Left and Leaving

by Jo Verity

  ‘Gil? I’m glad I caught you. I had to let you know we kept going for over three hours.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The sponsored singing? We sang for three hours, twenty minutes.’

  ‘Well done,’ he said.

  ‘And we had a lovely meal at the Spaghetti House. I got a picture frame from Secret Santa and Tina loved her candle.’

  ‘Look Irene—’

  ‘I know you’re busy but I had to thank you for sponsoring us.’

  ‘My pleasure. Now I really—’

  ‘Have you been in touch with Vivian? I sent her a card and some little gifts but I haven’t heard from her. I do hope she’s all right.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Did your parcel arrive? I’m only asking because things go missing in the post. And I was thinking that the three of us should get together for a little drink if you’re free at all this weekend. What d’you say?’

  He closed his eyes, picturing her thin lips greasy with crimson lipstick. And he lost it. ‘No, Irene, I don’t want to meet for a drink. I am not your guardian angel. Or your best friend. Our paths happened to cross but I promise you there was no celestial power involved. I wish you well, I really do, but I’m a busy man. I’m going to end this call now. Please don’t contact me again.’

  He switched off his phone, burying it deep in his pocket as if fearing that Irene’s willpower might somehow triumph over Samsung technology. Probably, at some point, he’d feel bad about speaking to her like that but he had enough on his plate without adding a delusional old biddy to the mix. She’d be hurt but she’d get over it, and she could spend Christmas slagging him off to…whoever.

  Vivian had daydreamed, briefly, about a second Tooting weekend with Gil. When they returned from the hospital, they would cook supper and sit by the fire with the papers or listening to the radio. They might even sleep by the fire. But after his two-day silence she had to face the fact that this wasn’t going to happen.

  On Saturday morning, anticipating a Spartan weekend, she got up late, soaked in the bath then went out for breakfast. Richard had promised to buy books for their father but, reluctant to go empty-handed to the hospital, she dropped in at Daunt Books where the assistant recommended The Complete Western Stories of Elmore Leonard.

  She took a minicab from the Tube station to Farleigh Road, asking the driver to wait while she offloaded her bags and took a quick look around. The house felt warm and everything seemed to be in order. The temperature had barely risen above freezing all week and the snowman was still there. He’d shrunk a little and was leaning forward, as though trying to catch whatever she might have to tell him and she noticed that he was stippled with tiny specks of dirt.

  The driver dropped her off outside the main hospital entrance and she joined the steady stream of visitors pushing through the revolving door. After the bracing chill, the air in here was stale and tepid. The instant she started down the corridor, lethargy enveloped her. God, it was dreary. She took the lift to the fifth floor and turned left, then left again through the swing doors. She massaged her hands with alcohol gel from the dispenser on the wall outside the ward then pressed the entry pad and waited for someone to release the security lock. For the first time she’d found her way here without consulting a single sign.

  Her father was sitting in a winged chair next to the bed. A pale blue blanket was draped across his lap and he was reading the Telegraph. Like the snowman, he seemed to have shrunk since she last saw him. He looked both pathetic and defiant as he did his best to isolate himself from his surroundings, and she felt her resentment waver.

  ‘Good to see you out of bed, Dad,’ she said.

  ‘What day is it? I’ve lost track.’

  All he had to do was check the front of the paper but she let it go. ‘It’s Saturday. How are you?’

  ‘I’ve been better.’ He smiled and reached for her hand. ‘You’re cold.’

  ‘It’s freezing outside. You’re lucky to be in the warm.’

  He let her idiotic remark pass and signalled for her to bring up a chair. He looked tired but surprisingly cheerful as though, in escaping from the bed, he were already half way home.

  ‘They’ve got me doing exercises.’

  He pointed to his right foot, rotating it slowly at the ankle, repeating the movement with the left. As he did so, the blanket fell away from his legs and she saw that beneath his dressing gown he wore no pyjama bottoms. She caught a glimpse of the dressing, covering most of his thigh, and the catheter tube snaking down from the region of his groin. She felt revulsion, followed swiftly by embarrassment and guilt. He was an old man in pain and in trouble. He hadn’t wanted this to happen any more than she had. Ottilie would have come out with a quip about ‘showing off your bits’ or ‘don’t frighten the horses’, but the best she could do was pull the blanket back into position.

