Saving Septic Cyril: The Illegal Gardener Part II (The Greek Village Collection Book 16)

by Sara Alexi

  ‘Come on, Cyril, sit down, I’ll make some tea.’ Back then Archie was stronger than him and he used brute force to manipulate him into a chair.

  ‘Hadn’t realised you was so sensitive,’ he said and filled the kettle. ‘Sorry, mate.’ He put tea in the pot. ‘I know now.’ The teaspoon rang as he threw it in the sink.

  The abattoir rests in a gully, by a stream that would have once powered a waterwheel. A beech tree and a couple of hawthorn bushes soften the building’s edges.

  Coming to work this way is quicker than taking the road, but means he has to scramble down the steep, dry stream bed. The water has been diverted and flows through a nearby farm now.

  Grabbing ferns and holding on to them stops his feet skidding down the soft mud. In the winter it is like a slide and he cannot come this way at all. He grabs at a root as the ground gives, but it pulls free of the earth and his balance is disturbed. One leg buckles under him and he falls forward. Twinkling reflected light, his glasses fly off – his hand is being skinned on the pebble-impacted stream bed, but he cannot stop. Down below, by the building, he can hear laughing.

  Crouching to lower his centre of gravity, he makes the quick decision to forgo the seat of his trousers. If he slides the rest of the way on his bottom he will be muddy but unhurt. As this thought flies through his mind his foot catches in a tangle of brambles and he is catapulted forward, his legs flying over his head and, as one foot lands, he badly jars his ankle. The laughing stops. Someone shouts, he rolls the last few feet, and it occurs to him that he is safe, but he had not counted on how hard the tarmac at the bottom would feel. His shoulder takes the hit and then everything goes dark.

  ‘Cyril?’ The voice is unfamiliar.

  ‘Tell him not to move,’ another voice says.

  His eyes open, blinking; the light seems strong but as he gets used to it everything is still out of focus.

  ‘Where are his glasses, don’t he wear glasses?’

  ‘Could be anywhere. He fell all of thirty foot from up by the small oak tree.’

  ‘There,’ a new voice joins in. ‘Ain’t that them, shining over there?’ His voice fades as he says this, as if he is moving further away.

  ‘Where’s that blasted ambulance. I wanna be off.’

  ‘Here you go.’ Someone fiddles with his ears; there is the familiar sensation of his glasses across his nose. ‘I’m afraid one of the lenses is bust but at least t’other one’s alright.’

  Things come into focus through his right eye, but the left eye sees a thousand prisms. Through his good eye he can see that he is surrounded by the men that smoke. His heels kick against the floor to back away.

  ‘Nay, you’re alright lad. Sit still, the ambulance is on its way.’

  Ambulance? Hospital? He relaxes.

  ‘They’re here.’ And the men part as a white van with alternate yellow and green boxes along its side crawls to a stop. A man in a green shirt and trousers gets out of one side, and a woman wearing the same colour from the other. The green is the same as the hawthorn bushes behind them.

  ‘Hello, what’s your name?’ The man crouches beside him.

  ‘This is Cyril,’ one of the smokers says. ‘Fell down that bank, might of cracked his head. You won’t be able to tell though ’cause he’s not all there anyway.’ This comment draws a few sniggers from the remaining smokers. ‘You alright here now, ’cause I have to get off?’ the lead smoker says.

  But the paramedic ignores the speaker and then all the men who work there make a move to leave.

  ‘Cyril, don’t move. We have to make sure you haven’t injured your head or neck.’ The woman in green says this, and she gently takes off his glasses. She shines a light in his eyes. He winces and feels the strain in the back of his sockets as his eyes roll.

  ‘Is he having a fit?’ a voice asks and then everything is silent.

  Chapter 29

  ‘But he was not there yesterday either.’

  ‘Saabira, we do not know him well. Maybe he goes off to see friends. Perhaps he leaves very early and comes back very late, or maybe – well, maybe anything. We have no idea.’ Aaman says over their evening meal on Thursday night.

