by Jo Verity
‘How d’you see it going?’ he said when he returned to the kitchen. ‘Do we need a Friel-style schedule?’
He meant it in a jokey way but somehow he got the tone wrong and it sounded mocking.
‘You don’t like Howard, do you?’ she said. There was no antagonism in her question, merely curiosity.
‘I hardly know the man.’
‘But it’s obvious you don’t like him.’
He regretted referring, even obliquely, to Friel. Disharmony between two people was, more often than not, sparked off by a third party. He’d learned this even before he and Janey got together. He wasn’t foolish or love-struck enough to imagine he and Vivian could sidestep these snares. You don’t like Howard, do you? It seemed they had already been blighted by the phenomenon.
He held his hands up in surrender. ‘I’m jealous of the guy.’
Something else he’d learned – along with men who cried and men who were comfortable with small babies, women couldn’t resist men who owned up to their frailties.
Vivian was searching for a heavy pan for the fish when the senior ward nurse phoned.
‘No cause for alarm, Miss Carey. Your dad’s running a bit of a temperature. We’ve moved him to a single room. Just a precaution until we indentify the problem.’
‘He’s not in danger?’
‘No. But he asked me to let you know. He didn’t want you coming in and finding an empty bed.’
‘Thank you. I hope he didn’t nag. He can be very…’
The nurse laughed. ‘Yes, he can.’ She paused. ‘Any idea when you’ll be in?’
Hospitals were busy places. They didn’t have time to satisfy an old man’s whim. And now this offhand question. Something wasn’t right.
‘I could come this evening if…’ She left it hanging, waiting for assurance that tomorrow would be soon enough.
‘He’ll be pleased to have a visitor. And someone can have a little word with you.’
She recounted the conversation to Gil, doing her best to conceal her irritation with her father for managing to spoil their evening, not wanting Gil to think her selfish.
‘Why don’t you go now?’ he said. ‘We can eat later.’
It was six-thirty by the time she got there. It was busier than she’d previously seen it, the corridors jammed with people carrying holdalls and parcels. There was lots of laughter and silly hats and piped music, as though illness (and bad news) could be warded off by Christmas ritual.
When she reached the ward she was directed to the room adjacent to the nursing station. The door was shut, the sign on it restating hand-washing instructions and telling visitors to report to a member of staff before entering.
He seemed to be linked to a great deal of equipment – tubes, wires, screens flashing unfathomable yet ominous numbers. The raised cot sides made him look helpless. His hand, resting on the blanket, twitched spasmodically but otherwise he was perfectly still. She glanced around. The room contained nothing even vaguely homely – no get well cards, no patterned curtains, no crumpled newspapers or packets of sweets. This was a place dedicated to illness.
She pictured his bedroom at Farleigh Road, regretful that she had, a few hours ago, done her best to eliminate him from it. She took his hand. It was cool and dry which surprised her as he had, according to the nurse, a raised temperature.
‘Dad?’ she said, squeezing his hand. ‘Dad.’
He opened his eyes and stared at her but there was no recognition in his gaze. ‘Where’s my wife?’
‘It’s me. Vivian.’
He shook his head violently, waving her away as though she were an impostor, then he closed his eyes and was still again. Were it not for her pounding heart she might have imagined his disquieting reaction.
She sat next to the bed. He was breathing steadily and deeply, sunk back into sleep. Sometimes, coming out of a dream, she needed time to orientate herself. Had she roused him from a dream about her mother? Was that it?
A nurse slipped into the room. ‘You found him, then,’ she said, as if that were the solution to the problem.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ Vivian said. ‘He asked for my mother. She’s been dead for five years.’
‘It’s not unusual for older people to get a bit…muddled.’
‘Muddled? What are you saying?’
The nurse’s face was set in a vapid smile. ‘It’s easy for those closest to miss the signs. Little slips, here and there. A bit forgetful.’
‘He wasn’t muddled until he came in here.’
‘Well…Would you like a cup of—’
‘You’re doing tests. Tests for what exactly?’
The nurse’s smile had faded. ‘I’ll fetch someone.’
This suggestion that confusion was acceptable – inevitable even – made Vivian cross. And uneasy. Had she failed to spot something? Richard had mentioned that their father was confused but she now knew he had a financial motive for planting that seed and didn’t trust him.
A young woman came in and introduced herself as Doctor Halliwell. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, drawing attention to the crop of spots on her forehead. She looked tired and scruffy and barely old enough to have left school. She was holding a ring binder and as she flicked through the loose leaves Vivian noticed her bitten nails.
‘Right. Okay,’ she said, ‘you’re…’ She flipped back to the cover of the binder.
God. She doesn’t even know his name.
‘You’re Philip’s daughter?’
Vivian might not know her father well but she did know that he deplored familiarity, particularly the compulsion to call old people by a first name, ‘as if we no longer warrant respect’.
‘I’m Mr Carey’s daughter,’ she said, a correction almost certainly wasted on Doctor Halliwell who was still flicking back and forth through sheets of paper.
It seemed that all had been going well, if a little slowly – ‘everything takes longer at your father’s age’ – but last night his temperature had risen sharply, suggesting an infection somewhere.
