Left and Leaving

by Jo Verity

  He showered and put on a clean shirt and jeans. He shaved, his stomach jittery like it used to be before Saturday night dances at the Greenhouse. He was a kid then, desperate to lose his virginity and not choosy. In the end it had been with a girl with buck teeth and a yellow dress – Sally? Suzy? – and it was all over in ninety seconds. Summer 1975. He was sixteen.

  Chris and Adam, his sons, were seventeen. Last time he’d been with them they’d towered over him, lanky and good-looking, brown-haired and blue-eyed like their mother. They’d have no trouble finding girls and he imagined that their ‘first time’ had been a lot less disappointing than his.

  Before heading for the station, he gave fate a final chance and knocked on Feray’s door. No reply.

  16

  As soon as her father spotted her, he began complaining, his voice raised as though he were addressing the hard of hearing. The bed. The nurses. The lack of privacy. ‘And they’ve done bugger all about my hip. I might as well be at home. In fact I’m going to discharge myself.’

  The youngish man in the bed opposite had clearly had enough. ‘I wish you would, mate. Give us a bit of peace.’

  The other two occupants of the ward smirked and murmured assent.

  Vivian found her father’s petulance exasperating, nevertheless she was affronted by the hostility shown by these strangers.

  ‘He’s eighty-seven and he’s in a lot of pain,’ she said.

  She felt her colour rising and when she turned her back on them, they sniggered, clearly delighted at her discomfort.

  ‘You have to be realistic, Dad. It’s a nasty break. The doctor told me that they might have to operate but they want to be sure you’re over the shock before they do anything.’

  She hadn’t intended blurting it out but he needed to understand that going home wasn’t an option.

  ‘They may have told you that they’re going to cut me open but it’s the first I’ve heard of it. What about patient confidentiality? I may be old but I’m not gaga. I’m going to make a formal complaint.’

  ‘Shhh, Dad. Please.’

  People were coming and going, tidying lockers and chatting across the beds, bringing out Tupperware containers and Thermos flasks. The three men had evidently been here long enough for their visitors to be familiar with hospital routine. Her father watched the comings and goings over her shoulder, now and again craning his neck to get a better sight of what was going on. She feared he might, at any moment, comment on them and their medical conditions.

  To divert him, she showed him what she had brought.

  ‘Your mints. The BBC History magazine – I thought it might have some interesting articles. Clean towels. And I bought you a couple of pairs of pyjamas.’

  ‘I already have pyjamas if you’d bothered looking for them.’

  ‘They’re tatty, Dad. One of the tops is torn under the arm. Half the buttons are missing.’

  ‘They’re perfectly functional.’

  He was raising his voice again and, rather than provide the ward with further entertainment, she didn’t challenge him.

  ‘I picked up your post,’ she said, offering him a few items of what was obviously junk mail.

  He peered warily at each one as if it might contain momentous information. ‘Is this all?’

  ‘Were you expecting anything?’

  ‘No.’ He frowned. ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘I spoke to Richard and John yesterday. Put them in the picture.’

  ‘You phoned Canada? How much did that cost?’

  ‘I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They both sent love, of course. I’ve promised to keep them up to date.’

  When she’d contacted her half-brothers they’d shown polite concern for their father, asking what they could do to help. They spoke with pronounced Scottish accents, which surprised her although it shouldn’t have as they had been children when their mother took them back to Scotland. ‘Let me know if there’s anything he needs,’ John had said. ‘I’ll get it sent. You mustn’t be out of pocket.’ He’d meant it kindly but the implication that money was her principal problem showed a failure to grasp her predicament. He’d suggested they keep in touch by email. ‘It’ll be cheaper and it avoids the difficulty with the time difference.’ He was right but it felt as if he preferred her not to phone in case direct contact brought him too close to something he’d rather keep at a distance.

  Vivian kept an eye on the clock above the swing doors. Gil had said he’d be here around four-thirty.

