He squeezed my shoulder. ‘Why would she when she’s got the likes of you on tap, eh?’
Quite. Quite. ‘Do you think it’s morally reprehensible,’ I asked him, ‘not to want to have your mother to live with you?’
‘Depends on the mother,’ he said. ‘Depends on the you. Depends on the circumstances, doesn’t it?’
‘Would you?’
‘Have had my mother to live with me? I doubt it.’
‘And you wouldn’t feel guilty?’
‘It never came up.’
‘But you wouldn’t? If it had done? Even if she’d asked you?’
‘I don’t imagine she would have.’ I felt him shrug. ‘But if she had…well…yes, still a ‘no’, probably.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘On the grounds that it wouldn’t have worked.’ He lifted his free hand and drew it across his jaw. And, Spike done, we resumed our slo-mo three-legged-race walking. ‘But, you know, it’s not even that. It was never an issue. She was too independent. I lived away lots. It just wasn’t expected. She always made it clear that if she became ill or infirm we must promise to put her in a home.’
Much in the same way that I do with my boys. Much in the way most parents do. But my mother is not like most parents. ‘But what if things changed?’ I persisted. ‘You know, when it came to it? What if she changed her mind? Wouldn’t you feel guilty then?’
He shrugged again. ‘I honestly don’t know. That’s the truth. How could I?’ He shook his head. ‘Hey, you know, morally reprehensible is a bit strong, don’t you think? I don’t think there’s any moral obligation involved. Yes, you have a moral obligation to look after your children, but I’m not sure that holds true when it’s the other way around. Do you?’
‘I guess not.’
‘I mean, people tend to do it because they want to. Because it feels right.’
‘But what if it doesn’t?’
He shrugged. ‘Then you don’t.’
‘Just like that?’
We stopped for Spike again, and he turned around to face me. There was a blade of grass stuck in his hair. ‘You know,’ he said. ‘You’ve just got to do what you think is best for you.’
‘But what about what’s best for her?’
‘Abbie, I can’t comment. I don’t know either of you well enough. Look, all I know is that if it feels all wrong it probably is all wrong. Whatever the reason –’
‘Oh, God, there are so many reasons.’
We continue d walking. ‘Then you mustn’t feel you should.’
‘I know that. Rationally I know that. But I just feel so guilty.’
He grinned then. Nudged me. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘So do I!’
‘About your father?’
‘God, no. I didn’t mean that. About you. About the position we’ve put you in.’
‘It’s not your fault. This point could – probably would – have happened eventually.’
‘But not now. Not so unexpectedly.’
I smiled. ‘I guess five years in which to prepare would have been nice. To cram a life in. Have some fun. I just don’t feel ready for all this stuff, you know? You’re right. It has all been a little bit sudden.’
‘I know. And I’m sorry.’
‘You don’t need to apologise.’
‘But you know,’ he said, stopping again of his own volition, causing me this time to backtrack two steps and turn around. ‘About the house sale and everything? I know you must feel badly about it all, but, well, there’s quite a bit more to it than you probably think.’
I b egan to shake my head. Shrugged. ‘Well, that’s…’
‘With my sister. Corinne’s in a bad place in her marriage right now.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Her husband… Well, in words of one syllable, he…well, he’s been violent.’
‘Oh, God, that’s awful.’
And shocking. And completely unexpected. Though not to him, obviously. He nodded grimly. ‘Not to the kids, thank God, but to her. And it’s got worse this past year. She has to leave him. Get away. Take the children. And my father’s death…the house and everything…well, it’s obviously not the best way for it to happen, but at least it finally gives her the chance.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said again. ‘I really had no idea.’
‘Why would you? You don’t know them. And in any case, who ever does?’ He fell silent. We hobbled in silence a little further. Who indeed, I thought. She’d seemed so self-possessed, so confident. So in control. How easy, I thought, it is to misjudge people. How complex and unfathomable other lives could be.
