“How daft we are.” He smiled so warmly my stomach contracted. We were flopped on my sofa, surrounded by plates and cups. He drew me into his arms and held me close, and I stayed there, not wanting it to end, resting my cheek on his shoulder, taking in the particular scent of his skin.
I yawned. “It’s very late. I’m knackered and so are you. Isn’t it time to go to bed?” Suddenly I felt almost shy – me, Rachel, always so forthright with my men friends!
He pulled away and looked at me, and I noted his eyes baggy with weariness, and that feeling of wanting to nurture him returned. Given what I used to be like, it was a revelation.
“I can crash on the sofa.”
“You’ll do no such thing. It isn’t long enough for a man your size.” I fought a little with my novel sense of delicacy, and won. “Michael, can I be scarily direct?”
“Go on.”
“Do you want to marry me? Because if so, how about you propose, I’ll say yes, and then we’ll be betrothed – a done deal, a binding promise. And then we can sleep in the same bed without paining your tender conscience.”
He collapsed on the back of the sofa and laughed uproariously, laughter full of sheer exuberant joy. “It’s not quite how I’d have chosen to do it! But, you win,” he said. “I’m too tired to protest.” He wiped his hand across his face, making his stubble rasp. He took both my hands in his. “Rachel, my dearest love. Will you marry me?”
“Yes. Now let’s go to bed.”
That night I gave Michael first turn in the bathroom, and by the time I’d washed and cleaned my teeth he was asleep, flat out in my bed, face down, his hand trailing on the carpet. I sighed, smiling inwardly: this was not working out quite as I’d anticipated. But I told myself we had, God willing, years ahead.
By the time we decided it was now day and we should be getting up, it was almost ten o’clock. I made some coffee and took it in to him as he sat propped up on my pillows.
“I have to go back to Brant today,” Michael said. “I can’t leave Jasper on his own for too long. Give me a few days to get things sorted and I’ll be back.”
I sat cross-legged on the bed beside him. “You could bring him with you.”
He stretched out a lazy hand and ran his finger down the long silver scar on my face. “Not this time. He’d cramp my style.” His hand strayed down to my neck, gentle and tantalizing, and a shiver ran down my backbone. “I’ll have to take him back to London soon anyway, to get ready for the new school term. What about you, my darling? What are you going to do?”
I sighed. “I have to stay here for the time being. See my mother every day, until we know what’s going to happen with her. If she keeps up this improvement she’ll go back to her old place eventually, I guess. But there may well be a few weeks in between where she needs to be in some kind of nursing home. And I’m the one who’ll have to organize it.”
“As I’m here, do you think I should come with you to the hospital this afternoon? Meet my future mother-in-law?”
“Absolutely not! She’d never forgive me if I brought you along before she’d had the chance to have her hair done, get her nails painted, and put on her makeup! No, I’ll tell you when.” I settled down beside him and he put his arm around me. I gave him a stern look. “Don’t start getting ideas, because there are a few things I need to talk to you about.”
Michael sighed. “If you must.”
“You said last night that Gérard was going on all right, but have they found out yet what caused him to arrest?”
“Not that I know of.”
“I’ve been thinking about it quite a lot. There are a few conditions which can cause someone to drop dead – electrical faults in the heart. But I’m sure he would have known about them: someone in his family would probably have had a similar problem, and I can’t believe Gérard would have got to his age without ever having an ECG, in which case most conditions would have been picked up. He’d have been on medication, or had a device fitted, and his doctor would have advised him what to do and what to avoid. But there is one condition which can kill you without warning. It’s rare, but I wrote a paper on it years ago – it’s called Brugada Syndrome. The symptoms can come and go and may be absent at the time an ECG is taken.”
“So if that was diagnosed, how would they treat it?”
“They’d give him an ICD – an Implantable Cardioverter Defibrillator. It paces the heart, corrects most life-threatening cardiac arrhythmias.”