  Yesterday, she and Nick had spent a pleasant enough evening together. They’d ordered in from the new Thai place on Finchley Road and watched a movie. After breakfast, Nick had produced two tickets for Cinderella at Sadler’s Wells. ‘I know you wanted to see it. I managed to wangle a couple of house seats for tonight. It’ll take your mind off things.’

  Why hadn’t he mentioned the ballet last night when she’d told him her plan to stay overnight at Farleigh Road? Even this morning he could easily have offered to exchange the tickets but instead he’d sulked, saying that he didn’t see why she needed to spend the night in Tooting. ‘Why so caring all of a sudden? You don’t like the man.’

  What he said was true but his readiness to bulldoze her into doing what he wanted irritated her. ‘I’m sure you’ll find someone else to take,’ she said.

  When Gil had called she was still smarting from their tiff. She was feeling sorry for herself and his offer to keep her company had been irresistible. Now she was doubting the wisdom of accepting. Introducing her father to Gil would give him an open goal for mischief making.

  ‘I was telling a friend – an acquaintance – that you were here. He’s going to be in the area and he may drop in and say hello.’

  ‘Do I know him?’

  ‘No. But you’ll like him. He’s Australian. A medical photographer. He works at UCH.’

  He frowned. ‘I don’t understand what you’re saying. Why is he coming here? Does he want to take my photograph?’

  ‘No, Dad. He’s a friend.’

  ‘What’s this one called? Mick? Rick? Or Dick?’ He threw his head back and laughed.

  What had she been thinking? This wasn’t going to work. Saying that she needed the lavatory, she left the ward and was looking for a quiet corner from which to phone Gil and put him off when she saw him leaning on the desk at the nursing station, chatting with two nurses. He was wearing the red fleece from the snow photograph, shapeless jeans and black boots. A canvas satchel hung from his shoulder. She passed men like Gil Thomas in the street a dozen times every day – middle-aged, greying, bad clothes, nondescript. Anyone who didn’t know might take him for a postman or the man who read the gas meter.

  As she watched, he dipped his hand inside the neck of his jacket and fished out an ID badge on a wide cord. He showed it to the nurses, one of whom took a ring binder from the shelf behind her and flicked through it. He said something and the women giggled. Vivian guessed he was quizzing them about her father and, from what she could see, he was making headway. As if feeling her gaze, he turned, raised his hand and smiled his easy smile.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I was on the point of telling you not to come. He’s being thoroughly obnoxious. I’ll apologise in advance.’

  ‘Vivian,’ he said, ‘you mustn’t worry about me. I can look after myself, and I’m not going to judge you by the way your father behaves. Does he know I’m coming?’

  ‘Yes. I told him you’re a friend.’

  She led him down the corridor to the ward where Philip Carey was sucking a mint and flipping the pages of the magazine. Calm, controlled, alert. The perfect patient.

  ‘Dad, this is Gil Thomas. Gil, this is my father, Philip Carey.’

  The men shook hands and Gil brought a second chair from the stack in the corridor and placed it alongside hers. ‘Sorry to hear about your accident, Mr Carey. Rotten luck.’

  ‘It was,’ he said. ‘Tell me, how do you two kno
w each other? I get to hear very little about my daughter’s life, Mr Thomas.’

  She shot Gil a see what I’m up against glance but he seemed unperturbed.

  ‘We met after the explosion,’ he said. ‘Vivian came into A&E with a lady who’d been injured.’

  ‘I see. So you haven’t known each other long.’

  ‘No. Not long.’

  Her father nodded and Vivian felt herself tensing in anticipation of his next question.

  ‘And have you met her young man? Nick?’

  ‘Not yet. But I’m looking forward to it.’

  ‘He’s quite a go-getter.’

  ‘Good for him.’

  Gil had already removed his fleece but now he pulled his sweater over his head tousling his hair, which made him look younger, less ordinary somehow. She started to relax. Here was someone who knew how to play her father’s game.

  Gil unbuckled his satchel. ‘I don’t know what you like to read, sir, but I wondered if this might help while away a few hours.’ He took out a fat, well-thumbed hardback and passed it to the old man. ‘It’s seen better days but it’ll have all the right words in the right order.’

