It’s past that now, and Tinkerbell is still there. He spots us, and is pacing back and forth on the window ledge, tail up, mouth moving in a way that tells me he’s making a bit of noise.
‘Wouldn’t it be funny, Mummy,’ says Saul, pressing his face up against the glass and creating a cloud of steam, ‘if Tinkerbell could play that game? If she could pretend to be a sheep and baa, or a cow and moo?’
‘It would, love, it would … maybe she’d know what noise a rhino makes as well … Saul, I’m going to drop you off with your nan for a bit, okay, while I give Edie her soup?’
He’s perfectly happy with this, thankfully, and I bustle us both further up the road to our house. A house that now has purple and gold curtains in every single window. Yikes.
‘What do you think?’ Mum shouts, as she hears us come into the hallway. ‘Gorgeous, aren’t they? Best windows in the street! Move over Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen!’
She looks so proud of herself as she emerges from the living room that I have to agree, even if the new curtains make the house look a bit like the set of an especially gaudy pantomime. Princess Jasmine would love these.
‘Beautiful, Mum – thanks so much, you’ve done a great job. Look, can you keep an eye on Saul for a minute? I just want to check on Edie.’
She can tell from the tone of my voice that I’m worried, so she just nods and hustles Saul away.
‘Course I can. Off you go. Saul, do you want to make some cookies with me? I know your mum always buys them from the shop, but they taste so much nicer when you make your own …’
I roll my eyes at that one – she has this supreme talent for making digs without even knowing she’s doing it – and concentrate on the task at hand.
First, I try the obvious, and call Edie – thanks to her army of nieces, nephews, and the great and great-great versions of both, she’s never short of new technology, and actually has a better phone than me. Sadly, there’s no reply.
Then I nip out again and try Becca’s – she’s really close to Edie, and I suspect she has a spare key to the place. Unfortunately there’s no answer to my knock on the door there either, so I make my way over to the pharmacy. Auburn’s in there, perched on the stool behind the cash desk, looking at her phone and twiddling with her hair.
‘Been busy?’ I ask, smiling.
‘Rushed off my feet. You okay? You look a bit hassled. Nice new curtains, by the way – did your mum buy them at a bankrupt brothel sale?’
‘Ha ha, very funny. Look, I’m a bit worried about Edie. I can’t see her, and she still has the cat, and she’s not answering her phone, and she’s not been well, and …’
‘She’s ninety-two?’
‘Yes, that. I tried Becca’s to get a key but she’s not in. What do you think I should do?’
She jumps down from the stool, and replies as she hits buttons on her phone: ‘She’s probably fine. Knowing Edie, she’s out running some committee about allotments or planning her Christmas social life or at one of her niece’s houses … but I’ll get Van over. He has a very impressive toolbox, you know.’
She raises her eyebrows at me as she speaks, somehow making a reference to a container for screwdrivers and nails sound filthy. It’s a skill.
I listen to her end of the conversation, which is short, to the point, and serious enough to remind me that Auburn is, at the end of the day, a healthcare professional. It’s easy to forget when she’s puffing away on her ciggies, or making double entendres about me and her brother.
We sit and wait for about fifteen minutes, while Van explains what’s going on to Frank and Cal and drives over from Frank’s farm. Lynnie’s at her day centre, giving the Longville siblings a day to themselves.
We try and make small talk until he gets there, but I’m feeling more nervous by the minute. I don’t know why – I have no real evidence that anything is wrong – but for some reason my instincts are all telling me that something is.
‘Right,’ Van says, once he’s parked his truck and jingle-jangled the bell on his way in. ‘Let’s do a bit of breaking and entering, shall we?’
Frank follows behind him, looking concerned – which is not a look I associate with Frank at all. He’s only ten years younger than Edie himself, but apart from the usual aches and pains of getting older, seems stupidly fit. Must be his active lifestyle, although he swears it’s down to a pact his mother made in a fairy dell on the night he was born.
Auburn closes up the pharmacy, and we make our way to Edie’s in a small pack. We’re going to look seriously stupid if she answers the door to us after all this.
