by Jo Verity
‘That was wishful thinking,’ she said.
‘I’m not hearing that now. She’s full of doubt. What’s changed?’
‘Reality’s kicked in.’
‘Shame it didn’t kick in sooner,’ he said.
‘No point going there either. We have to take it from where we’re at.’
‘She’s going to need a lot of support.’
‘We’ll manage. Alan’s a sucker for babies.’
Her reply – rather smug, he thought – came back in a flash. He recalled Polly’s assertion that her mother could be controlling and it struck him that Janey might, in fact, relish the prospect of becoming indispensable.
‘And what about money?’ he said. ‘She won’t be earning for a while.’
‘You’re going to write her a big fat cheque?’
She stood up, shaking the crumbs from her yellow dress. ‘I’ve got to go, Gil.’
‘Thanks for coming. Oh, by the way, has she said anything about me?’
‘Aaah. Now I get why you wanted us to meet up,’ she said. ‘You may not want to believe this, but no, she hasn’t mentioned you.’
He and his mother had rubbed along better than he’d anticipated. As Louise warned, she did get muddled at times – usually when she was tired or had woken from a nap. And she did come out with inappropriate remarks – ‘corkers’ – about immigrants and gays. But Gil didn’t reprimand her. In her eyes, the world had changed for the worse, and she needed to find a reason for that.
He noticed how often she touched him. An errant clump of hair was clamped down. A smudge of oil wiped from his cheek. A leaf brushed off his T-shirt. Any excuse to make contact. On Friday, after they’d cleared breakfast away, she led him to the box room and pulled out the bottom drawer of the chest. The empty drawer was lined with floral paper, which he thought he recognised as the wallpaper from the old house.
‘Why don’t you leave your things here?’ she said. ‘Ready for next time. Lavender bags will keep the moths away.’ She smiled a hopeful smile.
A few T-shirts, a couple of pairs of shorts – all fit for the rag-bag…
‘That’s a great idea, Mum,’ he said.
*
Preparations for the ‘nothing fancy’ party occupied most of Saturday. Although Gil wasn’t looking forward to it, it took the heat off him and for that he was grateful. And there was an unexpected bonus. Amidst the fetching and carrying, he was able to grab the odd half-hour and slink off in the car. When he got on that plane, he had to be sure that he was carrying the real Coffs back to London, not some picture-postcard version. With that in mind, he steered clear of the beaches and spectacular views, instead tooling around residential streets, retail zones, malls, sun-scorched parks, confirming what he already knew to be true. There was too much space, too much sky here and not enough – for want of a better word – soul.
By Sunday morning, his mother could no longer hide her misery. Several times he found her weeping.
‘D’you want to go to church, Mum?’ he said, hoping to divert her attention from his leaving. ‘I’ll pick you up after the service and we could go to the party from there.’
‘Good heavens, no,’ she said. He might have suggested she visit a strip club.
Louise’s garden was festooned with bunting and balloons, as if they were gathering to celebrate an arrival not a departure. He glanced around. Here they all were. His family. Chris – squatting on the decking under the awning, showing Louise’s kids his mobile phone. Adam – messing about with a football. Rachel – organising their mother. His brother-in-law fussing with the barbecue. But no Polly.
He scanned the garden again, hoping he’d missed a figure in the shadows. He could understand why she wouldn’t come. Being gawped at, being the subject of speculation (because that’s how it would feel to her) would be an ordeal. Why would she put herself through that?
Rachel waylaid him. ‘The man of the moment,’ she said. ‘Polly not here? I’m not surprised. I expect she’s embarrassed.’
He mimicked her scrutiny of the garden. ‘And no Denis?’
‘Not everyone can drop things at a moment’s notice, even for the prodigal’s temporary return.’
Gil held up his hands. ‘Let’s call a truce, Rache.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said and hurried off to do something vital.
His mother had settled in an upholstered chair, a little distance from the action. She was clutching her handbag and smiling as she watched her family partying around her. In a couple of months, she would be a great grandmother and he a grandfather. How could that be?