  Her father put on his spectacles and studied the book, turning it over in his hands. ‘“The Complete Sherlock Holmes”.’ He opened it and inspected the contents pages. ‘“A Study in Scarlet.”, “A Sign of Four.” Years since I read Conan Doyle. I shall enjoy this. Thank you.’

  They discussed the Ashes series, Gil updating her father on the latest score. She couldn’t recall his ever attending a cricket match, or sports event of any kind, but he seemed interested and made a few pertinent remarks.

  Gil showed him how to set up the radio service on the bedside device, guiding him through the process several times until he was able to do it unaided. Telephone and television were also available – at a price – and Vivian offered to pay but he insisted that the radio was all he needed, especially now that he had Holmes and Watson for company.

  Gil was struck by how out of place Vivian looked surrounded by hospital paraphernalia – a creature out of its natural habitat. She spent the whole visit perched on the edge of her chair, as if ready to bolt at the first opportunity.

  He was bemused by the picture she’d painted of her father and of her relationship with him. He’d assumed she was exaggerating but he had to admit there seemed to be little warmth between them. She made no move to plump the old man’s pillows or stroke his hand. They shared no private jokes or reminiscences. He sensed no underlying bond. Whatever course the old guy’s treatment took, whatever its outcome, daughter and father faced a tough few months and he felt for them.

  They left when the evening meal was served, Vivian promising to visit the following afternoon, her father telling her not to bother.

  ‘Thanks for being so tolerant,’ she said as they waited for the lift. ‘He loves winding people up.’

  ‘Don’t be too harsh on him. He’s angry with himself for falling. Until the other day he was in charge of his life, now that’s been snatched away. Hospital’s not a great place when you’re old. It should be but it isn’t. Being stroppy’s his only way of showing he’s alive and kicking.’

  With the onset of darkness, the wind had strengthened. It had been unhealthily hot inside the hospital but it wasn’t long before the cold penetrated his jacket and sweater. Jeans were worse than useless in these conditions and he wished he’d worn his old cords.

  They made their way across the car park, towards the exit. ‘Let me have that,’ he said, taking the bag containing the old man’s washing. Ridiculous though it was, carrying it made him feel more connected to her.

  When they reached the main road, she turned left, away from his return route to the overground station. In the distance, he could make out a Tube sign. She’d naturally assumed that he’d come that way. When they reached the station, he would hang around until she’d gone and then back-track.

  The shops were closing, shutters rattling down on the Christmas frenzy. Hunched figures scurried purposefully along or cowered in bus shelters, shifting from foot to foot. It started to snow – huge, feathery flakes blown horizontal by the wind.

  ‘Here.’ He reached out and brushed snowflakes from her hair and pulled up her hood. The coat was dark green, somewhere between a duffle coat and a parka, and the fur around the hood felt real.

  ‘Is it far to your dad’s house?’ he said.

  She clasped the hood under her chin, snowflakes catching on the fur. ‘Not too far. Fifteen minutes if I walk quickly.’

  The snow was settling on the pavement, outlining every paving stone with a crisp, white border. ‘You can’t walk in this. You’ll freeze to death.’

  He pointed to an illuminated sign on the far side of the main road, next to Sainsbury’s. Road Riders Cab Services. ‘Pander to an old man. Get a mini cab.’

  ‘How old are you?’ she said.

  Forty-eight? Forty-six? What would he gain by lying?

  ‘Fifty-one.’

  ‘Yes. I guessed you were around fifty.’

  ‘Fifty-two next April.’

  ‘You’re still younger than my half-brothers.’

  Was that how she thought of him? A brother?

  ‘So you’ll get a cab?’ he said.

  She turned to face him. ‘Look. Why not come with me? We’ll order in.’

  The smell of something spicy. Fairy lights, swaying in the wind. The gentle spat of snowflakes striking the plastic bag.

  ‘Sounds good,’ he said.