  ‘I think he would have told me. Also I am worried about the dogs. When is he walking them, and feeding them? He would never leave his dogs.’

  ‘You cannot know that. Also, why should he tell you if he had something that he needed to do that filled his days?’

  ‘Because we are clearing his house. He sees it as something we are doing together. I just cannot imagine that he would not tell me if he was going somewhere. He is polite, is he not?’

  ‘Yes. That is true, but what if he has a sick aunt, for example, who needs him, or something like that?’

  ‘He has no one and I do not believe he would leave his dogs. So if something has happened to him then who is there to care?’

  ‘You are a good woman, Saabira. But you would be an even better one if you were to pass me more of that moong daal. The chilli garlic combination is perfect.’ He flashes a flirty smile and she purses her lips as she passes the dish. Aaman eats without speaking. When the food has taken the edge off their hunger he speaks again.

  ‘So, this is what I suggest. If he is not around tomorrow morning, go to the place he works and ask if he is there. They will know.’

  ‘Ah, why did I not think of that? That’s the answer.’ And she serves him more daal without his asking.

  ‘Steady on.’ He laughs. ‘You want me to get a little round belly?’

  Saabira leans towards him, squeezes his knee under the table. ‘It might be quite nice,’ she says. Aaman puts down his fork and his hand slides under the table; the hem of her kurti is lifted, and he looks into her eyes. She knows what will happen next and a thrill turns her stomach and then, as if on cue, Jay starts to cry and they both withdraw their hands.

  Aaman leaves for work next morning and Saabira does not wait for Jay to have her morning nap. Instead, she adds another layer of clothes to her daughter’s outfit and steps out into a fresh morning breeze from the moors. The purple of the heather is darkening into a rich reddish-brown as the days pass. The cold is not something she relishes but she is curious to see what the winter will bring; perhaps the moors will be piled high with snow.

  There is a scrabbling noise and Coco’s distinctive whine can be heard in response to her tapping on Cyril’s back door. She shifts Jay up more comfortably onto her hip.

  ‘Cyril?’ But there is no answer, just more whining from the dogs and the sound of nails scratching frantically against the door. If he is not there and has not been there since she last saw him that means the dogs have been without food and water since Tuesday. She leans against the door with all her weight and tries the handle. Maybe the lock will give.

  The door gives with such ease it is clear it was never locked. The force that she applied causes her to stagger forward, and her instinct is to protect Jay so she twists and loses balance. The corner of the table digs firmly into the back of her legs. She will have a big bruise there tomorrow.

  The dogs, instead of running out into the freedom of the fresh air, cluster around her. There is nowhere that looks clean enough to put Jay down so with one hand she ladles biscuits, and meal for the rabbits. Jay points at the dogs, her little finger choosing one after the other. ‘Dog,’ she says.

  After she has filled several bowls of water, a horrible thought occurs to Saabira. Perhaps Cyril is not out at all. He could be sick, upstairs in bed.

  ‘Cyril?’ she calls as she starts up the uncarpeted stairs. ‘Cyril!’ The first door she comes to swings open at her touch. Nothing about this room is in harmony with Cyril. Next to the neatly made bed there is a sepia-toned photograph of a woman in a high-necked white blouse. She is standing by a cloth-covered table, her hand gently resting on a book. Her hair is wavy and thick, piled on top of her head, and her gaze looks out at nothing, the spectator unseen. The picture is preserved in an ornate silver frame. Next to the window is
a spindly chair on which is folded a pair of stripy pajamas. On a shelf by the bed are five books and another that lies open, a pen in the crease.

  It is as if someone has just walked out of the room, but at the same time the air hangs heavily as if it is never disturbed. The floor is clean, with no dog hairs or any signs of the dogs at all.

  Jay wriggles. Saabira soothes her as she tentatively steps over to the bedside table. The book with a pen in the crease is handwritten. Very gently, with just the tips of her fingers, she lifts the leaves to see the inscription on the first page. It is as she suspected.

  ‘This is the Diary of Archie Sugden.’ It is dated just over two years ago.