‘Photo time?’ Louise said once the leftovers were cling-filmed and safely stashed in the fridge.
Gil had already taken some photographs, zooming in close when no one was paying attention. But he guessed his sister was after photographs to place on the sideboard alongside the weddings, christenings and graduations. He wasn’t keen on these pieces – all forced smiles and unnatural poses – but he wanted to please her and together they staked out the garden, looking for a suitable backdrop. Again he noticed how worn out she looked. Although they’d seen quite a lot of each other during the week, there had always been people around and he hadn’t had the opportunity to ask her about herself.
‘Here? In front of the hibiscus?’ Louise pointed to a rangy, dark-green shrub, spattered with scarlet blooms.
‘Perfect,’ he said.
He switched his camera to ‘remote’ and located the gizmo to activate it. Dan rustled up a tripod. Lazy contentment had settled over the afternoon and when Louise announced that it was ‘photo time’, there more than a little resistance. But Rachel soon wrangled them into place.
They grouped, and regrouped. Everyone together. His mother and her three children. He and his mother. He and his sisters. He and his sons. Between shots, he returned to the camera to make sure everything was as it should be, scurrying back to join in the ten-second countdown.
When they’d finished, he scrolled quickly through the images. Not bad. But he was sad that Polly wouldn’t be on the sideboard with the rest of them, regretful that he hadn’t taken a camera to Mutton Bird Island. The most up to date picture he had of her – a squinting, laughing close-up taken, he guessed, with a mobile phone – had arrived with an email six months ago or more. Low resolution made for a lousy print but, wherever she was and whoever she was with, she’d been happy and he loved it because of that.
The party began to wind down. Gil noticed his sons exchanging how-do-we-get-out-of-here looks. His mother kept dipping into sleep, startled each time her head fell forward, jolting her into wakefulness. Louise’s kids mooched off to watch television.
‘I’m heading home now, Gil,’ Rachel said.
‘How long will it take you?’ Not that he cared but they might as well part on a civil note.
‘Not much over the hour, if the traffic’s moving. Have a good trip, Gil. A shame you couldn’t stay longer.’ Her lips barely touched his cheek.
‘Well. You know how it is.’
She didn’t of course. Nor did any of them.
Then there was Louise, shoving a container of chocolate brownies into his hands, smiling and crying. ‘London sounds heartless,’ she said. ‘I don’t like thinking of you all alone. You do have…someone?’
‘Don’t worry about me,’ he said. It was too late to get into that now. ‘Everything’s okay with you, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Of course. It’s just…’
‘What?’ But he couldn’t get any more out of her.
Parting with his sons was more of a tug than he’d anticipated. He’d grown close to them during the week, getting to know these boys who, while he wasn’t around, had become young men. Chris – so like Janey in looks and temperament. Adam – the daydreamer with a dry sense of humour. It must all have been there, dormant in the bud of those babies he’d grudgingly pushed in their double stroller. He wished he could explain to them how not to make the mistakes he
’d made: the two of them were, in a way, a mistake, conceived as they’d been to bring Janey and him back together. The three of them ended up shaking hands and making mannish promises – ‘take care’, ‘see you later’ – as if he were popping down to the garage for a carton of milk.
By the time he was parking in Prince James Avenue, his mother was out for the count. (Why was it that in sleep, children looked younger and old people, older?) Had she been seven not seventy-odd, he would have carried her into the house and popped her straight into bed. He was sitting in the car wondering what to do, when a car pulled up tight on his rear bumper. Feeling slightly threatened, he kept his eyes on his mirror. After what seemed too long, the door opened and the driver got out. It was Polly.
‘Hey,’ he said, getting out of the car. She was only a few yards away but he had the feeling that if he rushed her she might take off. ‘You’ve got a new car.’
‘It’s Mum’s,’ she said. ‘Mine wouldn’t start. How was the party?’
