Left and Leaving

by Jo Verity

  ‘Please help me, Gil. I need to put some shape on the next few days.’

  ‘Well. You could hare off to St George’s now, but as it’ll take twenty-four hours for the anaesthetic to clear his system, I doubt he’ll register your presence. Why not go tomorrow afternoon? Before it gets dark. Hospitals seem worse in the dark. Stay for an hour. That’ll be plenty long enough. Explain that you’ll be back on Saturday. That way you’ll be home by seven and you can have a normal-ish evening. How does that sound?’

  She knew Howard wouldn’t mind her leaving early. She could be in the office tomorrow morning by seven and put in a couple of hours before the phone started ringing. And sleeping, or even staying awake, in her own bed would be preferable to a night in Tooting.

  ‘It sounds good. Thanks.’ She took a few deep breaths. ‘We made a great snowman, didn’t we?’

  ‘One of the all-time greats.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’ve got your picture up on my screen now, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘Why would I?’

  When she contacted the ward later that evening, they told her that the operation had gone to plan. Her father was still in the recovery room which they assured her was normal.

  ‘Could you tell him I’ll be in to see him tomorrow afternoon? Oh, and could you give him my love?’

  Then she went to bed and slept until the alarm woke her next morning at six.

  *

  After work, to keep out of the cold and occupy the evening, Gil went to the Odeon in Camden Town. The cinema was located directly opposite the coffee place where he and Vivian had shared cakes. He glanced in, on the off-chance, but tonight ‘their’ table was taken by a young man with a laptop. Rather than go straight home, he stopped off for fish and chips, eating them perched on a high stool, peering out through the steamed-up window at the fuzzy glow of traffic lights and street decorations.

  When he got in, his flat was so cold that bed was his only option. He’d slept naked until he’d moved in here. Faced with winter and a badly insulated roof, he’d invested in a couple of pairs of cheap pyjamas. Tonight they did nothing to alleviate the cold and he pulled on a sweater and a pair of socks before diving under the duvet.

  Initially, enthusiasm for the current ‘proper winter’ had rendered the nation nostalgic. Now it had worn thin. Weeks of sub-zero temperatures had played mayhem with transport and communications. Schools all over the country had been forced to shut, enabling thousands of kids to take to toboggans and ice skates (and going a long way to explain why fractures were up one hundred and forty-five per cent on the equivalent week last year). The papers were full of it. Insurance premiums were set to rocket as pipes burst and drivers failed to heed warnings of appalling road conditions. There was a spate of grit thefts from council depots. One such robbery went ironically awry when a stolen vehicle, overloaded with its stolen cargo, overturned on an icy stretch of the A40. ‘How were they going to get rid of thirty tons of grit?’ Gil asked Tyler the next time he visited him. The lad had no hesitation in supplying the answer. ‘eBay.’

  If he intended visiting Polly before the baby was born, he needed to get himself organised. Travelling to the far side of the world for ten days was insane but he’d run it past Kevin and that was all the leave he would sanction. Two days to get there, two days to get back – he’d have less than a week in Coffs, and he’d be wiped out for another week when he returned. But if it convinced his daughter that he loved her, it would be worth it.

  First thing next morning he booted up his laptop and trawled through the ‘cheap flights’ sites, getting a feel of what was available. There were endless come-ons. Apparently he could fly to Brisbane and back for seven hundred pounds, but when he entered dates it was a different matter. He’d be lucky to get change out of a grand. Even taking into account his recent lottery win, it would be hard to rustle up that kind of money.

  20

  He was sitting up, a mug of something on the table affair across his bed. He raised a hand and smiled when he caught sight of her.

  ‘How are you?’ she said.

  ‘Pumped full of drugs, so I’m feeling pretty chipper.’ He pointed to a stack of chairs in the corner. ‘Come. Sit by me.’

  She set a chair next to his bed. His face had been grey when she last saw him but now there was a blush of colour in his cheeks. His hair had been combed and he was freshly shaven. He looked better than he had since his fall.

  On her way to the hospital, she’d stopped to buy a bar of chocolate, a packet of digestive biscuits and a bottle of lemonade, and she placed these on his locker.

