Left and Leaving

by Jo Verity

  ‘How’s he doing?’ he said.

  ‘He needs a transfusion before they operate.’

  ‘Any idea when that’ll be?’

  ‘All they’ll say is “when he’s strong enough.”’

  They were standing, side by side, at the foot of the bed and Gil draped an arm across her shoulder. ‘And how are you doing?’

  Out of the blue, she was deluged with sadness. ‘Better than he is,’ she said.

  Gil pulled her to him and she buried her face in his shoulder. His jacket was still cool from the outdoor air and smelled faintly metallic.

  ‘I hate all this,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah. It’s a bummer.’

  She pulled away from him. ‘You don’t know what I’m talking about,’ she said, annoyed by his automatic assent.

  ‘So d’you want to tell me?’ he said.

  You are leaving. My father is dying. And, after I’m dead, no one will remember my mother.

  She blew out her cheeks. ‘Sorry. I’m shattered, that’s all. We’ll go in a minute.’

  Gil was helping her on with her coat when her father coughed and stretched out a wasted arm. She took his hand. It felt clammy and insubstantial, as she imagined a featherless, freshly-hatched chick might feel.

  ‘Anna? Annaliese?’ His voice was plaintive.

  ‘No, Dad. It’s Vivian.’

  Everything but his ears and nose seemed to have shrunk and his skin was taut on his skull. She moved closer, hoping he would recognise her, or at least realise that she was not his wife.

  ‘It’s going to be fine, Dad. They’ll soon have you sorted out.’ Given the circumstances, the lie seemed forgivable.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, lisping through flaccid lips.

  ‘It’s not your fault. It was an accident.’

  He pointed towards Gil. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘It’s Gil. He brought you the Sherlock Holmes book. Remember?’

  ‘Elementary’, he said, a rasping noise which might have been laughter coming from his chest.

  Fearing that he would at any second slip back into his dream world, she turned to Gil. ‘Will it do any harm to keep talking to him?’

  ‘It might tire him but I can’t see it’ll do any damage. Look, shall I leave you two for a while?’

  Dear Gil. Considerate as ever. But thinking she might need help in understanding her father’s mutterings, she asked him to stay.

  She perched on the edge of the high bed. ‘Is there something you want to tell me Dad?’ She waited, eventually prompting ‘Something you should have done, perhaps?’

  With that he became agitated, clutching her hands, trying to pull himself up.

  ‘Father,’ he said. ‘Baby.’

  ‘What’s the matter with him, Gil?’

  ‘He’s frightened,’ Gil said. ‘You could try holding him.’

  She eased an arm beneath his head. This wasn’t easy. He seemed so breakable and she was nervous in case she detached the tube from the back of his hand.

  ‘That’s it,’ Gil murmured.

  She held her father in the crook of her arm and he grew gradually calmer, his breathing less laboured. Before long he was asleep and she was able to extricate herself.

  ‘I’m useless at this,’ she said.

  ‘You did just fine.’

  The bell rang, signalling the end of visiting time and they joined the troupe of visitors heading for the lifts. The doctor who had told her about the blood transfusion was standing at the nurses’ station, writing in a file.

  He glanced up and smiled. ‘Hello, Miss Carey. How is he?’

  A couple of weeks ago she would have snapped you tell me but now she knew that his smile masked exhaustion. ‘He said a few words.’

  The doctor glanced at Gil, as if in two minds whether to proceed.

  ‘Gil’s a good friend,’ she said. ‘My father liked – likes him.’ How easy it was to consign a life to the past.

  ‘He’s very weak,’ the doctor said. ‘He’s been through the mill. And now this infection…’

  She nodded. ‘It doesn’t seem fair.’

  ‘We see a lot of “not fair” in here I’m afraid. We’ll do our best for him.’

  ‘I know you will,’ she said.

  Compared with being born, dying seemed a hit and miss affair. If he weren’t to die alone, how would she know when to stay? Tonight? Tomorrow night? It would be typical of him to wait until she’d gone for a coffee then die so that, for the rest of her life, she would feel guilty.