‘Okay, I suppose.’ He didn’t refer to her absence, fearful of putting her back up.
She nodded towards his car. ‘Is Gran okay in there? Not too hot?’
‘She’s fine. For a while, anyway.’
‘You’re off early tomorrow?’
‘Yup. My train leaves at six-fifteen.’
His stomach was knotting. Unless he could hold her attention, she would say goodbye, get back in the car and drive away.
‘Can I tell you something that happened to me?’ he said.
‘Okay. But can we sit down? My back’s killing me.’
They perched on the wall and he told her about the bomb. He tried to make his account amusing – the stuff about Irene’s handbag, and Vivian making notes in A&E, and how the three of them had ended up having breakfast in an all-night café.
‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ she said.
‘No point. Besides, you had plenty going on here.’
‘The women sound like a couple of weirdos,’ she said.
‘Irene’s definitely a weirdo. She started stalking me.’
‘Really?’ She sounded almost interested. ‘How?’
‘She kept turning up. Sending presents. Generally pestering. In the end I told her to bugger off.’ He stopped short of mentioning the accusation of assault.
‘And the other one? Vivian, wasn’t it? Have you kept in touch?’
It was the first time ‘Vivian’ had been said in this place and he envisaged the syllables of her name rippling out, planting the notion of her here.
‘We meet now and again for coffee, and to slag off Irene. Her office isn’t far from where I work.’
‘Has she got kids?’
‘She’s not married.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’ she said and he regretted his thoughtless remark.
‘When I was a kid I thought I was special,’ she said, ‘that I would do something amazing with my life.’
‘You are. You will.’
She prodded her belly. ‘I don’t think so.’
36
Vivian was at work when the call came advising her to come to the hospital.
‘Take a cab,’ Howard said. ‘I’ll pay.’
‘Tube’s quicker.’
‘Should I come with you?’ he said.
‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s not as if it’s a shock.’
It wasn’t a shock but now that it was happening she felt shaky. She’d grown complacent – even comfortable – inhabiting the limbo-land of her father’s illness. He in that little room, being cared for by people who didn’t mind doing the rotten job. She sitting with him for an hour or so every evening. Then back to Farleigh Road for a bite to eat, bath and bed. It wasn’t so bad.
Never having watched anyone die, she dreaded what awaited her at the hospital. In fact when she saw him, he looked no different from yesterday. What was different was the ambience within the room. Today there was none of the customary bustle and banter. Nurses came and went quietly, carrying out their duties with calm purpose, keeping up a stream of reassurances that Vivian doubted he could hear but which she found comforting. The staff showed concern for her, too, frequently asking whether she needed anything. Tea? A sandwich? They produced a pillow and blanket so she could nap in the chair. It was peaceful and not the least bit frightening. And there was a sense of inevitability as they moved towards the end.
Daylight was draining from the flat, grey sky and they were alone when her father stirred and said, ‘Have you cancelled the milk?’
His words, loud and perfectly articulated, made her jump. She wanted to laugh. There. They must be mistaken. Dying people didn’t fret about milk deliveries.
‘Yes, Dad. And the papers,’ she said. ‘You mustn’t worry. Everything’s taken care of.’
She leaned towards him and stroked his hand, expecting more questions. Was the house okay? How long had he been here? Why wasn’t she at work? She waited, the minutes seeping away in silence, until her back ached and she began to think she’d been dreaming.
Someone brought her more tea. She glanced at the free paper she’d picked up on the Tube. Another ’flu death. Celebrities she didn’t recognise. A foolproof new diet. More flooding around Brisbane.
Gil would have been in touch if he’d failed to make it to Coffs Harbour. She missed his mails and calls but this was turning out to be such a weird week she wouldn’t have had time for him even if he were in London. Anyway, he’d be back soon.
Tired of reading, she went to the window. It was dark and beyond the rooftops she could make out Sainsbury’s illuminated sign. Now and again, she caught a glimpse of a bus moving along Tooting High Street. Out there, people were walking dogs, picking up takeaways, going to the pub.