  ‘Actually the food’s not at all bad,’ he said. ‘We get given a menu and we have to tick what we want to eat next day. Quite a choice. Tomorrow I’m having soup for lunch – tomato, I think – and chicken for supper. Reasonable portions, too.’

  She had been prepared for a grisly account of his operation and criticism of the nursing staff, but he seemed more interested in the catering arrangements.

  ‘Are they pleased with you?’ she said.

  It was the question a parent asked a child after they’d handed in a school project, and she expected him to accuse her of condescension.

  ‘D’you know, I think they are,’ he said. ‘And they won’t credit I’m eighty-seven.’ There was pride in his declaration.

  She glanced around the ward. The objectionable man in the opposite bed had been replaced by an older man who was asleep. The other two, isolated by headsets, were watching television, light from the miniature screens flickering on their blank faces.

  ‘Shall I sort out your television?’ she said.

  He shook his head as if she’d suggested something distasteful. ‘No thank you. I’ve got the radio for the news and so forth. I’d appreciate some reading matter though.’

  ‘What sort of thing? Biography? Travel?’

  ‘I used to enjoy Westerns. Zane Grey. Owen Wister. Max Brand. Great yarns.’

  ‘Westerns?’ She started to laugh then saw that he was serious. ‘Right. I’ll see what I can do.’

  Striplights cast a flat, feeble glow across the ward. The creamy-yellow wall paint might have looked homely on the swatch but here it was anaemic, showing every scuff and mark. An odour of ill health enveloped the place – staleness verging on decay. It was hard to imagine that anyone could thrive in this dreary environment.

  Vivian explained that she couldn’t stay long. ‘I’ll be back on Saturday.’

  ‘I shall be fine,’ he said. ‘Don’t you worry about me.’

  She had been expecting one of his diatribes and now, relieved by his apparent contentment, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

  ‘What’s that for?’ he asked.

  ‘Can’t I kiss my father?’

  He looked at her and frowned, and she thought he was going to say something. Instead he said ‘Which one will you bring with you on Saturday? The young one or the old one?’ He winked. ‘I like the old one better.’

  He reached across for the bar of chocolate, removed the wrapper and snapped off a couple of chunks. ‘Fancy a bit?’

  The journey home gave her time to reflect on her visit. They’d passed the hour without getting into any sort of argument. Could the anaesthetic have rendered him amenable? Laughing gas, wasn’t that what they used to use? He was perkier than she’d anticipated. They’d had a go at the crossword – something she couldn’t recall their ever doing before – and he’d cracked a couple of the clues. His request for cowboy books was bizarre but, with all the comings and goings in the ward, it was probably impossible to concentrate on serious reading. He’d remembered that Gil and Nick had been to see him even though he’d forgotten – or chosen to forget – their names. She hadn’t minded the ‘young one or old one’ wind up. Younger or older would have been kinder but that was a quibble. He was pretty much on the ball. Maybe she’d been overly pessimistic about what lay in store for him. And her. Yes. She was pleased
she’d gone to see him.

  When she got in, she bundled his washing into the machine and set it on quick wash. Half-watching the news, she flicked through the day’s post. A couple of mailshots. Something from her bank about changes in terms and conditions. The rest were obviously Christmas cards. One had a German stamp.

  Her aunt’s angled script, so like her mother’s, pulled her up sharp as it always did and she opened this envelope first, thinking it might contain a letter. But it was only a card (snow-covered fir trees under a starry sky) printed with a Christmas greeting – Gesegnete Weihnachten und ein glückliches neues Jahr! – and signed simply ‘Tante Steffi’. Gil had remarked that it was a shame she didn’t keep in touch with her German family. Perhaps, when things returned to normal, she should take a few days out and go to Munich. Establish, once and for all, why a good-looking young woman had abandoned her family and married an old, English divorcé.

  She heard a tap on the door. It was Mrs Sachs from the ground floor flat. ‘I heard you come in, dear. I signed for this.’ She held out a bulging Jiffybag. ‘Save you the fuss of collecting it.’