“I have an idea that’s what they’re going to do anyway, even if no one has actually named the syndrome. But you’re right,” he said thoughtfully. “Gérard obviously didn’t know he had any issues. The French tend to talk about their health or lack of it, their medications and tests and operations, just like the British talk about the weather. Especially knowing I’m a doctor, I think he’d have said something if he knew he had a heart problem.”
“When will they send him home, do you think?”
“I don’t know, but what I forgot to tell you last night was a really good piece of news: remember I told you about their daughter Pascale? Well, because her father’s been ill she’s decided to come home and live with them, to help Marie-Claude look after him. She’s bringing her little son with her, and I know they’re both hoping she’s coming back permanently.”
“Oh, that would be good.”
He finished his coffee and stretched out, winding his arms round my waist, trying to pull me down as well, but for the moment I resisted. “Wait,” I said. “I have to tell you I’ve made a decision.”
He closed his eyes. “OK, what?”
“Your friend, John Sutcliffe. I want to have some consultations with him. There’s a lot of garbage in my head about my past I need to deal with. I don’t want to be your mad burden.”
His eyes flew open, and he pushed himself back up into a sitting position. “My darling, you are not mad and you could never be a burden, not to me. You make yourself sound like Bella Mason to my Mr Rochester.”
“Who?”
“Oh,” he sighed. “I forgot you’re a bit of a literary ignoramus. Jane Eyre. The mad woman in the attic.”
“Oh, yes. I kind of remember reading it at school. OK, so maybe I’m not mad, but it wouldn’t do any harm, would it?”
He turned to me and took my face in his hands. “Look, for my money you’re wonderful just as you are. But if you want to talk to John, I can arrange it. You wouldn’t necessarily have to see him as a psychiatrist, and maybe that’s not so appropriate in the circumstances. John is also a steward at Brant Abbey, as well as a trained counsellor. You could chew over all your spiritual issues as well. He’s a good man.”
“I have spiritual issues?”
“Well, don’t you?”
“I’m not sure I’d recognize a spiritual issue if one came along and hit me with a wooden spoon.”
He groaned. “Rachel, you’re impossible.”
I slithered down and slipped my arm around him, grinning. “I know. But you can help.”
“Tell me how.”
“By loving me despite my peculiarities.”
“I am looking forward to doing just that, for a very, very long time.”
Finally after lunch Michael dragged himself reluctantly away.
“I’ll miss seeing Jasper,” I said as he hugged me for the sixth time before going out of the front door. “And Dulcie.”
“You’ll see Dulcie soon enough,” Michael said, “and when she gets the plaster off her foot you can show me how well trained she is these days.”
“She’s probably forgotten everything I’ve taught her.”
“I doubt it. As for Jasper, he’ll be back in Brant again one weekend soon, I expect. Meanwhile, why don’t you ring him? He’d be very pleased to hear from you, and you can tell him what we have decided. He’ll be tickled pink.”
“I hope so.”
“Of course he will!” Michael exclaimed. “He’s the chief plotter in this scenario, don’t forget.” He sigh
ed. “I have to go. I don’t want to, but I have to.” He bent and kissed me. “I’ll ring you later.”
“I don’t want you to go either,” I said, pulling away. “But if you don’t, absolutely nothing constructive will get done. Go on, vamoose.”
I watched his car roar away until it turned the corner and was lost to sight. Then I went back indoors, picked up my phone, and keyed in Jasper’s number.
“Good afternoon,” he said in a very correct tone, having obviously recognized my number. “This is the Jasper Wells Dating Agency.”
I stifled a giggle. “This is Ms Rachel Keyte, and I’d like to cancel my subscription.”
“May I ask why, Madam? Have we not given satisfaction?”
“As a matter of fact, you are the victim of your own success.”
I heard him whistle, and normal Jasper was back. “Well, don’t leave me in suspense, Rachel!”