We start with a knock, and Frank leans down to shout through the letterbox. Tinkerbell is the only one to respond, running to the hallway and meowing frantically at him through the gap. I call Edie again, just in case, and as we all strain our ears we just about make out the sound of her ring-tone – the Strictly theme tune. The phone is in there – which means Edie might be as well.
‘Nothing else for it,’ says Frank, frowning. ‘We need to get in there. She’ll forgive us.’
Just to be sure, he shouts through the letterbox again: ‘Edie! It’s Frank! We’re coming in, so make yourself decent!’
Van nudges his way to the front of the small crowd, and inspects the door.
‘That’s a solid lock on there. Might be easier to go around the back and break a window – and cheaper to fix afterwards.’
We all follow him down the narrow alleyway that intersects the houses after each small terraced block. Edie’s is at the end, so he doesn’t have to scale everyone else’s back wall as well.
He nimbly climbs up onto the top of the wall, pulling himself up with no trouble, and perches on top.
‘No point you all following me this way,’ he says, eyes crinkled in amusement as we all gaze up at him. ‘Much as I’m sure you’ve all got amazing parkour skills, be easier if you went back to the front door, and I’ll come and let you in!’
It seems obvious now he’s said it, and I’m glad I’m not the only one who dumbly followed. Frank, Auburn and myself make ‘duh’ noises and traipse back to the road, feeling a bit stupid. Within seconds we hear the sound of glass being smashed, and soon after Van comes and opens the front door.
Tinkerbell shoots out like a ginger bullet, pausing only to twine himself in and out of my legs for a bit before heading off home. I remember just at that moment that I left all the food from the café in the hallway, and suspect I’ll get back to find that he’s rooted through the lot of it tracking down the smell of salmon. Such is life.
Frank is first through the door, and I wait until Auburn’s in there before I follow. Now we’re doing this – going in to find out if she’s okay – I’m gripped with fear and reluctance.
My mind’s playing tricks on me, associating the sights and smells of Edie’s neat little home with my nan’s. The embroidered covers on the arms of the chairs; the porcelain figurines; the distinctive smell of mothballs and an old-fashioned perfume that I vaguely remember being called something equally old-fashioned like White Shoulders. It does look and feel familiar – apart from the life-sized cardboard cut-out of Anton du Beke in one corner and the giant flat-screen TV.
Anton and telly aside, it’s the home of an old lady – and Edie really is very, very old.
We soon see that she’s not in the living room, and Van, who broke a small window panel in the kitchen to let himself through that way, knows she’s not in there, so we head upstairs. It’s set out like my own house, two bedrooms and a small bathroom, and it’s in one of the bedrooms that we find Edie.
She’s tucked up in bed, a paperback copy of The Handmaid’s Tale on the pillow next to her, a glass of water and her little wire-rimmed specs on the cabinet beside the bed. In the corner of the room I see a box full of old black-and-white photos and letters, which I know must be from Briarwood – Tom found them there, all relating to the building’s past and its role during the war, and Edie, a former librarian, is archiving them for him.
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Edie herself, though, doesn’t look like she’ll be archiving anything in her current state. She’s still, and pale, and looks covered in sweat. Her breathing is coming in fast but laboured chugs, accompanied by a nasty-sounding wheeze.
‘Edie!’ Frank says, as he dashes over to her side. ‘Edie, are you all right?’
I move over to him, kneeling at Edie’s side, checking her pulse while he tries to rouse her. It’s too fast, and I notice that her fingernails look a bit blue in the sunlight that’s dappling through the window. I touch her forehead, and look up at Auburn, who’s hovering a little in the doorway. I suppose nurses are more used to this kind of thing – her patients are usually at least capable of getting to a shop.
‘She’s got a fever. Pulse is up. Don’t think she’s getting enough oxygen,’ I tell her.
‘Pneumonia?’ she suggest in response. I nod – that’s exactly what I think it is. Pneumonia is a lot more common than people think, and isn’t usually anything to worry about – but with a woman of Edie’s age, no matter how sprightly she seems, there’s a lot to worry about.