  ‘This one’s a bit trickier,’ he said, edging his foot forward from the knee, wincing slightly as he did so. ‘Good for circulation, apparently. Helps healing.’

  The determination and concentration required to execute these minute actions brought home to her the scale of the mountain he faced.

  She gave him the book – ‘Just the ticket.’ – and his mail, which included a few Christmas cards from neighbours who lived near the old house and who had known her mother.

  ‘Can’t think why they bother,’ he said, tossing them on the bed.

  ‘Well I think it’s a kind gesture.’

  He squinted at her. ‘D’you send cards?’

  ‘No.’

  He laughed – a mirthful laugh – and she found herself joining in.

  They chatted about the comings and goings in the ward. He seemed to have taken a shine to one of the nurses – Anthea or Alicia – the only one who made time to chat with him. He showed Vivian two ‘get well’ cards he’d received, one from Richard and the other from Mrs Francks. She told him that she’d spoken to Richard and would be reporting back to him this evening, but she didn’t mention his planned visit in case it didn’t happen.

  At five-thirty, when it was time for his evening meal, she left him to it and went to find the coffee shop on the ground floor. It was incorporated in a small but well-stocked M&S Simply Food and she took the opportunity to pick up a few bits and pieces to get her through the weekend.

  By the time she returned to the ward, her father was back in bed, his covers tidy.

  ‘No Bill today, then?’ he said.

  ‘Gil, Dad. No. But he sent his best wishes.’

  ‘Perhaps he’ll come next time.’

  After she’d eaten, she rang Richard, feeling like a naughty child to be doing so without having her father’s permission to use the phone.

  ‘He was out of bed. And they’ve got him doing exercises,’ she said.

  ‘That’s good news. Did you manage to talk to anyone about his progress?’

  Gil had mentioned that hospitals did little more than tick over at the weekend and there had been no sign of a doctor on the ward but it seemed a thin excuse.

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ he said and once again she felt her competence undermined.

  ‘I’m staying at Farleigh Road tonight—’

  ‘Is that necessary? It seems tough on you.’

  She’d all but forgotten why she’d decided on these stopover weekends. ‘I don’t like leaving the house unoccupied for too long. Especially when it’s so cold.’

  ‘That’s very thoughtful. Did you mention my visit?’

  ‘No. Are you definitely coming?’

  ‘Yes. It’s all sorted. I’ll fly down on Monday – back on Wednesday. I’m staying at the Hilton, Green Park. I was hoping we could meet for lunch before I go to the hospital.’

  He made it sound as if all this were merely a logistical problem.

  24

  Feray had been drinking. Her cheeks and neck were flushed, and when she kissed him – a sloppy, brazen kiss – he tasted wine on her tongue. She led him through to th
e kitchen where two women were sitting at the table, glasses in hand. In front of them were two bottles – one empty and the other well on the way.

  The older woman grinned. ‘You must be Gil.’

  ‘I must be.’

  Feray made the introductions. ‘This is Mags and that’s Sinita. We work together.’

  ‘Not for much longer,’ Sinita said. ‘We’ll be getting our P45s after Christmas.’

  Gil offered his commiserations and Feray took a glass from the shelf, emptied the bottle into it and handed it to him.

  His stomach griped with the first sip of the plonk and, under the pretext of washing his hands, he tipped most of it down the sink.

  ‘Where are the kids?’ he said.

  ‘Kennedy’s got them. For the whole weekend.’

  He was surprised that she hadn’t mentioned this last night, especially as she’d always been sceptical of her ex-husband’s childcare credentials.