  A crowd was gathering in the lift area. Amongst them was a young woman wrestling with a baby, his (the blue snowsuit suggested a boy) plump cheeks flushed from the heat. The child quickly became more fretful, throwing back his head and arching his back. He began to wail. The woman’s embarrassment increased when he suddenly kicked out and, in an effort to hang on to him, she dropped her bag and its contents – keys, phone, lip salve, coins, hairbrush, more than it seemed possible the bag could contain – spilled across the floor.

  ‘Shit,’ she said.

  ‘Here,’ Gil said, holding his arms out to take the child. The woman looked doubtful then, recognising that there were enough people around to ensure this stranger did her baby no harm, she handed him over. ‘Thanks.’

  While she scooped up her things, Gil laid the child against his shoulder where he could see his mother. Vivian watched him swaying to and fro, whispering in the child’s ear. This either calmed or shocked the baby into silence and, by the time the woman had retrieved everything, he was well on the way to falling asleep.

  ‘You’ve got the touch,’ the woman said, smiling at Gil. ‘I guess you’ve been there.’

  ‘A few times,’ Gil said. ‘Look, why don’t I carry him down for you?’

  The lift stopped and they shuffled in. By the time they’d reached the ground floor, the child was heavily asleep, barely stirring when Gil handed him back to his mother.

  ‘That was sweet of you,’ Vivian said as they watched the pair disappearing towards the exit.

  ‘Guilt. That’ll be Polly in a few months time. C’mon. Let’s find somewhere to eat.’

  Gil steered Vivian towards an Italian restaurant tucked round the corner from the Tube station. It was an unpretentious place – scarcely more than a café – and the menu was limited, but she was shivering and it was clear that she needed to eat. The food came quickly. It was delicious, and the Sicilian plonk wasn’t bad.

  ‘I was hungry,’ Vivian said, tucking into a wedge of lasagne.

  He guessed that she’d not been eating properly, or sleeping well either by the look of the shadows beneath her eyes.

  ‘I’m not nagging,’ he said, ‘but you must promise to look after yourself. Maybe you should eat a proper meal at lunchtime.’

  ‘Define nagging,’ she said.

  Half-a-dozen customers arrived whom the proprietor seemed to know well. The conversation in Italian grew louder and livelier, and the atmosphere became rather jolly.

  ‘Don’t you want to know why I’m staying at the house?’ she said.

  He took her hand. ‘I did wonder.’

  ‘It’s what my mother would expect me to do. She was very particular about doing the right thing.’

  ‘I’m sorry I never met her,’ he said.

  ‘Well at least you met my father when he was still…himself.’

  Her cheeks had a little colour in them and she seemed more at ease. It was a shame to leave this cosy place and they lingered over tiramisu and coffee.

  After the snug restaurant, the house was chilly and inhospitable.

  ‘Shall I light the fire?’ he said.

  ‘Quite honestly I’m ready for bed.’

  ‘We could sleep down here. By the fire. You have a bath and I’ll sort out a mattress.’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ she said. ‘But it’s a lot of—’

  ‘I’m on it. Off you go.’

  His mission started well but when the mattress – thank God he’d only attempted
the single – wedged on the bend in the staircase, his confidence faltered. Somehow he managed to slide past it, then yank it down to the hall and drag it into the living room. The fire was reluctant to get going and he used a candle as a firelighter.

  Ten o’clock now and Vivian had said they should leave at seven. That meant they had nine hours together. Jeez. He was being pathetic. Convicts on death row, soldiers heading off to Afghanistan – they had good reason to count the hours. He was simply going to visit his family. Unless some random catastrophe struck, he’d be home in eleven days.

  By the time she came down, a bed, complete with pillows and duvet, was positioned in front of a fire that now burned as brightly as anything on a Christmas card.

  She shrugged off the robe, which he guessed was her father’s. Beneath it she was wearing the sort of old-fashioned nightdress his mother wore. He stripped down to boxers and T-shirt and they lay together beneath the duvet, watching the fire.

  ‘Thanks for this,’ she said. ‘You always know what I need.’

  He felt a surge of pride. ‘If it’s too cramped I can put a few cushions at the side. Like an extension.’