  The cab driver was a cautious man. ‘Rectory Lane too steep. I go long way round. Only charge standard rate.’

  It was warm in the car. The wipers flipped back and forth at double speed, barely clearing the windscreen. Something meandering and Middle Eastern was playing on the radio. The snow, whirling and eddying in the headlights, was hypnotic and Gil felt pleasantly disorientated.

  ‘Here. On the right.’ Vivian’s voice roused him and they stopped in front of a terraced house.

  The driver asked for six pounds but Gil gave him ten, thanking him for delivering them safely. ‘You take care, now.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I go home. My wife is worrying.’

  Gil could tell from the piles of snow to either side of the path that it had been cleared since the last fall but several centimetres of fresh snow had already accumulated, and the gate needed a good shove to get it open.

  A light glowed in the room above the front door. ‘I left a lamp on a time switch,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose it fools anyone.’

  She took keys from her bag and unlocked the door, and they stood in the hall, the snow from their boots melting and forming puddles on the mosaic tiles.

  17

  When Gil took off his boots Vivian saw that his red socks were thinning at the toes. His feet looked small – perhaps size eight, like hers – but broad and with a high instep.

  ‘I’ll hang this on the radiator, shall I?’ he said, unzipping his fleece.

  ‘Yes. Tea or coffee? There’s only instant, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Instant’s fine.’

  She filled the kettle, took two mugs from the cupboard and wondered why she was here, in her father’s house, with Gil Thomas. He’d toiled all the way to St George’s to keep her company. He’d been patient with her father and concerned for her when it started snowing. He was certainly a kind man. But that didn’t explain why she’d invited him back to the house.

  ‘Will they deliver in this?’ she said.

  ‘Someone’s always prepared to take a risk if there’s money to be made. But if it keeps snowing, it’ll get less likely I suppose. Maybe we should start ringing round.’

  She had no idea which was the best home delivery place and they ended up sifting through the recycling bag, searching for flyers. Third time lucky, they ordered Indian from Masaledar in Tooting High Street. Whoever took their order seemed unperturbed by the weather and promised to get the food to them within the hour.

  ‘I expect it w
ill be disgusting,’ she said.

  ‘Are you always pessimistic?’

  ‘Better than being disappointed.’

  She pushed her father’s soiled washing into the machine and set the machine to hot wash. When it was done, she would have to drape it on the radiators. Not ideal, but with no tumble drier that must be what he did when the weather was bad.

  Until the night of the accident, she’d not been in the house without his being there, keeping an eye on her, telling her what to do. As she opened drawers and cupboards, searching for this and that, she came across things that she’d not previously noticed. Instructions for the washing machine, copied in black marker onto a recycled cornflakes box. Strips of paper stuck inside the cupboard door, listing its contents. A cardboard box filled with sheets of newspaper that had been tightly rolled and tied in a knot.

  She showed Gil the stash. ‘What d’you think these are?’

  ‘Paper sticks. For lighting the fire. They did that sort of thing in the war,’ he said. ‘How old would he have been then?’

  ‘He’s eighty-seven now so…’ She did the maths. ‘He must have been sixteen when it started.’

  ‘Was he in the forces?’

  It was an obvious question yet one she couldn’t answer.

  When she was growing up her father rarely mentioned the past. Occasionally he’d compared the rigours of his schooling with what he considered to be the failings of hers. His criticism had no relevance because his schooldays belonged in a history book. He’d never talked about the war and she hadn’t asked. It was one more thing on the long list of things they hadn’t discussed. When she was old enough to appreciate that not once but twice in the twentieth century, the two sides of her family – joint donors of her DNA – had been intent on killing each other, it had been too thorny a topic to confront.

  And later, when she was an adult? Her father’s life history – or anyone else’s for that matter – was of little interest to her. She failed to understand the current obsession with genealogy. What difference did it make that your great-grandmother was a scullery maid or that your father was a soldier? Who Do You Think You Are? Silly question. You were you. Your life was what you made of it.