I pretended to be very severe. “Look, young man, enough of this insubordination! Since I am going to be your stepmother, you’ll have to get used to behaving better!”
All I could hear at the end of the line was hoots of laughter. I listened patiently for a while. “Jasper, calm down. You sound as if you’re having convulsions. I realize it might take some getting used to, but you might as well start now.”
“Oh, Rachel!” I could hear him gulping down his hilarity. “It’s great news – the best. I’m going to raid Dad’s so-called cellar and put some bubbly in the fridge for when he gets home. Is he still with you?”
“No, he left a few minutes ago.”
“Oops, time I tidied up a bit then. Will I see you before I have to go back to London?”
“I don’t think so, Jasper. That’s really why I’m ringing you now. I have to get things sorted for my mother.”
“I’ll try to be a nice stepson.”
“Just go on as normal. That’ll do just fine.”
“I’m really happy, Rachel. Really happy.”
“Yeah. Me too. I don’t know what your dad sees in me, but don’t tell him I said so.”
“Rachel, you’re nuts,” Jasper said. “Dad adores you, in his own non-sloppy way. He just needed me to take his blinkers off.”
I wish I’d taken a photo of my mother’s face when I told her I was going to be married, but she wouldn’t have thanked me. In fact she was almost cross, berating me for being a dark horse. She wanted to know every detail about Michael – his family, his work, our plans – until I felt quite exhausted. “Look, Mother, nothing much has been decided. When it is, you’ll be the first to know. You need to concentrate on getting well – you don’t want to be an old crock in a wheelchair at my wedding.”
She was sitting in an easy chair beside her bed, her bad leg resting on a cushioned stool, and she drew herself up with her accustomed hauteur. “Wheelchair? Perish the thought. Actually, they are talking about discharging me. But given my circumstances I can’t go back to my flat, not yet.”
“Of course you can’t. And my flat’s not big enough for the two of us. Um, how would you feel about me finding you a nice nursing home to recuperate in?”
To my surprise I met with no resistance. “Very sensible,” she said firmly. “Not too far from my own home, then my friends can visit. I know of a very nice place, actually. Doris spent a few weeks there when she broke her hip. I think it’s called Marigold Lodge, or possibly Mimosa.”
“I’ll look it up,” I said. “I’ll need to check it out, see if it’s suitable.”
She looked worried suddenly. “The only thing is, it’s private, and probably quite expensive. I don’t have much in the way of funds these days.”
“Whereas I,” I said, “have more than I need. Don’t give it another thought.”
“Well, Rachel,” she said, shaking her head. “That’s good of you, but why should you spend your hard-earned money on me?”
“Because if you went to some grotty hole where they beat you up it’d be on my conscience. Because if it wasn’t up to standard I’d be inundated with complaints. Because you’re my mother. Take your pick.”
“Thank you, dear.” This was something: the second time she’d called me “dear”.
“You’re welcome. There’s just one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t want to hear you’ve been bullying the staff.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said innocently, a definite glint in her eye.
When Michael rang that evening I had news. “It was all a lot easier than I expected. She didn’t argue at all! Amazing. I rang a couple of places and found two which had room for her, so I went and had a look. The upshot is she can move into Magnolia House early next week. It’ll be work for me, getting her stuff together and so on, and I dare say it’ll cost an arm and a leg, but I hope it won’t be for too long.”
“I can help with that.”
“Don’t be silly – she’s my responsibility.”
I heard him sigh. “This sounds all too similar to the set-to over Dulcie’s vet bill. For heaven’s sake; she’s going to be related to me some time soon!”
“Whatever. Let’s not fall out over it, OK? What it means is I can come back to Brant sooner than I thought.”
“Good. We have to sort out your work situation too.” He was silent for a moment. “I miss you, my mad woman. I can’t wait for you to come back.”
Relations with my mother had definitely improved – perhaps there was only one way to go. But before long she had cause to find fault, as was probably inevitable.
