He stopped, turned, waved, and ran back. There was a big grin on his face as he came level, Dulcie frolicking round his feet, both of them panting. The day was warm. “Hi, Rachel!”
“Hello, Jasper. Hello, Dulcie. Sorry, I was on the phone – to my big brother in New Zealand.”
“Oh. I didn’t know you had a brother.”
“I don’t see him very often. He’s a wildlife photographer, travels all over.”
“Awesome!”
“So what are you doing down here? Not slaving away at your A levels, then?”
He jogged from foot to foot. “Exams are over, hooray! And we’ve been given a week’s so-called study leave before we get going again. So I thought I’d come down and see Dad. He came to collect me – we just got back. Dulcie needs a walk and I thought I’d see if you wanted to come.”
I was going to decline, but I saw his hopeful face and thought better of it. “OK, yes, why not? Give me a minute and I’ll get something on my feet.”
We walked along the towpath in the late afternoon sunshine, away from the city. Others had the same idea: there were families and pushchairs and other dogs, and we occasionally lost sight of Dulcie as she met a friend and capered off in a canine game. The farther we got from the city the fewer people we met. Down on the marshy ground which in places flanked the river, lone fishermen sat by salty creeks on tiny folding seats, dozing over their rods as the sun declined. “Can’t be catching much down there,” I commented.
“Eels, maybe,” Jasper said. “What I know about fishing wouldn’t cover a pinhead.”
“Me too, now, though a hundred years ago my father taught me to fish. Look, Jasper, do you mind if we sit for a while? You and Dulcie are young and sprightly, but I’ve only been out of rehab a couple of days.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Sorry, Rachel, I wasn’t thinking.”
We found a bench by the side of the towpath, and Dulcie was content with scampering after a ball that Jasper produced from his pocket and bringing it back to drop hopefully at his feet. “She’s been cooped up all day,” he said. “Needs to use some of that energy.” He looked sideways at me. “How’ve you been since I saw you last?”
“OK, more or less. I was in rehab for about two weeks. It was a huge bore, but I guess it had the desired effect. No more dressings, and I’m getting to do a lot of things with my hands these days.”
“Do you have follow-up appointments?”
“Yes, once a week at the clinic. Going tomorrow morning, actually. They like to make sure I am doing all the exercises. Big yawn.”
Jasper looked at the ground, tossing the ball gently from hand to hand as the dog lay flat on her stomach, nose between her paws, following his every movement with her eyes. “You’ve healed up really well,” he said. “Quicker than I thought you would.” He looked up at me, his face serious. “Maybe that’s because I was praying for you.”
“Maybe indeed.” I paused, looking at him sideways. “So, Jasper, on that subject – how do you get on at school? Don’t they bully you because of your beliefs? As I understand it teenagers can be pretty horrible.”
He nodded. “Some can, of course. You get that anywhere. My school’s pretty serious about bullying, but there’re ways to get at someone without breaking the rules, without anyone noticing except the victim. Anyone who’s a bit different is a potential target.”
“So do you keep quiet, play it down?”
“No, I’ll say stuff if it arises and people know, but I don’t go ramming it down their throats. Everyone’s entitled to their own views. Anyway, I have a secret weapon.” He smiled, and his eyes lit up.
“What’s that?” I thought he’d say something about being divinely defended, but he didn’t.
“In a boys’ school like mine, you get respect if you’re good at sport,” he said. “Not so much for being clever, because some people think that makes you a geek. My swimming trophies are my defence.”
“You’re really good, then, are you?”
“Not bad,” he said modestly. “I’m hoping to get some swimming in this week, maybe with Dad on his day off.”
“If I’m not being too nosy, how come you’re a Christian? Was it because that was how you were brought up?”
“Partly,” he said. “My parents made sure I knew what I was getting into.” He smiled. “But it was my own decision.”
“When was that?”