  The women were warming up, opening another bottle that Sinita produced from an outsize handbag. Having wrestled with the problem all afternoon, he’d decided the simplest way to break with Feray was to confess to having an affair. No point in trying to explain the unfathomable setup between him and Vivian. If she went ballistic, he’d take it on the chin. The essential thing was to end it. To do this he needed to get her alone and sober (and thinking back to last night, well away from a bed) but there was no chance of that at the moment so, after wishing them a great evening, he took his leave.

  *

  He waited until mid-morning before going down to the basement. When he rang the bell there was no reply and he let himself in. The kitchen light was on and the table was still laden with glasses and empty wine bottles.

  ‘Feray?’ he called. ‘Anyone at home?’

  Silly question. Her friends looked like party girls and he imagined they were, all three of them, sleeping it off somewhere.

  As the day wore on and there was no sign of her, he grew impatient. He could understand why people were dumped by text message. He wasn’t going to do that – not yet anyway – but he might change his mind if he didn’t get hold of her soon.

  He was rinsing out a couple of pairs of socks, when Louise phoned. Hearing his sister’s tentative ‘Hello? Is that Gil?’ his first thought was that there was something amiss.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he said.

  ‘Can’t I ring my big brother for no good reason?’

  They chatted for a while. The weather in London. Their mother. Dan and children. Their tortuous Christmas arrangements.

  ‘Rachel’s gone totally OTT. I’ve been instructed to coordinate my gift wrap with her tree decorations.’

  ‘Are you going to?’

  ‘I suppose so. What are your Christmas plans?’

  ‘I’m hedging my bets,’ he said.

  ‘Nothing new there then,’ she said. ‘How are things between you and Polly?’

  ‘Not great. I can’t get through to her. I’ve tried but we end up bickering. I’m going to come over in the New Year if I can. For a quick visit. See if we can work something out.’

  ‘That’s good.’ She paused. ‘D’you have enough for a ticket? Maybe I could—’

  ‘Thanks, sis, but I’m loaded. Honest.’

  ‘You’ll give me fair warning, won’t you? I’d like us to spend a bit of time together.’

  ‘It’s a date.

  In unveiling his shapeless plan to his sister, it became something that had to happen.

  ‘Does Mum really not know Polly’s pregnant?’ he said. ‘She used to spot nicotine stains at a hundred paces.’

  ‘Smock tops are very “in” over here. It’s easy to hide a small bump. Of course she’s bound to latch on soon, but Polly’s a grown-up. They’ll have to sort it out. What about Chris and Adam?’

  ‘I get a “how’s it hanging” email once in a while.’

  ‘No mention of the baby?’

  ‘Nope. I reckon they’re embarrassed. Something like that’s a bit too real for seventeen-year-old blokes.’

  ‘Real?’

  ‘I’m sure they think about sex non-stop, but there’s no way they’ll connect their own urges to what’s happened to their sister.’

  ‘Maybe they’re waiting for you to say something.’

  ‘I’m going to pass on that one.’

  They wound up the call. Gil promised he’d call on Christmas Day, when they were at Rachel’s, and Louise promised that she would leave it to him to disclose his plans once he’d lined up the dates.

  When he was hatching his getaway plans, he hadn’t considered how Louise would take his leaving. So many people had been sticking their oars in that he’d overlooked her, making no fuss, standing quietly in the background. She simply hadn’t come into his reckoning. He hadn’t realised how much he’d counted on her rock-steady support – not entirely objective support, perhaps, but DNA should be allowed to tip the scales, shouldn’t it? She’d been the one he turned to when his marriage was heading down the pan and his kids were drifting away. She’d told him he was being an arsehole but she’d done so with regret not malice. Yet he hadn’t had the decency to ask whether she’d mind if he walked out of her life.

  It would be good to sit in a pub with his sister, pint in hand, and tell her about Vivian. The whole story from the moment the bomb went off. Every little detail. Not that the women would get on. Louise would be intimidated by Vivian. She wouldn’t ‘get’ her detachment, her circumspection, her European – yes, that’s what it was – sensibilities. And he couldn’t imagine what Vivian would make of his sister – a plump, forty-seven-year-old bottle-blonde with a harsh Aussie twang and hands coarsened by cleaning products.