  ‘We managed fine last time,’ she said in a matter-of-fact voice.

  ‘You always tell it like it is, don’t you?’

  ‘Isn’t that good?’ she said.

  ‘On the whole, yes.’

  ‘D’you tell it like it is?’

  ‘Not always,’ he said.

  ‘D’you lie to me?’

  He turned so that he was facing her. ‘I have done. But I give you my word, I never will again.’

  ‘Good,’ she said.

  They were so close together that there was nothing else for it but to kiss. As their kissing became more passionate, he felt her hand easing down his boxers, caressing his backside and his thigh.

  Afterwards, when he was sure she was asleep, he stoked the fire. The flames leapt, sending sparks eddying up the chimney, casting enough light for him to see her face, her hair and her knee protruding from the covers.

  Kevin packed him off an hour early. The night with Vivian had left him way behind on his travel preparations and he was glad to have the extra time. He’d tidied the flat and was crossing the hall on his way to the bin with a black bag, when he bumped into Feray.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, ‘I was checking the mail.’ She held up an envelope as if to prove her right to be there.

  ‘How’s things?’

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘You?’

  ‘I’m okay, thanks.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Actually I’m glad I’ve seen you. I’m going away for a couple of weeks. Wouldn’t want you thinking I’d done a moonlight.’

  ‘Anywhere nice?’ she said, a tight, bright smile on her face.

  ‘Oz. To see Mum and the kids.’

  ‘Everything going on okay with your daughter?’

  ‘Far as I know. Matter of fact, that’s why I’m going. See if we can patch things up before the baby arrives.’

  Her expression softened. ‘That’s good, Gil. Families are the most important thing.’

  They talked about Melissa and James, and Feray’s job – which it seemed was secure for the next six months pending union negotiations. She’d had a good Christmas. And New Year.

  ‘I’d best get on,’ he said. ‘I haven’t started packing yet.’

  ‘D’you want me to keep an eye on the flat while you’re away?’ she said.

  He remembered her fury that day in the coffee shop. Boy she’d been livid. And those bags outside his door weren’t a peace offering. But she seemed perfectly calm now. And hell, what was the worst she could do?

  ‘That’d be great. Thanks.’

  35

  Louise had offered to pick him up from Brisbane airport but it meant her taking time off. Besides, it was a lot of driving – five hours each way. The train took half that time and he was glad to have a chance to get his head around being here.

  He’d come with only a small backpack. (Shorts, a few T-shirts, flip-flops and his cozzie.) This had raised eyebrows at the Heathrow check-in desk. He was tempted to point out that it was none of their business, but it didn’t do to get smart at airports these days and instead he’d shown them his return ticket and explained that his mother kept a heap of clothes for when he visited, a plausible lie.

  He left the train station and walked up Camperdown Street towards Harbour Drive. It was the middle of the afternoon yet the broad streets were deserted. School was on summer break until the end of January and the majority of families would be taking their annual holiday. Stopping to catch his breath, he looked up at the sky. Seen through the cat’s cradle of power cables and phone wires, it was the unsubtle, uniform blue of a nursery toy. To his right lay a patchwork of shallow-pitched roofs punctuated by scrappy palm trees and telegraph poles. Beyond lay the sea, a slash of turquoise blending to dark green at the horizon.

  When he’d left his flat yesterday morning – no, it was the day before yesterday – he’d shivered beneath a sweater and anorak. The Heathrow train was hot, the airport hotter and the planes stuffy. En route, he’d stripped off what he decently could and stuffed it into his backpack. Twenty-eight hours flying hours and ten time zones later, he was sweltering in T-shirt and jeans, his feet sweaty inside his sensible shoes. He toiled on up the incline. The parched air dried the lining of his throat. His eyes ached and his head throbbed. He dug around in his pack for hat and sunglasses.

  By the time he reached the top of the rise, he felt groggy. Recognising the symptoms of dehydration, he made for the bar he used to frequent when he was in this neighbourhood. In the two years since he last visited, ‘Pete’s Pad’, which he’d liked for its hippy-ish ambience, had become ‘Pirate Pete’s’, complete with fake parrots and treasure chests. He craved cold beer but knowing that alcohol would finish him off, he ordered lemonade and a cheese burger, and sat in a gloomy corner, enjoying the air con.