  Vivian thanked her neighbour but did not invite her in. They spoke when they passed in the hall and performed small favours for each other but, by tacit agreement, they maintained their privacy. She’d only been inside the old lady’s flat once. Mrs Sachs had been returning from holiday and Vivian, who happened to be going out, had carried her suitcase in from the cab.

  The handwriting on the package was familiar but it wasn’t until she opened it that she realised it was from Irene Tovey. It contained a white envelope and three items wrapped in Christmas paper, each labelled ‘To Vivian, my dearest friend.’

  Vivian sighed. She and Gil had presumed that, if they held their nerve and didn’t respond to Irene’s drivelling messages, she must eventually give up. She was proving to be thicker skinned than they had feared.

  She set the packages to one side and opened the envelope. The card – a delicate yet energetic drawing of three angels – was quite lovely and undoubtedly expensive. A surprisingly stylish choice for someone who sent out tacky tracts. She turned it over. Walter Crane 1845 – 1915 Artist and Book Illustrator. The card contained the ominous message. ‘We MUST get together very soon. Until then, God bless and much love, Irene.’

  The washing machine chugged away but the hospital smell that clung to her father’s things persisted. She sniffed her sweater. There it was, faint but distinctive. Eager to be rid of the disagreeable smell, she showered, washed her hair and put on her pyjamas.

  She returned to the kitchen and dropped a couple of rounds of bread in the toaster. While the timer ticked away, she checked the calendar for the coming week. Mulled wine here. Nibbles there. Same old, same old.

  One event she was looking forward to was Howard and Cara’s party. Every year the couple invited the whole of Friel Dravid to their home for an old-fashioned Christmas party. It was more family get-together than office ‘do’. Work talk was banned for the evening and a kind of swear box – five pounds per transgression, money going to charity – was placed on the piano as a deterrent. Naturally they were all expected to lapse at least once or risk being labelled miser. They ate simple yet delicious food, played parlour games and there was a quiz, complete with trophy, for the winning team. The climax of the evening was a concert when everyone was invited – but never bullied – to ‘do a turn’. Last year Nick had surprised her by reciting a chunk from ‘The Lady of Shalott’.

  The Friel’s party was next Thursday, the day Nick was leaving for his skiing holiday. When he’d told her he was going away for Christmas, he’d promised that they would ‘do something special’ at New Year but nothing more had been mentioned. Yesterday, when he’d phoned to ask about her father, he’d been dashing off to some drinks party and they’d made no arrangement to meet.

  She made a mug of tea, spread her toast sparingly with Marmite and carried her supper into the living room. After she’d finished eating, she called him.

  ‘Hi. Where are you?’ she said.

  ‘In Charing Cross Road. On my way to a thing at Foyles.’ A siren forced him to raise his voice. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At home.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ he said. ‘How’s your dad?’

  ‘Remarkably okay. Look, I was wondering when we might—’

  ‘Hang on a sec. I’ve just seen someone I need to speak to.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ she said as the call ended.

  His failure to invite her to his Foyles ‘thing’ rankled. He must know she was having a miserable time, yet he was making no effort to cheer her up. When he rang a few minutes later she diverted his call then deleted his message without playing it back.

  She went to the window and pulled back the curtain. The street below was deserted, frozen and motionless beneath a starry sky. She felt suddenly lonely and, without thinking too much about it, she called Gil.

  ‘I’m not interrupting anything am I?’ she said.

  ‘As a matter of fact you are.’

  ‘No worries. I’ll let you—’

  ‘I was scraping lentils off the bottom of my soup pan. But I suppose I can spare a couple of minutes. What’s up?’

  ‘I went to see my father as you suggested. It was a good visit.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. How is he?’

  ‘Smug. According to him, the medics think he’s some kind of Peter Pan. He loves the food. And he wants to read Westerns. I blame you for that.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You and Sherlock Holmes,’ she said. ‘Actually I was phoning about Irene.’ She told him about the card and the parcels. ‘I dread to think what’s in them.’

  ‘Gold, frankincense and myrrh?’

  ‘Probably. Has she sent you anything?’