  As she lets go, the pages fall quickly; it is as if she has never touched it. She backs out of the room, closing the door carefully. The landing is laid out the same as hers, so the other room, at the front of the house, will be the larger. The door to this is closed too.

  ‘Cyril.’ She knocks. It opens with a turn of the handle and a gentle push. The sun is shining through the thin curtains, which do not have enough hooks to hold the material evenly, and they sag near one end, framing an eye of sky. The bed is made and, apart from a bedside table, a mat by the bed and an open suitcase on the floor, the room is empty. Clothes are heaped in both halves of the suitcase: knitted tank tops in earthy colours, small checked greeny-brown brushed cotton shirts, grey socks. Everything is old, faded and worn, and similar to the clothes she has seen Cyril wear. There is no doubt this is his room, and he is definitely not here. She feels very much like she is trespassing and makes a quick retreat.

  Downstairs, she checks again that the dogs have enough water, and leaves. She will put on her warmer shawl and find her way to where he works. He walks there over the moors each day, so it cannot be far. There is bound to be a way by road. It is better to go that way in case the darkening clouds spill their contents and the peat becomes boggy.

  Chapter 30

  Saabira turns left at the end of the cobbled road, out of Little Lotherton and away from the next village, Greater Lotherton, past the red telephone box and on into open countryside. Drystone walls flank the road on either side, guarding the moors beyond. A bird calls, a trill and a whistle, a trill and a whistle – a lonely echoing call. A flash of white belly, black wings and a necklace to match swoop over the road. It lands on the other side of the wall and turns its head rapidly, one way and then the other, making the crest of feathers on its head bob vigorously. It calls again.

  ‘Jay, this is a very lovely country,’ says Saabira. ‘It may be cold and a little bit wet but with it comes the green of the trees and the passion of the weather.’ Jay is looking out over the walls, watching the birds. A sheep’s head appears above the tops of the ferns, alert; the animal spots them both and relaxes, disappears again.

  The road seems to twist and turn for no reason, the drystone walls following every curve. Here and there the top curved stones are missing and the walls beneath are not held as firmly, and some of the large jagged stones below have slipped off.

  The skies overhead gather dark and stormy blue-grey clouds that rumble from deep within. Saabira makes a mental note to buy an umbrella. Aaman takes his huge black one with him every day to work and, so far, she has rarely left the house on a weekday. At the weekends they go into Greater Lotherton to shop, and on these occasions when it has rained they huddle together under the one. But it is time for her to venture out into the world – explore Bradford, maybe, find out if there is more to Greater Lotherton than the corner shop, the supermarket and the train station where they first arrived.

  A white lorry with a picture of a bull’s head on the side forces her onto the grassy verge. It drives slowly up the narrow road and turns right onto a steep lane up ahead.

  At the turning there is a small sign by the road, half obscured by the long grass, that points the way to Hogdykes Abattoir. Outside the abattoir a group of men stand smoking, in white aprons stained red, and they stare at her as she comes up the hill. Others are loading the truck, and they stop and stare too. None of them offer her help or ask what her business is.

  ‘I’m looking for Cyril. I–’ she begins, but one of the men cuts her off and points to a side door. It leads to an office where a man who is talking on the phone looks her up and down. Saabira waits whilst he finishes the call.

  ‘Right, love, what can I do for you?’ he says finally, wiping a grimy hand across his stubbly chin.

  ‘Do you know Cyril?’

  ‘Course I know Cyril, and if you’re a friend of his you can tell him he’ll need a letter from his doctor for the paperwork.’ The man arranges the papers on his desk, makes a note of something and looks up as if surprised to see her still there.

  ‘His doctor? Has something happened?’

  ‘You not a friend of his then?’

  ‘I live next door. I haven’t seen him for two days, and I was worried.’ Saabira tries not to look at the calender behind the man’s head, which displays a photograph of a half-naked woman.

  ‘No, you wouldn’t have.’ He leans back in his chair, glancing briefly at Saabira before looking back at his paperwork. He traces his pen along a line of print and his lips move. When he gets to the end of the line he remarks, ‘Fell down the bank out there. Ambulance took him, my guess is he’ll still be in hospital.’