“Oh, um, about three, maybe four years ago. I was having a bit of a rough time at school: there was one particular boy who seemed to have it in for me.” To my surprise, I heard him chuckle. “You might not believe this, but I was a bit fat in those days.”
“Really? You amaze me. There’s nothing to you now.”
“Mum and I moved to London when I was eleven, nearly twelve. I had a lot of adjusting to do, I guess, and I wasn’t handling it well – new house, new school, different friends.” He stared down at his hands, draped across his knees. “And I missed my dad, and worried about him being here all on his own. I stopped swimming for a while, and ate too much chocolate! Eventually I started swimming regularly again and doing other sports as well, and weirdly the boy that teased me and I became quite good mates in the end, even if he had been pretty horrible about my flab.”
“So what caused you to make up your mind?”
“It’s hard to say. I knew my dad was praying for me when things were tough at school, and so were the people in the church where we all used to go to and he still does, and that had a good effect I reckon. Then a speaker came to our school and what he said just started me off thinking, and that was it.”
“Never looked back?”
“No, not really. Though I still have moments… everybody does.”
“Do you go to church in London?”
“Yes.”
“With your mum?”
“Sometimes. But she doesn’t go that much these days, so I go on my own.”
“Brave man.”
He laughed softly. “You think so?” He sighed. “I wish my mum did come with me, but she’s always thinking about what Jack would like.”
“Jack’s your stepfather?”
“Yes. Don’t get me wrong – he wouldn’t stop her or anything. She can do what she likes, whatever makes her happy, as far as he’s concerned. He sees it as a sort of harmless hobby, I think. Nothing to get worried about because it doesn’t connect with the real world – not his reality, anyway.”
“D’you get on with Jack OK? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“No, I don’t mind. Yeah, Jack’s all right. We just don’t really inhabit the same universe, that’s all. As long as he treats my mum OK that’s fine with me. I won’t be living at home for ever, anyway, will I?” Dulcie started to fidget, butting his knees with her head. He glanced at his watch. “I’d better get this dog home. She’s telling me she wants her dinner. So do I, and Dad’s cooking.” He got up, stretched out a hand and took mine, pulling me to my feet. “Come on, grandma.”
I pretended to box his ears. “Cheeky whippersnapper,” I growled.
We ambled back along the towpath, and even Dulcie seemed content to slow down. I parted from them at their back gate.
“Don’t you want to come in for a cup of tea?” Jasper said.
“No, thanks. For one thing, it’s time for dinner, rather than tea. Plus I never drink tea. It makes me feel ill.”
“What? Are you even British?”
“Who knows? Also, I may not be too popular with your dad right now.”
Jasper’s eyes widened. “Why?”
“You’d better ask him. Anyway, I have a phone call to make which may be a bit sticky – to my mother. And don’t say, ‘I didn’t know you had a mother’, or you’ll be in trouble.”
Jasper grinned broadly. “Well, you don’t ever say much about your family.”
I grunted. “It’s not much of one, to be honest.” I bent and ruffled Dulcie’s fur. “Be seeing you, Jasper.”
The shadows were gathering wh
en I went back indoors. It smelled too lived-in, and I opened the windows and let in the scents of evening. The perfume of the Axtons’ roses was a sharp, unsettling reminder of how easily I seemed to crumple at the moment; I suspected, though I hated to admit it, that my physical healing was far outstripping the healing of my spirit. I warmed up some soup and ate without appetite, dumping the bowl in the sink when I’d finished. Darkness was now absolute, and I closed the curtains. Looking at the wall clock I guessed that it was time to ring my mother, before she settled down to watch her favourite Sunday evening dramas (which she usually found lacking in some way – refinement, clarity of dialogue, characterization, credibility of plot). In her own eyes at least she was still an expert.
The phone rang several times before she answered. “Frances Chester,” she purred.
“Hello, Mother. It’s Rachel.”
Her tone altered instantly. “Rachel? Oh, so you’re still alive, then?”
“Yes.”
