by Rosie Blake
‘You’ve defrosted them, though, haven’t you, Eve?’ asked Daisy down the phone. She sounded worried, as if Eve would have been stupid enough to…
‘I’ll call you back, Daisy.’
Shit, how long do prawns take to defrost? They had to go in pretty soon or the whole meal would be ruined. She was following exact instructions and wasn’t confident enough to veer from the words in front of her. Why didn’t she have a microwave? Who doesn’t have a microwave in the twenty-first century? She ran hot water, filling the sink and throwing the bag into it, which instantly floated to the top until she weighted it down with the Fairy Liquid container. They were small; they wouldn’t take that long. She had time to watch a YouTube hair tutorial; she really wanted to learn to braid her hair. It would make the front of her bob more interesting.
Gah, ten minutes later, and she was still waiting for the prawns. She remembered now that was why she had never liked cooking. She got bored. While something was bubbling she would check her phone; while something was simmering she would fetch a glass of wine, get distracted by turning the letters on the fridge into a funny sentence (it currently read DAISY WUVS NOEL). Suddenly the bubbling would get too much, the oven would be soaked, the simmering would emit a cloying burning smell and the stuff would have turned to sticky lumps. She would throw a strop, carry on drinking the wine and make a salad.
Not tonight, though, tonight would be a triumph. She would show them all she could do things without Liam, she would rise to the challenge. This would be the scene of her glory, her time to shine. She would not be defeated. She played a lot of rousing music to get her going.
She felt like mistress of her own kitchen. Liam had always banned her from his area, laying out the ingredients as if he were Jamie Oliver. He’d even bought a ceramic pestle and mortar which he actually used to grind things (Eve wasn’t sure what). She had been happy with this arrangement but now she was in the midst of it all, taking back control, and it was going well. The cheese sauce looked right, the sort of consistency she had hoped for, the sticky Gorgonzola melting into the crème fraîche. She felt a prickle of excitement. She was cooking. Eve was being a chef! In your face, Liam the Loser. She giggled out loud at this name. She would have to put that on the fridge.
The time had come to throw the prawns in. They felt softer to the touch and she bit her lip, wondering if she had let them defrost long enough. The heat from the saucepan would finish the job, she thought, as she tipped them into the sauce and stirred them round. It smelt incredible and the doorbell was ringing, and Harriet and Gavin were arriving and Daisy was right behind them. She tripped out to press the buzzer, hearing them troop up the stairs inside.
‘It’s on the latch,’ she called, hastily throwing an apron over herself so they could clearly see she was being a chef.
It had been a fantastic evening; in fact, it had been a triumph! Everyone had loved the prawn cheese dish, which was perfect. A few of the prawns were a little chewy but the leek and cheese sauce was perfection. Then she had pulled out a Sticky Toffee Pudding and they’d had coffee and sweet wine. Sweet wine she had found at the back of a shelf that would definitely make her look like she knew what she was doing. They had all held their glasses up in a toast to her, ‘To Eve’, the warm yellow liquid sticky and gorgeous.
She lay reflecting on the evening in bed that night. Harriet’s surprised face as she dabbed at her mouth after the first mouthful, Gavin nodding and commenting, ‘’Tis really good,’ as he ate, Daisy giving her a thumbs up. She had felt in control, the hostess, and hadn’t thought about past dinner parties with Liam. In fact she’d barely thought about him all night. She realised then that maybe she could survive on her own; she didn’t need to be so worried.
It came on quickly. One moment she was lying beneath her crisp white sheets running through the evening and the next she felt her stomach rumble, her muscles cramp, her skin break into goosebumps, her forehead start to sweat. She felt bile rise in her throat.
‘Oh God, no…’
She ran to the bathroom and just made it in time.
He’d been dreading this conversation since he’d seen the scan the day before. He stood behind the table; Pepper lay lengthways on it between them as they talked over her. Long grey hairs were sprinkled over Mrs McLaughlin’s navy cardigan as she held her breath and looked at him with large, pale-brown eyes.
Greg cleared his throat, moved a hand up to his shirt collar underneath his scrubs. His tie felt tighter than normal. He knew he needed to maintain his professionalism, but there was something already broken in Mrs McLaughlin’s expression that made him want to reach across and pull her into a hug. He hoped one of her grandsons was waiting in reception for her.