Auburn bites her lip, and immediately uses her phone to call an ambulance. She also uses all the right terminology to get them here as quickly as possible.
Edie is rambling slightly, her eyes half open, talking but not making any sense. I make out the words ‘my fiancé’, and ‘new dress’, and ‘legs like Betty Grable’, none of which relate to her present circumstances in any way. Edie is lost in her illness, and my eyes sting with very unprofessional tears.
I feel Van’s hand on my shoulder, and lean back against his legs for comfort.
‘She’s a tough one, Edie,’ he says gently. ‘Don’t worry – she’ll be okay.’
I nod, and screw my eyelids shut to get rid of the tears, and hope that he’s right.
Chapter 19
The scene in the waiting room at the hospital is, I know from experience, a doctor’s worst nightmare. The place is packed with the distraught members of Edie’s fan club – friends and relatives, all of them upset, all of them desperate to know how she is.
Her clan of nieces and nephews and their children and grandchildren range in age from teenagers through to her sister’s daughter, who is in her seventies, and added into that is me, Van, Cherie, Tom, Frank and Becca, who came as soon as she heard. Becca’s a tough cookie, but her eyes are sore and red from crying, and she looks like she wants to punch somebody.
Auburn’s gone home to help Willow with Lynnie, who’s come home from the day centre in a bit of a state, and that’s added to the vaguely apocalyptic sense of doom.
As soon as I see the harassed-looking young doctor walk through into the crowds, I notice the fleeting look of horror that crosses her face at seeing us all in various stages of pacing and worrying and sipping scalding hot coffee from the vending machine.
She looks up, confused, trying to figure out who Edie’s next of kin might be amid the mass of humanity. As it turns out, it’s her niece, Mary, who strides forward accompanied by Cherie. The rest of us assemble in a kind of loose circle around them.
‘Miss May has been admitted to intensive care,’ the doctor explains, doing a great job as she makes eye contact, uses her patient’s name and never once needs to look at notes.
‘She’s currently on strong antibiotics and fluids. We’re giving her extra oxygen, and at the moment, that’s helping. We think she might have pleurisy as well, which isn’t uncommon at her age, but so far she’s still breathing on her own.’
This, I know, is very good news – I couldn’t imagine Edie getting off a ventilator again if they put her on one. Cherie glances at me, and I realise I probably sighed out loud. She gestures me forward to stand next to her, probably thinking it won’t do any harm to get a translator in.
‘Will she be all right?’ asks Mary, in the no-nonsense voice of a woman who has seen her share of hospitalisations.
The doctor tries to maintain a neutral face, but doesn’t quite manage it. Her blonde ponytail is wilting, and a pen has leaked ink in the pocket of her white coat.
‘Well, we can’t really say at the moment. We’re doing everything that we can to help her recover, and to keep her comfortable. But given her age …’
It’s the second time she’s mentioned Edie’s age, which is completely understandable as she is in fact ancient. In hospital terms, that’s a major factor – but in Budbury terms, it’s a complete red herring.
I see Cherie stand up very straight, which must be unnerving for the doc – who maybe scrapes five foot in her flats. She looks fierce, and I suck in a breath – I really hope she’s not about to kick off. The doctor is only doing her job, and speaking a truth that medically is extremely relevant. Everyone here might like to imagine that Edie is going to live forever, but science says otherwise.
Cherie squints slightly at the doctor’s name tag, and then says: ‘Doctor … Sullivan? We all know how old Edie is. And none of us are idiots, we know that’s a factor. But I’d ask you to remember something, when you’re treating her – her age doesn’t matter to us. To us, she’s just Edie, and we love her. She’s treasured, she’s precious, and our lives wouldn’t be the same without her. We don’t expect you to perform miracles, but please – don’t write her off.
‘That woman has lived through so much, for so long, I really wouldn’t give in to the idea that because she’s old she won’t fight. She will. And I’d like you to help her – when you look at Edie, please don’t just see a geriatric patient. See your own mother. See your own grandmother. See Mother Theresa if it helps – but please, see her as someone who deserves every possible chance at surviving. I know you can’t promise us she’ll make it – but can you at least promise us that?’