She sniffed. “I suppose one must be thankful. It’s a shame you didn’t think to inform me what had happened.”
“Frankly, Mother, I didn’t think you’d ever hear about it, and what could you do, anyway?”
“Not hear about it? It was in most of the papers. And what a garbled story it was! I didn’t know what to believe. So what’s made you call now?”
“Martin rang me earlier today, asking how I was. That’s the first I knew there was anything in the papers beyond the local news, or that you knew.” I hesitated. “I’m sorry if you’ve been worried.” The emphasis I laid on this word would not be lost on her; it was clear I didn’t believe she’d be worried at all.
“Of course I was worried!” she remonstrated. “I am your mother. That’s what mothers do.” Some of them, maybe. Possibly most of them. But not this one; not about me, at any rate. “Well, now,” she continued, “are you recovered?”
“Not completely. I’m visiting the physiotherapy people once a week, and doing exercises.”
“What happened to the woman who attacked you?”
“As far as I know, in custody awaiting trial.”
“So you could come home – here, to Porton. Move back to your flat.” Unspoken, I heard her meaning: Nearer to me.
This had not occurred to me, oddly. It filled me with dread, though I barely knew why. Eve Rawlins was there, yes, but not at liberty. What was there to fear?
I swallowed. “Yes, perhaps. I’m not sure what I’ll do next. I’m signed off work, obviously. I may go away; I have a lot of leave owing. But I’ll try to stay in touch a bit more.”
I heard her sniff again. “So I should hope.”
“Are you well, Mother?” I asked, hearing the stiffness in my voice.
“As well as can be expected, I suppose. I’ll ring off now, Rachel. It’s almost time for something I’m following on television. Not that dramas are much to write home about these days. Try to stay out of harm’s way, won’t you? Goodbye.”
There was something I wanted – no, needed – to try, though I was deeply apprehensive. The next morning I set out early and walked slowly across the river-flats to the city. It was a long way round, but I had nothing else to do, and the day was fine: a summer morning of pearly light and high white clouds. My appointment with the physiotherapy team was for ten o’clock, and they were pleased with my progress. At my request I was given more exercises, designed to improve fine fingertip control. As I left Josie had the last word: “Don’t try to do too much at once.” I smiled and nodded compliantly, but I guess nobody was fooled.
I went on into the city, noisy and bustling, searching for a small shop whose location I had looked up on the internet. I found it eventually, tucked away in an arcade away from the huge department stores and cut-price outlets: a narrow frontage bright with knitting wools and craft paraphernalia. An old-fashioned bell jangled as I went in. I soon had the pleasant woman there hunting in dusty boxes for items she rarely had call for – so she said: threads of different thicknesses and needles of varying gauges. They were just ordinary sewing needles, of course, but it was something to start on.
I hurried back to the flat as fast as I could and laid my treasures on the table, then made some coffee and tried to calm myself as I drank it. I washed my hands and dried them thoroughly. I took one of the thickest spools of thread and began to tie the tiny knots that I had learned long ago as a student. They told me then that if I could tie knots with one hand, using my elbows and the back of a chair, I might have the makings of a surgeon. I remembered the hours of practice, sometimes late into the night, my eyes crossed and my fingers numb, until I could tie knots not only one-handed but with my eyes shut. Now, however, I was once again as awkward as the average person. My fingers felt thick and uncoordinated and the thread slipped out of their control. I found both hands were clumsy, the right one worse than the left, because it had taken the brunt of Eve Rawlins’ knife. In the end I was shaking with the effort and had to stop. I told myself crossly that it would take time and practice to get back to where I had been – what did I expect? However good a job Michael Wells had done, however assiduously I worked on my exercises, it was too soon to expect fine-motor improvement. I told myself these things, as if I were someone else trying to offer encouragement; but it didn’t really work.
