, and the male one fishes a notebook from his breast pocket. They have come to inform us – Jane – about the details of the accident.