‘We’ve put him on antibiotics,’ she said. ‘That should sort it out. And we’ll run a few tests. To be on the safe side.’
‘The safe side of what?’ Vivian said.
The young woman looked uncomfortable, stuck for words, as though they had deviated from the established script. Vivian felt almost sorry for her – working on Christmas Eve, bolshie visitor, zits. But she must save her sympathy for the old man in the bed. ‘Another thing. Why have you moved him out of the ward?’
The girl came up with a couple of woolly reasons – ‘quieter for him’, ‘easier for the nurses to keep an eye’ – which didn’t seem quite good enough to explain his occupying a premium spot in a busy hospital. She glanced at her watch. ‘I’m afraid I need to get on with my ward round,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you want to spend some time with your father. Will we see you tomorrow? You can come in whenever you like. It’s open visiting’
After she’d gone Vivian sat with her father for another ten minutes. Should she wake him and see whether he recognised her this time? No. It would be cruel to drag him back from wherever he was. Tearing a page from her notebook, in large, clear script she wrote Popped in but you were sleeping. See you tomorrow. Vivian xx. Then she tucked the note into his hand and headed back to Farleigh Road.
28
Enough light penetrated the curtains for Gil to find his way to the bathroom without switching on the light. He checked the time. Two-forty in London – gone noon in Australia. When he’d promised Louise that he would call today, he hadn’t anticipated being away from his flat. Using his mobile would cost a fortune – money he didn’t want to spend. But if he failed to meet his promise, they would simply nod their heads and add another black mark to his tally.
Vivian was awake when he returned.
‘Did I wake you?’ he said.
‘I wasn’t asleep.’
She’d returned home in some distress. Over a belated meal, she’d told h
im what she’d found when she got to the hospital. What seemed to disturb her most was her father’s demand to see his wife and his failure to recognise her – his daughter. A matter of weeks ago, she’d insisted that she and he were, in effect, strangers. Listening to her detailed account of her visit, he’d sensed a change in her position, as if she were nudging closer to the old man. Vivian always seemed sure of her opinions, which made this apparent shift puzzling. Then again did it matter why a young woman went from loathing to tolerating her father? Wasn’t it enough that she did?
He got back into bed, keeping to his side of the mattress, making sure not to crowd her.
‘Want to talk?’ he said.
‘Not really.’
‘Okay.’ He turned on his side, facing away from her. ‘Give me a dig if I snore.’
When he was a young man, relationships had started with sex and usually not progressed much further. Then Janey came along and it had been a case of good sex followed by bad luck – if you could call ‘forgetting’ to swallow a pill bad luck. After Polly was born, when bed had become a place to sleep and not much more, he’d drifted in and out of a number of rather public affairs. Janey hadn’t seemed overly bothered but, for some reason which he couldn’t recall, they’d given it a second go resulting in the twins, and confirmation that it was never going to work.
Things had been different when he came to London. He was older, of course, but he’d partly attributed his dwindling libido to the climate – less bare flesh and more intellectual distractions. His ad-hoc arrangement with Feray had been ideal.
Sex seemed inconsequential to Vivian. (Was that what she’d tried to warn him of?) They’d made love just that once – ‘to see if it works’ – and at the time, he’d got the impression that it did. Now he didn’t know what to think. Tonight they’d undressed in silence, separated by the width of the double bed. It was as if she’d forgotten he was there.
She fidgeted for a while, then edged towards him until they were lying back to back. ‘I’m cold,’ she said, touching his calf with an icy foot.
‘Here.’ He rolled over and gathered her against his shoulder. ‘How’s that?’
‘Nice.’
‘You mustn’t upset yourself,’ he said. ‘He’s being well looked after.’
‘Is he? People are supposed to get better in hospital, not worse,’ she said. ‘If he’s to die I wish he’d died in the garden. They say that hypothermia is just like falling asleep.’
‘He’s not going to die,’ Gil said, ‘not yet anyway.’
He had no idea if this were true. Mention of an infection coupled with his transfer to a single room rang warning bells. There were plenty of ‘nasties’ lurking in hospitals and he was a frail old man.
‘I hate that place,’ she said. ‘It’s where they took my mother. She was dead before the ambulance arrived but I suppose they had to take her somewhere.’
He pulled her against him in a hug. They stayed like this, their bodies growing warmer. But she remained tense.
‘It’s no good,’ she said at last. ‘I’m going to make some tea.’ She sat up and as she leaned across him to switch on the lamp, her breast brushed his arm. He felt himself stir and turned away, hoping she hadn’t noticed.
They bumped up the central heating and lit the rings on the gas cooker, sitting in the kitchen, waiting for the house to warm up. She looked forlorn and he set about cheering her up.
‘Tell you what. Let’s have breakfast,’ he said.
‘It’s three-thirty.’
‘Haven’t you heard of the “all day breakfast”? C’mon. Live a little.’
They ate porridge followed by bacon sandwiches smothered in ketchup and, by the time they’d finished she looked less troubled.
‘I have something to ask,’ he said. ‘Strictly speaking, I should ask your dad—’
‘For my hand in marriage?’