  He’d dumped the contents of his laundry basket on the floor and was working out what he needed to wash for the coming week, when the doorbell rang. It wouldn’t be Feray – she had a key. Cold callers, peddling religion or politics, tended not to hang around. Once they’d tried all the bells without success, they moved on. This particular caller was persistent and, after the third ring, he went down to see who was visiting him on a Saturday morning.

  He was nonplussed to find Irene Tovey on the step.

  ‘Hello, Gil,’ she said. ‘Surprise, surprise.’ She stamped her feet. ‘Brrr. My feet are blocks of ice.’ She was wearing ankle-high bootees with fur trim and, as she stamped, Gil couldn’t help thinking of hooves.

  Oskar chose that moment to appear and there was a mumbled exchange of greetings. Gil’s neighbour, obviously assuming that Irene was on her way in, stood aside to let her pass before going out and pulling the door shut.

  Now she was in, Gil could hardly bundle her out again. ‘You’d better come up,’ he said. Almost before the words were out, he regretted the invitation. ‘Just for a few minutes. I’ve got an appointment.’

  She followed him up the stairs, her bootees squeaking on the vinyl treads. By the time they reached his door she was breathing heavily and, clamping a hand to her chest, she said, ‘I can see what keeps you so trim.’

  Once they were inside, he said, ‘Didn’t I make my position clear?’

  Ignoring his question, she pulled off her sheepskin mittens and placed them between the handles of her bag.

  ‘I don’t have much time,’ he said. ‘What exactly are you doing here?’

  ‘Poor Gil. Always on the go.’

  She began unbuttoning her coat. (That knee-length coat, the brooch on the lapel – marcasite, was it? those bootees, the wretched handbag – the whole lot belonged on a ‘vintage’ rail.)

  ‘I’ve come to apologise,’ she said. ‘Naughty, naughty me.’ She slapped herself on the back of her hand, a hard slap disturbingly evocative of flagellation. ‘I shouldn’t have phoned you at work. I caught you at a bad moment, didn’t I? I could hear it in your voice. It’s all too easy to have misunderstandings over the phone. I said to myself, the only way to put things right is to go and talk to Gil in person.’

  ‘Ten minutes later and I’d have been out.
’

  ‘But you weren’t, were you?’ She gave a smug smile. ‘I knew you’d be in because God told me to come this morning.’

  She glanced around the room. ‘What a homely place you have. I’ve often tried to picture it. A person’s home says so much about them, don’t you think?’

  A mound of soiled shirts and underwear. Socks dripping into the sink. Bed unmade. Last night’s dirty dishes on the draining board. He hoped this told her he didn’t give a flying fuck about what she thought.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said, ‘it’s a dump.’

  Without being invited, she plonked herself down on the bed. He found her invasion of the place where he slept and occasionally made love quite shocking. He was even more shocked when she patted the rumpled duvet with her podgy hand, indicating he should sit next to her. He took a step back, putting a couple more feet between them.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’ll spell it out. Our paths happened to cross. That’s all it was. In my job I meet dozens of strangers every day. Sometimes they’ve had bad news, or they’re in pain, or they’re scared. Or they might even have lost a handbag. I do my best to make things easier for them. And they’re grateful. But we don’t start exchanging presents, or meeting for drinks, or turning up on each other’s doorsteps. We pass the time of day and move on. End of.’

  She continued to smile her indulgent smile and he wondered if she’d taken in a word he’d said.

  ‘Strangers are simply friends waiting to happen,’ she said. ‘That’s what our minister tells us. Don’t you think that’s an uplifting thought?’

  Gil shook his head. ‘I think your minister is full of crap.’

  She flinched. ‘That’s a wicked thing to say. I’m disappointed in you Gil. You’ve strayed from the path of righteousness. Your soul is in mortal danger.’

  ‘You can’t win ’em all,’ he said, heady with success at ridding her face of that simpering smile.

  She stood up. ‘I don’t know what Vivian’s going to make of this, I’m sure.’

  ‘What’s Vivian got to do with it?’ he said.