We’d reached the junction of my road by this time. ‘I’m glad you told me,’ I said, as we carefully dismounted and then mounted the kerbs. ‘I know it doesn’t make any difference to anything, but, well, if nothing else, it makes me realise I don’t have a whole lot to complain about, do I?’
‘I don’t know. You tell me. Mother notwithstanding, of course.’
‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘I don’t. I have two healthy sons, and a job that I love, and a nice home, and I’m pretty fit, and…well…er…my knees are both intact.’ I grinned. He didn’t.
‘And what else?’ he asked, voicing my very thoughts.
I shrugged. ‘And nothing. Isn’t that enough?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said, turning. ‘Is it? You tell me. ’
I was just tussling with how best to answer that one, when it was answered for me anyway. Charlie, clutching a carrier bag, was walking up my garden path.
He’d already seen me. Seen us. Was seeing us. He raised an arm to wave. ‘Who’s that?’ asked Gabriel.
‘Ah,’ I said, letting go of his hand to wave back. ‘That’s…um… Charlie. He…I…we used to work together. At the hospital. Before I joined the clinic.’
‘Oh, right,’ he said lightly. We continued our jerky progress up the road.
B y the time we reached the house, Charlie had already deposited the carrier bag on the doorstep and was making his way back down the path.
‘Just thought I’d drop your things off,’ he said as he approached us. Then he gestured to Gabriel’s leg. ‘Hello?’ he said. ‘Have we got an injury here?’
I nodded. ‘Torn ligament, we think. Nothing too dramatic.’
‘Oh, dear,’ he said, stooping to stroke a now belly-up Spike, while Gabriel and I manoeuvred our way around the gate. Then he straightened and stuck a hand out. ‘Charles Scott-Downing,’ he said.
‘Gabriel Ash,’ said Gabriel, removing his own hand from my shoulder to shake it.
Their eyes locked in masculine appraisal for a moment, very obviously and naturally attempting to calculate what part the other man played in my life. Which was novel, if uncomfortable, provoking unwelcome stirrings of the furtive nature of the life I’d lived these past months. ‘I’m sorry,’ said I, wishing he’d been a little more specific about my things. Things from work, perhaps. Things for work. Some thing at least. ‘I should have introduced you,’ I added, hastily. ‘Gabriel is Hugo’s son. You remember Hugo?’ Charlie nodded. ‘How are you, anyway?’
‘I’m just fine,’ he said. He looked it. Hale and hearty. Lightly suntanned. Much like the Charlie I’d first become infatuated with. Except not. Because that Charlie didn’t really exist. He was a construct; a full-blown romantic ideal. A hero on which to hang the hook of a silly crush. But all things must pass. And this had. I felt gladdened. He smiled at me. ‘You?’
‘I’m fine too,’ I said.
‘Your mother?’
‘Getting there. Almost stickless now.’
‘Well, hurrah for that!’ he said brightly.
I turned to Gabriel. ‘Charlie replaced my mother’s knee.’
‘Oh, I see.’ He nodded.
‘Well,’ said Charlie. ‘Let’s hope yours remains in one piece, at least. You’re in capable hands, at any rate. Um. Well. Best be off, I guess.’ He stepped around Spike a
nd placed a kiss on my cheek.
‘Thanks for bringing my things round,’ I said.
‘You’re very welcome. Take care, now.’
We watched him cross the road and get into his car, and then headed up the path ourselves. I scooped up the carrier as I put the key in the front door, re-locating it and its incriminating contents to the third step up the stairs. Though there was really no reason for me to do so, I felt strangely uncomfortable with the notion that Gabriel might deduce what we’d been.
‘Right,’ I said, helping him over the doorstep and into the kitchen. ‘Rice is what we need here. Come on. Let’s get that leg up.’
He sat down heavily on the kitchen chair I pulled out for him. ‘Rice?’
‘Yes. Rice. R.I.C.E.’ I pulled out a second chair and dragged it round to face the other. ‘Haven’t you heard that before? Rest, Ice, Compression and Elevation. Come on. I’ll help you.’ I reached to do so. ‘Except…’ I stopped. ‘There’s a thought. You’re going to have to take your jeans off, aren’t you?’