  He texted Louise to say that his flight had been delayed and that he would be getting in later than anticipated. He needed a couple more hours to acclimatise. Surface too quickly and he’d get the bends.

  He had a few dollars in his pocket, enough to pay for his snack, but he needed more cash. The bloke behind the bar directed him to the nearest ATM.

  ‘You can leave your pack here, if you like,’ he said. ‘Save you hauling it.’

  It took Gil a beat to remember that he was in Coffs not in Camden. ‘Thanks, mate. Is there somewhere I can get out of these togs?’

  The barman indicated the restroom.

  Before leaving, he changed, sluiced his face and cleaned his teeth. Now wearing shorts, flip-flops and a fresh T-shirt, only his pallid limbs labelled him a tourist.

  Keeping to the shady side of the street, he walked east down Harbour Drive, past a longboard shack, a seafood cafe, a pet store and a ‘healing centre’. He paused at the bus stop outside ‘Ray White – Real Estate’ and confirmed that the bus would drop him within walking distance of his mother’s house. He located the machine and tapped in his PIN. He’d checked his balance before leaving London, even so he was relieved when a hundred dollars appeared from the slot.

  Free of his pack, he felt a lot better and he set off at a brisk pace, heading down to Jetty Beach. The beach, protected from ocean swells by a breakwater, provided safe swimming and easy windsurfing and was popular with young families. This afternoon, the car parks were chocker and the beach, backed by low dunes, was as crowded as Gil had ever seen it. Along the shallow curve of the bay, children were splashing, screaming, digging and generally tearing about. Apart from pop-up tents and anti-UV suits, it was a timeless scene.

  When they were still playing at happy families, he and Janey used to bring the kids down here at weekends. Polly had been a real water baby – fearless, even when the wind whipped up a swell. The boys, on the other hand, hadn’t been so keen. They’d always been happier on wheels – bikes, scooters, go-carts, skates. Let them loose on an expanse of tarmac and they were in t
heir element. Still were, or so he’d heard.

  Beyond Mutton Bird Island the sea, a dozen shades of azure, was stippled with white-tops. In the past hour, something had happened to the sky and it had softened to forget-me-not blue grading through pale turquoise to near green at the horizon.

  He was debating whether to walk out along the old jetty when his phone rang.

  It was Louise. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Just got in. I’m…walking up Camperdown.’

  ‘Walking? Are you nuts? Stay right there. I’ll pick you up.’

  ‘Why don’t I meet you at that bar on Harbour Drive? Next to the post office?’

  ‘I think I know the one. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Gil?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Welcome home.’

  He was sitting at a table overlooking the road by the time his sister was parking her decrepit Commodore. He watched as she got out and locked the car. She’d lost weight by the look of it and her face looked drawn. She’d dyed her hair and it was an unlikely shade of reddish-brown. She looked older than her forty-seven years.

  When she spotted him, she shrieked with delight. They hugged, cried, laughed and talked a lot of nonsense, and he wished he hadn’t kicked off his visit with a falsehood.

  After a beer they discussed his plans. ‘I’ll see the boys, of course, but my priority has to be Polly. I may have been a tad…negative about the baby. She needs to know I’m totally on side now.’

  Louise nodded. ‘That’s great. So when are you seeing her?’

  He wasn’t prepared to confess that his hopes were riding on one frosty email. ‘We haven’t firmed anything up. I’ll call her from Mum’s.’

  ‘You and I can grab a few hours, can’t we?’ she said.

  ‘Definitely.’

  Had it been up to him, he would have stayed at Louise’s place. His mother would fuss and prattle and take too much trouble but he couldn’t disappoint her. He’d come to Coffs to smooth things over so he must grit his teeth, eat whatever his mother put in front of him, and do his best not to piss anyone off.

  ‘You look pale,’ Louise said as she started the car.

  ‘I’m okay. A bit tired. A decent kip and I’ll be rarin’ to go.’