I decided to leave further attempts until after lunch when I would be rested. I gathered up my courage and found a ratty old T-shirt fit only for decorating and then throwing away. It took a very long time to thread even the biggest needle, and of course these needles were nothing like the ones I would use in theatre on a live body; but it seemed better than nothing. It turned out that I could still sew, but the stitches were huge and uneven. If I had sutured a blood vessel like that my patient wouldn’t have survived.
To say I was disappointed and frustrated would have been a gross understatement. However hard I tried to reason with myself, I had hoped for better things, and it took all my self-control not to wail in despair. Would I ever get back to what I was? And if I couldn’t, what sort of a life was there for me? It was all I knew and all I cared about. If I couldn’t apply my long experience and fine-honed skills to saving the lives of heart-compromised patients, what could I do?
Later that afternoon a knock came at my front door. I heaved myself off the sofa and ambled down the hallway. I was half-expecting Jasper again, perhaps with some new notion, but it wasn’t Jasper: it was Michael.
“Oh! Hello.” I found myself drained of words, and his serious expression didn’t help.
“Can I come in?”
“Sure, of course.” I stood back to let him pass me. “I’m just in the sitting room. Can I get you something? There may be tea – I haven’t looked.”
He smiled, rather stiffly I thought. “No, thanks. I don’t need anything.” I saw his gaze sweep the room. I’d left my sewing lying around; he couldn’t have failed to see it, and he would know why there were lengths of yarn knotted round the kitchen chairs. I didn’t doubt he’d have gone through the same tortuous rigmarole many years before.
“Please, have a seat,” I said.
He took the one armchair and I sat on the sofa opposite him. The atmosphere seemed awkward and curiously charged.
“I got your message,” he said, “but not till we got back from London. There was no need to apologize. I do understand how difficult this must be for you.”
“There was every need, however difficult things may be,” I said. “Am I forgiven?”
“Of course.” Now he smiled more naturally, and a kind of cloud lifted.
Once again he looked around the room. “You’ve been practising,” he said.
“More like testing,” I said. “To see if I could still do it.”
Now he looked at me. “How did you get on?”
I sighed. “It wasn’t a great success. I tried for quite a while, till I was exhausted. My fingers felt like uncooked sausages. Maybe it was too soon, but I needed to try.” I bit my lip. “Do you think –” I found I
couldn’t say what I wanted to.
“Do I think you’ll get it back – the use of your hands?” I nodded. “Yes, I do. You will. But I don’t know, nobody knows, just how far you’ll be able to reclaim what you had, that fast dexterity. All you can do is keep on with the physio and don’t give up. Never that.”
“It’s hard.”
“Of course it is. Look, if you like, if you want to go on practising stitching and tying knots and suchlike, I can at least get you some proper materials. I can ask Peter too – he can get you the things you’d normally use. But, Rachel –” he leaned forward, his hands on his knees – “go at it slowly. Be wise. It’s not going to happen overnight. Besides –” he hesitated.
“Besides what?”
“Well, there are other things you can do – not just exercises specifically to improve your fine control – general things, spread your wings a bit.”
I frowned. “What do you mean exactly?”
“I realize I’ll have difficulty persuading you, but you could see this time, these weeks of relative inactivity, as an opportunity, not just as a regrettable hiatus in your career.” I opened my mouth to protest, but he held up his hand. “Hear me out before you go off at the deep end, OK? Jasper had an idea, and he wanted to race round and put it to you, but I said no, it has to be me – she’ll just smile indulgently at you and say thanks, but no thanks. I left him supposedly reading a psychology textbook and looking cross.” He smiled.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Sorry. Jasper – we – thought it might help if you spent some time at our place in France.”
“Oh!” I was utterly flabbergasted.
He stood up suddenly, put his hands in his pockets, and started to pace around the small space between us. “I, we, just feel it’s not only your body that needs to heal. I’m sorry if that sounds patronizing.”
I shook my head. “No… I was beginning to think the same myself, even though I didn’t want to acknowledge it. I guess I have to process the shock as well as the injury.”
The Healing Knife Page 16