He winced as he straightened his leg out in front of him again. Then he smiled. ‘Yes. I suppose I am, aren’t I? My, you certainly know how to sweep a guy off his feet. What an afternoon this is turning out to be!’ He pulled himself upright again. ‘Er…’
‘Tell you what, ’ I said, ingesting his comment and realising that perhaps having a man in his pants in my kitchen was not the most professional way to proceed. ‘I’ll pop up and get you Seb’s bathrobe. Won’t be long.’
‘There’s really no need,’ he said, unbuckling his belt.
There absolutely was, of course, so I skipped off up the stairs to get it anyway. And the letter about Seb that I wanted him to translate. Take his mind off the throbbing while I bound his leg, perhaps. But by the time I got back downstairs with them both, the jeans were hanging over the back of a chair, and he (barelegged now, and with shirt tails covering said pants) was back on the chair again, grunting as he bent over to inspect his knee. There were coils of damp hair sticking to the back of his neck. It had been no small thing, him walking all that way. I should have insisted. Should have been firmer. I tried not to worry about the proximity of his pants.
‘Here,’ I said, coming around the table and shunting his shoes underneath it. ‘Let me get that up on that chair for you.’
‘It’s okay. I can manage.’
‘I’m quite sure you can, but I shall do it even so. It’s me that got you in this state in the first place, after all.’ I eased it up on to the chair seat and then grabbed another seat pad to give it a bit of extra height. That done, I fetched an ice pack from the freezer.
‘No peas, then?’ he asked, as I gently placed it across his knee.
‘No peas. We have all mod cons round these parts.’ I straightened. ‘And two paracetamol, I think. And a cup of tea. A cup of tea, yes?’
‘You know I can’t think of a single thing I’d like more at this moment. Except perhaps an other Amaretto.’
‘Oh! Then –’
He winked. ‘Only kidding.’
So I made a pot of tea and sorted some food out for Spike and rummaged for some biscuits in the cupboard. The light was beginning to fade now, and the kitchen was growing dusky. It was a pleasant enough gloom, but hardly useful right now. I went across and switched on the lights at the wall, and then, on an impulse, to cheer the place up, I lit my little row of scented tealights on the windowsill above the sink. They flickered gaily, dancing in the slight draught from the hall.
‘Right, then,’ I said when I was done. ‘ No football for you for a bit, I don’t think.’
He grimaced. ‘Right now I can’t imagine for a moment that I’d want to kick a feather, much less a ball.’
‘You know,’ I said, coming round to join him at the table with two mugs. ‘You really do have to be careful, though. You’ve obviously been left with some residual weakness. You’ve got to remember you’re not so young any more.’
‘Gee, thanks for that.’
‘But you do. Contact sports are so risky. You wouldn’t believe the number of horrific injuries I’ve seen over the years in men of a certain age who still think they’re teenagers.’
‘I hope you’re not suggesting I take up golf.’ He sipped his tea. ‘You’re painting a very gloomy picture here, you know.’
‘Oh, it’s not that bad. Not quite yet, anyway. But you do need to exercise those thigh muscles properly. It’s really important that you do them regularly. You’re coming in next week, aren’t you? Remind me to show you how to do them properly. I’ll give you a sheet to take home.’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘Right, then,’ I said, getting up from my own chair and c oming around the table. ‘Let’s take a look and see how we’re doing.’ I took the pad, now just coolish, from his knee, and made a gentle exploration of its contours. The swelling had got no worse, thankfully. If tear it was, it was hopefully quite minor. I ran my fingers over his skin, feeling the hard line of his original scar.
‘You know, this doesn’t look too bad now,’ I said. ‘How’s it feeling?’
H e leaned forward to inspect it himself. ‘Not too bad. Not sitting here with you doing that, at any rate. A little stiff, that’s all.’ He sat back again, his mug cradled in both hands, while I pulled my chair around so I didn’t have to bend. He wasn’t the only one getting a bit creaky. I’d been too long in the car and on the plane. Yesterday suddenly seemed a long time ago. His arrival here at tea time only slightly less so.