The day before she was due to leave hospital we were discussing my impending nuptials, a subject of which she never seemed to tire, perhaps because she had never believed such an event would ever happen.
“What a pity your father isn’t with us,” she said. “Who can you ask to give you away? There must be someone.”
I was prepared, and I spoke without heat. “I’m sorry he isn’t here too, and not just for that particular function. But as it happens, even if he was, I wouldn’t be asking him, or anyone else, to give me away.”
She sat bolt upright. “Why ever not?”
“Well, Mother, you know, it’s always seemed a most unfortunate phrase, as if the poor bride is a piece of clothing destined for a charity shop, surplus to requirements.”
“What nonsense!” she snorted. “It’s a charming traditional custom, one which every father of a daughter looks forward to.”
“Maybe they do,” I said, very quietly. “But in my book it’s anything but charming. It dates from an era when women weren’t educated to be economically independent. When they were passed from the protection of one man, their father, to another, their prospective husband. I’ve been looking after myself for almost twenty years. Why should I suddenly pretend to be economically useless?”
She goggled at me and opened her mouth to protest, but nothing emerged.
I ploughed on. “You might say, with some reason, that it represents the passing from one family to another, a symbol of sorts. I could go along with that. But it’s one-sided – isn’t the groom also changing his life, passing from one family to another? So why doesn’t someone give him away? What it says is that he is a free, successful, independent individual, simply by virtue of his gender, while she is a helpless nobody in need of some man to look after her. What a load of utterly insulting rubbish.” I smiled sweetly. “I would have thought that you, of all people, would have agreed. Did your father give you away?”
“Certainly not!” she said. “My father, your grandfather – whom I am happy to say you never knew – was a drunk. He would have let the side down to my eternal public shame.” She looked at me, her eyebrows knitted together in formidable frown. “So what does Michael say to all this?”
I laughed. “After a moment’s thought his words were: ‘Fair point.’ So there we are.”
She shook her head. “I suppose I have to concede that you are more like me than either of us ever thought.”
“Sorry a
bout that, Ma.”
She shuddered. “Don’t call me Ma! It makes me feel about a hundred. So what, then? Are you going to walk up the aisle alone?”
“No. We are going to meet at the top of the church steps and stroll up together. If it’s symbolism we’re talking about, that suits me fine.”
***
I didn’t quite get to be a consultant by the time I was forty, and there were reasons for that other than the career break necessitated by my recovery from injury. It took me another year, but I was content. As it turned out I could still operate with skill and confidence, perhaps not quite as I had before the attack, but competently and without unnecessary risk to my patients. As well, between Michael and John Sutcliffe I came to understand that I had abilities and gifts other than cutting and stitching, however much of a whizz-kid I had been at both. “You know,” Michael said one evening that autumn, “there comes a time in most people’s careers when they move away from the coal-face and start thinking about what they have to pass on. I’m doing a lot more supervision and lecturing and speaking at conferences now than I did five years ago. I’m not as quick as I used to be.”
“And,” I said, “shock, horror: you are going to have to wear glasses.”
“That too. But I, and you, have a lifetime of experience which is invaluable to the younger surgeons coming through the system.”
“I suppose. But I’m not as old as you.”
He chuckled. “As you often like to remind me. But think of it as the best of both worlds: you can do what surgery you choose, without the pressure of having to live up to someone else’s expectations.”
“Just my own, and the patient’s.”
“But that’s always the case,” he said gently.
Over the months before my marriage I had several sessions with John Sutcliffe, and I like to think that by the end of it he was as much my friend as Michael’s. We spoke of many things: my strangely lopsided childhood, my truncated relationship with my father, and the trauma of his illness and death at a time when I was particularly impressionable; my past and current relationship with my mother; my life in surgery. More telling, perhaps, than all of this was that he guided me to think about my spiritual life, and challenged my habitual ways of thinking without ever making me feel I had failed. I took much away from those sessions, and pondered.
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