‘Thank you for coming in, Mrs McLaughlin.’
‘Not at all, Doctor, I’d been waiting for Karen’s call. I knew it was her because she always seems to phone during This Morning and when it rang during their ad break I thought, “it’ll be Karen” and it was.’
Greg waited for her to finish, knew she was probably talking to put off the inevitable. Pepper lay between them, so lethargic now. He remembered how when he had first met her, she’d been all claws. Wrestling her to get her out of the basket she’d been brought in, she’d given him a livid scratch and ruined a good shirt. Today, however, she was listless, her soft mewing pathetic and tiny, her chest barely rising and falling so you could only tell she was breathing by the long fur that seemed to quiver every now and again.
Mrs McLaughlin, Mrs Mary McLaughlin, had been coming to the practice since he’d first opened five years before. She had always come with Mr McLaughlin. They’d sit in reception doing the crossword together and their quiet chatter would leak under the door of his consulting room. Mr McLaughlin, Harold, would hold the door open for her and carry in the basket carrying Pepper. He would insist on Mary having a chair and she would tell him to stop fussing. Greg started keeping a chair in the room after that to make things easier.
They would write the practice Christmas cards and would send people to Greg who always sounded as if they’d had their arms twisted. ‘Mary and Harold told us we must tell you they sent us.’ When Karen had given them a card with the new Facebook page, Greg had been touched to see his first five-star review appear from Mary and Harold. ‘A caring team. Mr Burrows is always wonderfully attentive to our Pepper. We highly recommend.’
Then, one day, Mrs Mary McLaughlin appeared at the practice on her own. A grandson, tall enough to need to duck into most rooms, wearing a baseball cap, sat awkwardly reading Woman and Home as Karen offered him a Fruit Glacier while he waited. Greg had looked around for Harold and been told in a small, level voice that Harold had died of a heart attack the month before. She didn’t bring the crossword in any more.
Greg took another breath and began. ‘Mrs McLaughlin, I’m afraid…’ He could see the tears already filming her eyes as she stood defiantly staring at him. He could make out the powder she had brushed on, flecks of it in her eyebrows, and he blinked and continued. ‘The scan confirmed Pepper has got a tumour. I’m afraid it is on his kidney.’
‘Is it bad?’
‘I’m afraid it is quite large and, because Pepper is fourteen years old now, it makes it quite a risky operation to remove it…’
She nodded as Greg carried on, knowing it was better to be really clear about things and allow his clients to make up their own minds with all the facts. ‘… I’m afraid I can’t guarantee Pepper would survive.’
Mrs McLaughlin swallowed, colour flooding her powdered cheeks. ‘Would it be costly, Mr Burrows?’
‘I’m afraid without pet insurance it does become expensive…’
Mrs McLaughlin plaited her hands together, eyes scanning left to right.
‘This operation would cost just over £1,000,’ Greg continued.
A tiny intake of breath. ‘Harold used to sort the insurance, but when he went I needed to find money. Funerals are very costly, Mr Burrows,’ she said, biting her lip, perh
aps feeling that was a treacherous thought, perhaps not wanting to think of the funeral at all.
‘I do understand, I’m terribly sorry,’ Greg said, and he meant it. He suddenly pictured Mrs McLaughlin dressed in black, a handkerchief up to her face, pale roses on the coffin she’d selected for her husband.
‘Is there anything else we could do for him?’
Greg knew the answer to this question. He flicked his gaze over the cat who was still prostrate on the table. He knew he should have told her they could consider putting Pepper down. It was on the tip of his tongue; he just needed to say the words. He often had to broach this subject with his clients. It was never easy but, in this case, he found himself unable to speak. She was wearing a silver necklace with a bird dangling from it. His mother had a necklace like that.
‘Perhaps, Mrs McLaughlin,’ he said slowly, brain clicking into gear, and then he smiled softly at her, feeling himself grow in confidence as he spoke, ‘there is something else we could do.’
Karen had stared at him as if he had lost his mind. She’d wondered why Mrs McLaughlin had left empty-handed with a smile on her face. Greg had put a hand on her shoulder and sent her on her way.