Her response, frivolous and flirty, threw him. His face must have revealed this confusion because she said ‘I’m only half German. I am allowed to make jokes.’
Of course she was teasing. Yet her words had flipped his guts and set his heart thudding
He recounted his promise to Louise. ‘Would it be okay to use the landline? It’d be a couple of calls. Coffs and Grafton. I’ll pay.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘When would be a good time?’
‘Now, if that’s okay. They’ll still be recovering from lunch.’
She yawned. ‘I feel sleepy now. I’ll leave you to make your calls.’
‘I’ll be up soon,’ he called as she went up the stairs, taking pleasure in the intimacy of the simple words.
He dialled Rachel’s number, checking each digit against the entry in his diary, thinking how few times he’d phoned her since coming to England. They’d never been close, their lack of fondness made more apparent by his warm relationship with Louise. Even as a child Rachel had been inflexible, unable to accommodate opinions and attitudes that conflicted with her own. They’d found it easier to keep out of each other’s way. These days they exchanged perfunctory emails but they both knew that it wouldn’t take much for them to lose touch.
‘Rache? It’s Gil. Merry Christmas.’
They exchanged greetings, skirting around the fact that he was, for no good reason in her eyes, on the far side of the world. They soon ran out of small talk and Rachel handed over to Louise.
‘Merry Christmas, Gil,’ she said.
‘Hi, Sis. Bearing up?’
‘We’re having a terrific time. Rachel’s put on a fantastic spread.’
The brightness in her voice told him that she was getting through the day as best she could. They talked about the weather and the laptop that Dan had bought her. He would have asked her about Polly but he assumed the others were listening to the conversation and he didn’t want his daughter’s pregnancy to become the focus of the family gathering.
‘I’ll ring you at home,’ he said, ‘and we’ll have a proper chat.’
‘That’d be nice. Mum? Come and talk to Gil.’
His mother sounded frail and although the line was clear, a time lag – no more than a fraction of a second but nevertheless disruptive – meant that they were constantly talking over each other or failing to catch the tail end of a remark. As usual she was fussing about the cost of the call, telling him goodbye before they’d had time to say anything. She’d never challenged his decision to leave, and he loved her for it, but he knew that she must wonder if she’d done anything to drive him away.
‘You have a great day, Ma,’ he said. ‘Actually I’m coming over soon.’ He hadn’t meant to blurt it out but it suddenly seemed important to give her something on Christmas Day. ‘Before the end of January, probably.’
He allowed time for his words to reach her and time for hers to come back.
‘Thank you, Gil,’ she said. ‘It’ll give me something to look forward to.’
‘Take care, won’t you Mum? We’ll speak again soon.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You’re a good boy.’
He pictured her pulling a hanky from the sleeve of the cardigan she wore even on the hottest day of the year, and he felt empty.
In her most recent email Janey had mentioned that the kids – his kids – would be spending Christmas with her and Alan. Where else would they be? Before he had time to chicken out he dialled her number. With luck they’d all be outside and not hear the phone. He’d leave a message and have fulfilled his obligations.
‘Hi.’ It was a man’s voice.
‘Hi. Is Polly there by any chance?’
The time lag and then a tentative ‘Dad? It’s Chris. Dad? Are you still there?’
The man was his son and it shook him a little.
‘Chris. Hey. Merry Christmas. How’s it going?’
‘It’s good.’
He waited, forgetting that teenage boys (his, anyway) never volunteered information and needed to be interrogated. ‘So who’s there with you?’
‘
Mum, Adam, Polly, Alan. Chloe and Mark from next door.’
‘Quite a party then. I expect you had a slap-up dinner.’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s the middle of the night here,’ Gil said.
‘Cool. D’you want to speak to Adam?’ Chris said. It was obvious his aim was to get off the phone as quickly as possible.
‘That’d be great,’ Gil said. ‘And Polly too, if she’s around.’
Mention of Polly ignited a glimmer of interest. ‘Can you imagine her with a kid, Dad? It’s weird. She keeps nodding off and snoring. Like an old woman. She looks gross too.’
Chris and Adam had spent their childhood tormenting their sister. It was their fallback position when they had nothing better to do. They weren’t cruel boys but younger brothers were programmed to torment. Polly was no pushover and the ensuing battles – physical, verbal and psychological – had been hard fought and often distressing to witness. When he’d left (or been thrown out, depending who was telling the story), the three kids had joined forces and turned their anger on him. Understandable but nonetheless hurtful.
‘Don’t be too hard on her, Chris. I don’t suppose she’s thrilled about the way things are.’
A sigh of exasperation reached him from the far side of the planet and he was on the point of reminding his son that he was seventeen, not seven, and that he should be looking out for his sister because the baby’s father wasn’t around. But he let it go, anticipating Chris’s and where’s its grandfather?
He heard – faint but clear – the sound of laughter. Janey lived on Firman Drive, overlooking Diggers Beach. Late December it was probably up around eighty degrees. Wooded slopes running down to the shore. Pink sand. Azure sea. White-tops flipping onto the beach. Some people might call it Paradise.