‘You have a very gentle touch,’ he said. I looked up at him and smiled.
‘When I’m not pummelling you mercilessly, you mean.’
‘And soft hands. Like a surgeon.’ His gaze moved beyond me, towards the window. ‘You know, I hope you don’t have nosy neighbours,’ he observed. ‘They’ll think you’re engaged in unnatural practices.’
‘With a knee ?’
‘It’s been known.’ He sipped his tea while I went and put the ice pack back in the freezer. ‘It’s a very tactile sort of a profession, yours, isn’t it?’ he said.
I nodded. ‘But then I’m a very tactile sort of a person.’
He smiled. ‘I suppose you’d need to be, wouldn’t you? I mean, it must be strange going to work every day and getting to grips with the intimate parts of absolute strangers. Don’t you find it strange?’
I shook my head. ‘I’ve been doing it so long I don’t even think about it. It’s just what I do.’
‘You don’t ever feel self-conscious?’
‘Occasionally. I guess I do, a little, right now, with you sitting in my kitchen in your underwear.’ He smiled at this. ‘But, no. Not really. It’s what I do. It’s just work.’
‘But they must. You know. Sometimes. Your patients.’
‘Sometimes. When they’re new. But never for long. Five minutes of my twittering at them and they soon forget to be.’
‘But it’s still very intimate, isn’t it?’
I shrugged. ‘I guess so. But like I say, I’ve always been a very huggy, touchy-feely sort of person, so it feels perfectly natural.’
He drained his mug. ‘Runs in the family, then?’ he observed.
But it was an observation that didn’t immediately have resonance for me. ‘I’m not sure about that,’ I said.
‘I was thinking of your mother.’
Which had even less resonance. ‘My mother ? God, no.’
‘Really?’ He looked surprised. ‘She’s always struck me that way.’
I shook my head. ‘That’s not my mother. That’s Diana Garland.’ I said the name with her customary flourish. ‘Different animal altogether. The public persona and the actual person are not the same at all. Far from it. We were pretty light on cuddles and hugs in our house. After my dad died, in any rate.’
‘That’s sad.’
‘I guess I didn’t know any different. That’s just the way she is. She finds intimacy difficult. Always has.’ I laugh
ed. ‘And I don’t doubt a psychologist might draw some conclusions from that about why I chose to go into the profession that I did.’
And leave home and go to college ( husband-to-be number three had already been installed by this time), and then rush off and get married and have my babies so young. Which was something I’d thought about. And very probably true.
‘Anyway,’ I said. ‘It’s actually very good for you to have an other person touch you. You know, at least half of what makes physio work – for lots of people, anyway – is just that basic physical contact. You know, some of my patients – particularly now I’m working in the clinic – well, for some of them it’s the only physical contact they have with another human being from one week to the next. Can you imagine that?’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever really thought about it. But now you mention it…’ he gestured to my hands now, which had come to rest around his calf muscles. ‘You know, you don’t have to stop doing that on my account.’
Napping on the job, in fact. ‘Oh.’ I could feel myself blushing. ‘Right. Sorry.’
‘…I suppose that really is quite something to contemplate.’
‘I seem to contemplate it all the time right now. You know, with my eldest being not here. You take it so much for granted when your children are small and then… ’ I tail off. ‘Actually, I shouldn’t have said that, should I? I suppose you never did take it for granted.’
He sh ook his head now. ‘Er…no.’
Which left a melancholy flavour in the air once again. How transient, how quickly over, all the stages of life were. And how little you realised the fact while you lived them. He was right. How very quickly it was all over, and golf beckoned.
But not just yet. I got up and moved past him to go rummage in the cupboard. ‘I’m going to strap it for you now. It’s elastic bandaging so it won’t restrict your freedom of movement too much. You’ll need to keep it on overnight and… Ah. Here we are.’
When I turned around he was stretching his arms high above his head. ‘God,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure sitting here is doing me any good after all. I’m stiffening up all over now.’
Out on a Limb Page 24