‘Monthly instalments at what price?’
‘Three pounds,’ Greg said firmly.
‘Three pounds,’ Karen typed in, muttering, ‘Soft-hearted, will go under…’
‘What’s that, Karen?’ Greg grinned, standing over her.
‘Well,’ Karen said, ‘it will take her twenty-eight years to pay it back.’
‘Perfect,’ Greg said. ‘I’m going to scrub up then. Pepper needs to be operated on now.’
‘Unbelievable, would sell the clothes on his ow—’
Greg poked a head round the door. ‘Saying something, Karen?’
‘Just wondering if you needed a tea,’ she called.
‘Love one after the op. Thanks.’
‘Ridiculous man,’ muttered Karen, shaking her head, a small smile slipping out as she tapped in the costs of the operation against the day’s takings.
Normally Greg needed Karen to help hold the animals down for the anaesthetic, but Pepper was so still that, for a second, Greg panicked she had already gone.
‘Come on,’ he said, lifting her up and deciding it would be better to give her gas.
He hoped he hadn’t raised Mrs McLaughlin’s hopes. Pepper was even thinner than he’d imagined under all the fur. Would she be strong enough for the operation? He felt her side gently with two fingers. The lump was there, the lump he had first felt when she’d been brought in a few days ago. He hoped it would be easy enough to remove.
He loved surgery, the ability to be able to fix things, provide a solution. It was a large tumour but he thought he had got it all. He felt as he stitched her up that he might just have managed it. ‘Come on, lovely,’ he said, running a hand over her fur, ‘you need to get better.’ X-raying her to be sure it hadn’t spread elsewhere, he left her to come round in one of the kennels, a dish of water next to her head, a drip on her leg.
Karen had kept her word, and a mug of tea and a ham and cheese sandwich waited for him in their small office. Checking his watch, he realised he only had ten minutes until afternoon consulting began and someone was always early for the clinic. He picked up the sandwich, taking a bite, just about to switch on the TV overhead and see what the score was in the cricket, and then it happened.
The ringtone went off.
For a moment, he didn’t recognise it as it wasn’t the usual sound. Then the tune it was playing seeped through his consciousness and he swallowed the sandwich quickly, the bread sticking in his throat. He had programmed it in for this moment so he’d react quickly.
It was time.
He didn’t have a chance to think much more about it; he wouldn’t be late. She wouldn’t have to wait there without him. This was the moment. His heart sped up; he felt his palms break into a sweat.
‘Karen,’ he called, pushing open the door to reception, shrugging on his coat, car keys in his hand. He saw a woman waiting on one of the plastic seats, a white poodle sat up reading the magazine with her. They both turned as he appeared. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said as Karen looked up too. ‘Karen, I have to go, I’ve had the call.’
Karen blinked as if emerging from a long sleep and then roused into action, half-standing and then sitting abruptly back down again. ‘Of course, of course, you go,’ she said, shooing him and turning to the woman and the poodle. He didn’t wait to hear what she said; his car was parked outside the back door. He didn’t used to leave it there but he did now for precisely this moment. Karen would ring and cancel the afternoon appointments. He just had to leave, now.
He unlocked the car, dipping down into the seat, realising as he looked in the driving mirror he’d thrown his coat over his bloodied scrubs. No time to change, he thought, starting the engine, one hand behind the passenger seat, head over his shoulder as he reversed, changed gear and left the car park, the squeak of his tyres making one old man with a walking stick tut under his breath about the modern world. Greg didn’t notice as he drove through the village towards Reading.
He just hoped he would make it in time.
HARRIET: ‘GAH, AM DYING.’
DAISY: ‘So you didn’t defrost them then?’
GAVIN: ‘At least I can get off work tomorrow. Hash tag Every Cloud.’
She had taken the train to Pangbourne, her phone beeping with text messages from the others who had all been laid asunder by the prawns. Outside the weather was grey, rain dotting the windows of her carriage, droplets streaking sideways with the speed, blurring the view outside, and she hoped it wasn’t a long walk to where she was staying. Marmite sat on the seat opposite, mesmerised by the views flashing past, his tiny head moving left to right.