  Leaning against Saabira’s shoulder, legs around her mother’s waist, Jay begins to wake up from her snooze. The man frowns as if he had not noticed her before.

  ‘Which hospital, please?’

  ‘Airedale, I expect – that’ll be the nearest.’ He looks at Jay again and returns to his paperwork.

  The way back seems quicker, but it is close to Jay’s dinner-time and she is becoming grizzly.

  ‘This is your stop, love,’ the driver shouts back to Saabira as the bus pulls up outside the hospital grounds. She stands, but hesitates. ‘Just follow the path.’ He points.

  Jay is awake and wriggling to be let down but this is not a good time for her to practise her walking. The path the driver indicated cuts through a hedge and across a neatly trimmed lawn. On the other side of the grass the path widens and joins a maze of roads that lead to a large car park. It takes Saabira some time to find the main entrance. Inside, the floor is smooth, the walls are painted and there is a sense of busy organisation. There are chairs for those that are waiting, and the staff, in their uniforms, give off an air of quiet competence. The unity causes a small thrill to run through Saabira.

  She waits her turn to talk to the woman on reception, who checks her computer.

  ‘Follow the blue one,’ she says, pointing at a series of coloured lines on the floor that lead off down various corridors. Jay is quiet, turning this way and that, trying to take everything in.

  Apart from the coloured lines, the floor is smooth and green, curving up a little way around the edges where it meets the walls, which are a paler green. There are people everywhere: some on crutches, some in wheelchairs, one wheeled along still in his bed. Even with so many people, it is relatively quiet.

  The blue line continues through a set of double doors where it is quieter now, with fewer patients and more white coats. Through the next set of doors the corridor is empty and the mood seems to change. Now there are windows along either side that look out over courtyards, which are flanked on every side by further corridors. The courtyards are well tended and planted with bushes and flowering plants, and, in each, neat paths lead to a central wooden bench. No one is in either garden.

  The blue line turns right and then sharply through solid double doors, into one of the wards. Beds line either side of the room, some with green curtains pulled around them. It seems spacious, clean and not overcrowded, and very quiet.

  No one asks her her business, and she wanders along the ward trying to spot Cyril’s face.

  Without his glasses on he doesn’t look like himself, and his hair is fluffy, as if it has been recently washed. He is dressed in a green garment and the bed she
ets are pulled tight across his chest. His eyes are closed.

  Chapter 31

  ‘Are you a relative?’ A nurse in a blue-and-white uniform appears from behind a green fabric screen. ‘Or friend?’ she adds, eyeing Saabira’s kurti, trousers and gold sandals.

  ‘I am his next-door neighbour.’

  ‘Ah.’ The nurse sounds disappointed and settles the clipboard she is holding in against her waist.

  Over each bed is a name card displaying the name and surname of each patient, but the one over Cyril’s bed simply reads Cyril.

  ‘Do you know if he has any relatives?’ the nurse asks.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ There is a jug of water by his bed, and on the windowsill that is shared with the next bed is a bunch of wilting flowers in greenish water. Saabira notices that the tables by some of the other beds in the ward are loaded with greeting cards and colourful vases of flowers, and the end of one bed even has balloons tied to it.

  ‘No, no one has been in,’ the nurse says, checking her watch. She makes a mark on the clipboard she is holding and pockets her pen. ‘Such a shame when they get like this and no one cares.’ She folds her arms across the clipboard and looks at the sleeping Cyril, shaking her head.

  ‘I care!’ Saabira protests.

  ‘Oh.’ She unfolds her arms. ‘Well, that’s great. If there’s someone to care for him he can go home. To be honest, he has to go home, we need the bed. I’m afraid it’s been this way since the Tories. But let’s not talk politics. What he really needs is some good care for a while.’

  ‘What sort of care?’ Jay is squirming again, trying to stand. Saabira shifts her to the other hip. The nurse does not even look at her.