  ‘No, but there’s a package waiting for me at the depot,’ he said.

  ‘You gave her your home address?’

  ‘Afraid so. I stupidly put it on a sponsorship form.’

  ‘You sponsored her?’

  ‘Don’t ask,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll let you get back to your pan,’ she said.

  ‘I’m glad your dad’s doing okay, Vivian. But it’s likely to be a long job. I’m afraid you’re in for a lousy Christmas.’

  There. That’s all she’d wanted from Nick – some acknowledgement that things were tough.

  She cleared her throat. ‘Gil, would you like to come over?’

  There was silence on the line and she thought they’d been cut off but then he said, ‘Sure about that?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  Gil showered and, as he put on clean underwear and socks, fresh shirt and jeans, he tried not to get ahead of himself. Maybe she was feeling down about her dad, or her job, or that Nick bloke, and wanted to have a good old moan. Or maybe she needed help with something in her flat. Someone to hold the end of a Christmas garland, or put up a shower curtain. But if that were the case, wouldn’t she have mentioned it?

  He paused, one foot on a chair as he tied his bootlace. He’d dropped everything and gone to her before. The first time was the day after her father’s accident, when he’d taken her home and fed her pasta. Then again last weekend when she’d been steamed up about visiting the hospital. On both occasions there had been a specific reason for his going. She’d been in a pickle. He’d gone because she’d needed him.

  He shoved socks, underpants and toilet bag in his canvas satchel, not thinking too hard about his motive for doing this. He tucked his laptop under the duvet hoping to insulate it against the cold, something he’d started doing after hearing that computers could be fatally damaged by low temperatures. Finally, before closing the door, he tapped his pockets. Keys. Wallet. Phone. And hospital ID.

  He left the house, pausing to look down into the basement area. Feray had tied a Christmas wreath on the front door. A smell of garlic, intense and robust, hung in the air. The curtains were closed but, where they didn’t quite meet, he saw an unidentifiable form pass the gap.
He’d not seen her since Monday evening when she’d more or less given him the brush off. In fact they hadn’t made love for a week. He hadn’t thought about it until now. Had she gone off him? The possibility needled a little. But as he walked away, it went some way to counter his feeling of guilt.

  He set off at a lick but the pavements were treacherous and he found himself tensing, slowing down for fear of slipping. By the time he reached the main road, his thigh muscles ached and his feet were numb. He’d planned to go by bus but when a taxi pulled up at the Assembly House and four girls burst out he climbed in, occupying the scent-y warmth, glad that he’d called at the ATM on his way home and had enough cash for the ride.

  The driver inclined his head towards the glass hatch but kept his eyes on the road. ‘I’ll stick to the main roads, if that’s okay with you, guv.’

  ‘You’re the boss.’

  The taxi crept along. Now and again, Gil felt the vehicle drift as it rounded a corner. The cabbie kept the revs down as they travelled gingerly up Haverstock Hill and when they reached Belsize Park, he wasn’t keen to turn into Vivian’s narrow street.

  ‘I’ll drop you here if you don’t mind,’ he said stopping on the corner.

  Gil rarely used cabs. A couple of cab rides a week soon gobbled up his meagre surplus, and, as he handed over a ten pound note, it crossed his mind that his previous taxi ride had had been with Vivian. And the one before. And the one before that.

  21

  Gil stood in the porch. It was the best part of thirty years since his gut had churned with this mix of doubt and elation, and he was tempted to hang on to this delicious moment when everything was possible. A car crept past the house, its headlights probing the gloomy recess, reflecting off the glazed tiles and sending shadows gliding across the snow. Two bulky figures, androgynous in Arctic gear, glanced at him as they walked past. Skulk here much longer and he’d be arrested.

  He pressed the doorbell and leaned close to the speaker. He’d grown accustomed to doorstep interrogations and he listened, expecting to hear Vivian’s voice. All he heard was a muted buzz then a click, signalling the release of the lock. He pushed the door open and climbed the stairs to the first floor. The door to her flat was ajar but he paused on the threshold and, not wishing to startle her, called ‘It’s only me.’