They left London, past graffitied bridges, brick walls, the backs of people’s gardens, and they gained pace speeding next to brown empty fields, trees stripped of their leaves, the river snaking in and out for much of the way. Stomach churning, she had tried to close her eyes and forget, the train’s movements jolting her and making her head spin. She sat near the toilet, which was one of those new ones that she couldn’t work. She was caught by two teenagers holding skateboards just outside Slough as the door slowly revolved to reveal her bending over the toilet, Marmite yapping at them as they rolled about laughing.
As they drew into Reading, she allowed herself a flicker of excitement. Her stomach was still cramping, although there was nothing left in it and she couldn’t decide if it was the food poisoning or the butterflies caused by being so close to her final destination. She briefly shut her eyes again. They were only ten minutes away; two short stops and she would be there. The rain was heavier as they pulled out, the sky ominously dark for early afternoon, with enormous dark clouds overlapping each other; the windows seemed to be all running water.
She wobbled out at Pangbourne, gripping the bit of kitchen roll that contained the scribbled directions to the boat that was currently moored near the common there. It didn’t look complicated, but she was definitely in no mood to get lost. It wasn’t far so there was no point booking a taxi. The estate agent had been clear about that on the phone. It was a route that drew her down behind the village, skirting the weir and out by the iron bridge to Whitchurch. She glanced again at the kitchen roll and set off, head ducked down into her chest, eyes squinting as the rain soaked her head and ran down the back of her neck. Her suitcase was soaked as she bumped and rolled it down the path, avoiding the larger pools of water and navigating across a main road, Marmite bedraggled and whining as he splashed through puddles by her side.
The small path was thick with overgrown hedges on either side and muddy patches that forced her to wrench her suitcase up and over them. Her feet felt squidgy, her socks wet through. She had been assured that the boat had a woodburning stove in it; she imagined herself sitting in front of it, wet clothes hung up, feet drying. Focus on that, Eve, she thought as a roll of thunder
sounded in the distance. Running alongside was the noise of the water in the weir, rushing and tumbling over a ledge, churning up the river, white froth moving past, raindrops pounding on the surface. She might as well have tumbled into it, she was so wet now. She sheltered momentarily under a tree, the rain drumming above her, leaking through the leaves that were barely able to provide cover. She examined the map on her kitchen roll, the blue Biro smudged as she turned right, then left, relieved to see a sign to the common: she couldn’t be far.
Stopping by the side of the road, her heart lifting at the sight of the iron bridge up ahead, she didn’t have time to react. The driver went past, splashing her decisively from the knees down. Gasping at the cold, her jeans dark with water, sticking to her calves, she wanted someone to sweep her up and away to somewhere dry. Marmite started barking at the back of the car, his fur dripping with rainwater. Gritting her teeth, she crossed the road, emerging into a car park with kayaks and canoes propped up in rows next door to an Activity Centre, its windows dark. Then the common stretching out and there, mercifully, sitting just off the stretch of common, a houseboat painted in navy blue, its circular portholes and painted lettering as she remembered it from the photo she’d seen.
Searching for the key under the flowerpot on the starboard end (she checked both ends for flowerpots, starboard was the kind of stuff she needed to Google), she unzipped a plastic flap like the outside of a tent and manoeuvred herself, Marmite and her suitcase through it, then down two steps leading to a door to the boat. The key turned easily and she pushed the door open, leaving behind the sound of rain thrumming on the deck as she shut it behind her.
She turned a light switch on her left and bulbs in half-moon holders all lit up the space. The boat was extraordinary, warm and welcoming, and she felt her face lift at the sight. The floor, walls and ceiling were all made of wood, polished and smelling of beeswax, framed pictures lined the walls and a vase filled with Michaelmas daisies sat on the table that was attached to the wall. There was a bench, a stool, rugs on the floor, a small kitchen beyond, a woodstove in the corner on her left, a television on the wall, a row of bookshelves inlaid below it. She walked through, her footprints leaving watery marks on the floor as she explored. The kitchen moved into a bathroom with a shower, separate loo and sink, and then beyond to a bedroom lined with shelves and cupboards, a double bed made up with fresh linen, and another vase of flowers on the side table next to a lamp. She could then reach steps to the back of the boat, the tiller and controls clear through the glass door. Marmite moved through each room, sniffing and yapping in delight.