She curled up in the chair, watching the blip fluttering across the monitor, simultaneously bored and on edge. Murmuring voices filtered in from the corridor as the late shift was briefed on the patients entrusted to their care for the next eight hours.
A nurse popped her head around the door. ‘Everything okay, dear? Can I get you anything?’
Vivian’s mouth still tasted of the tuna fish sandwich she’d eaten an hour ago. What she wanted most was a toothbrush, but that wasn’t the sort of thing the nurse was offering.
‘I wouldn’t mind getting a breath of air,’ she said.
The nurse took her father’s hand, pressing the inside of his wrist with her dark, elegant fingers, her lips moving silently as she checked his heartbeat against her inverted watch.
‘You should be okay,’ she said.
Vivian stood outside the main entrance. It felt good to return to the world. She pulled her coat around her, filled her lungs with fresh, cold air and thought about running away. A mini-cab to Belsize Park might cost forty pounds, but it would be worth it to escape from this and sleep in her own bed. Her father didn’t know she was here. It would make no difference to him – although there was something sad about anyone dying alone. And what would Richard say? Richard. She should have contacted him this morning.
His mobile was off and she tried his landline, letting it ring until the machine cut in. She left it a few seconds then dialled again. This time he answered.
‘He won’t last much longer,’ she said.
‘Vivian? Right. I see. Where are you now?’
‘At the hospital.’
‘Okay. Let me think.’ His voice was gruff with sleep and she imagined him, wiry hair sticking up, struggling into a tartan dressing gown. ‘What if I catch the six-twenty-five? I’d be there by midday.’ He sounded unsure, as if he wanted her to tell him what he should do.
‘Up to you,’ she said.
The moon was a silvery smudge behind a veil of cloud. Frost sparkled on the handful of cars in the car park. As she looked up at the ugly slab of the building with its rows of dimly lit windows, a man emerged from the front door. A phone cast its glow on his cheek and he was speaking urgently in a language she couldn’t identify. Arabic? Farsi? He finished the call the
n sprinted across the car park, got into a car and drove away.
She’d expected the final breath to rattle out of him but he left silently and without a fuss. It was hard to explain but, despite his showing no signs of life for hours, his absence was palpable. He was there. And then he wasn’t. It was the strangest thing.
He lay on his right side, legs drawn up so that he reached only halfway down the bed. She knelt on the floor, the better to study his face. His eyes weren’t quite closed, his lips drawn open in a pinched ‘Oh’. She touched his forehead. Warm.
Minutes ago, this had been a human being. Now the essence of this being had evaporated. Gone. Where? That film. The weight of a human soul. God. What was the matter with her? She’d just watched her father die and she was trying to recall a film title.
She fetched the nurse who, having checked the monitor and his pulse, put a motherly arm around her shoulder and led her to the day room, telling her to wait there whilst a doctor… She didn’t catch what the doctor had to do. She looked around. Fake wooden tables. Vinyl flooring. It was a dreary place, made even drearier by fierce strip lights. And there was that all-pervasive hospital smell.
She phoned Richard. This time he picked up immediately.
‘He’s dead,’ she said.
‘Poor old Dad.’ He paused. ‘Still, not a bad innings. How was it?’
For her or their father?
‘Easier than I’d feared,’ she said covering it either way. ‘You’ll still come, won’t you?’ He was, after all, also ‘next of kin’. Why shouldn’t he put in a bit of effort?
‘Of course, of course. Let’s meet at the house. As there’s no great rush, I’ll sort out a few things here and catch a later train.’
The far corner of the room was set up as a play area with a miniature table and chairs moulded from yellow plastic. At first glance, it looked inviting but on closer inspection she saw that the books on the shelf were tatty, the toys in the dumpbins cheap and unappealing. There were several jigsaws in boxes on the table and she chose an underwater scene with mermaids, fish and shells. But the pieces showing the mermaids’ faces were all missing which made it look as though they’d been decapitated.