The doctor blinks rapidly a few times – she looks tired, as all hospital doctors seem to – and nods.
‘Yes. I can. I can promise you that. Now, she’s not really conscious at the moment, and I’d suggest the best thing you can all do is go home, get some rest, and come back tomorrow. If anything changes, I’ll make sure we let you know.’
‘I’m staying,’ pipes up Becca, making her way to the front. ‘If that’s all right with you, Mary? I’ll stay.’
Mary smiles and nods, and pats Becca’s hand.
Dr Sullivan looks like she thinks this is a bad idea, but wisely decides not to object.
Becca goes off to one side making phone calls, presumably to explain the situation to Sam and maybe Laura, and everyone else starts to make moving-away noises. It’s a strange sight, like the air being sucked out of a room – Edie’s family trooping off in twos and threes and fours, all promising to stay in touch and giving Becca smiles and hugs on the way out.
Cherie and Frank stay a few minutes longer before leaving in Cherie’s car, and Tom follows not long after.
Eventually only Becca, Van and I are left, in a waiting room that now feels empty and hollow, even though there are still people in it. People dealing with their own dramas and traumas who are, entirely probably, relieved to see the back of the Edie May club.
I glance up at the clock on the wall, and am actually shocked to see that it’s almost ten p.m. Everything takes so long in hospitals – or at least it feels like that when you’re waiting. When you’re on the sharp end, the hours fly by in a frenzy of activity. I definitely prefer the sharp end – or at least the end that doesn’t involve a person who you’re very fond of lying in a bed fighting for her life.
Becca comes off the phone and joins us. She looks jittery, and I know she’s had too much coffee. She shouldn’t be here – but I think Dr Sullivan recognised a losing battle when she saw one.
‘Everything okay?’ I ask, reaching out to touch her shaking hand. ‘Is there anything we can do for you?’
She shakes her head, and bites her lip hard enough to draw blood. I can practically hear the ‘pull yourself together, woman’ speech she’s giving herself.
‘No, it’s fine. I’ve spoken to Sam. He’ll be okay. Maybe
tomorrow you could pop in and make sure he hasn’t set the house on fire, or let Little Edie eat Pot Noodles?’
‘Of course. And what about you – do you need anything? Clean clothes, a book, some food, anything at all?’
‘Nah, I’m good. I don’t mind being grubby. And Laura will undoubtedly send Matt over with enough cake to feed the whole hospital before long. You know how she gets.’
I do know. And she’s probably right. Laura will have the oven on as we speak, to show her concern in the way that comes naturally to her.
‘Was everything the doc said right, Katie? I mean, from a hospital perspective?’
She looks so desperate as she asks this, like she’s hoping for me to promise her something I can’t in all good faith promise. Like she wants the doctors to be wrong, and for Edie to be twenty-one, and for all to be well in the world.
‘From what I heard, they’re doing everything they should be doing, Becca. Following all the best protocols. And yes, Edie is old – but they don’t know Edie like we know Edie. The odds might be against her, but you see small miracles every day in hospitals, and if anyone can come back from this, it’s Edie.’
She nods, and gives me a very quick hug – she’s not one of life’s huggers; it’s like Laura got all of the tactile genes between the two sisters – before backing off again.
‘Okay. Well, I’ll let you know if they tell me anything,’ she says briskly. ‘So you two bugger off, all right? I’m just going to grab another coffee …’
‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ says Van, smiling gently. ‘You look kind of wired already.’
Becca snorts out loud in response, and gives a quick laugh.
‘Wired? This isn’t wired. This isn’t even slightly strung out. You know, before I moved here, I don’t think I’d had a proper night’s sleep for years … I was a complete insomniac, one of those people who lie awake looking at the time all night and then finally doze off an hour before dawn? It’s Edie who changed that. In a lot of ways, it’s Edie who changed everything. Without her, I probably wouldn’t have had the guts to stay – and then I wouldn’t have had Sam, and Little Edie, and everything …’
A Gift from the Comfort Food Café Page 14