by James Anson
Four hours later he had drunk far too much tea, had a walk round the hospital and visited the Gents twice. He glanced at the notebooks. He had never thought of doing a short story before and it was coming along well; he might be able to do something with it, he thought, knowing if he lost Michael he would never look at it again.
A nurse came into the room.
"Mr March? Mr Pearson will see you now."
Robert followed her to the surgeon's office.
"Well, Mr March, he has come through the operation very well physically. Of course, he will be in intensive care for some time yet, but he is very strong and we are not expecting any problems."
"Look," said Robert, "I know how this could affect him, so stop flapping about and tell me how he really is."
"Mr March, as I have said, he has done well up to now. The condition had deteriorated -any further delay in operating and ... well ... There is good reason for optimism. We were able to clear away a lot of the damage but until he reaches a higher level of consciousness we cannot tell what effects there will be. It will be several days before we will know for certain. I suggest you go home and have a good rest. The hospital has your number?"
"Yes," said Robert, "and thank you."
He was allowed a quick look through the door of intensive-care. Michael’s head was heavily bandaged and he was lying still and quiet. He was wired up to everything in sight, thought Robert bitterly, feeling completely useless as he turned away.
When he arrived at his hotel he found there was a message that a Mr Halliwell had called. Going to his room, Robert returned the call.
"Mr March? Good. You wanted to know the result of the American negotiations - very satisfactory. They have agreed to our terms. Your cheque will be transmitted at the end of the week."
"Good," said Robert. "Thanks, Halliwell. I can't take it in now but you've certainly earned your fee. I'll be in touch later."
"I quite understand. How is Mr Faulkner?" Mr Halliwell asked gently.
"They won't know for a few days. I'll be in touch. Thanks again. Bye."
Robert sat staring at the telephone, knowing he should go and eat. No, he would see what he could get here: the hospital might ring. His leg started to ache. And don't you bloody start, he ordered it.
The next morning, after ringing to hear that there was no change in Michael's condition, he went for a short walk, then made his way back to the hospital. The surgeon was talking to a military-looking man.
"Ah, here is Mr March now," said the surgeon, ushering both men into the waiting-room. "I must be on my way," he added, and left.
The man looked at Robert consideringly.
"Colonel Faulkner, I presume?" said Robert.
"Yes," said the colonel. "I couldn't get here any sooner. I rang, of course. It was decent of you to let me know. I'll have to arrange for Michael's affairs to be taken care of while he's ... ill, and if he's not right afterwards, of course. Bad time for this to happen too."
"Interfered with your Nato exercises, did it?" said Robert. "There's no need for you to bother yourself. I'm looking after Mike's affairs: you can go back to playing soldiers."
The colonel's head came up. "I don't care for your tone," he remarked, "and as a member of the family I insist on ..."
"You can screw that," said Robert. "Mike didn't want you to know he was ill in the first place. Having met you, I can see why. I insisted you be told. He was probably afraid you'd sell Piper for cat's meat. He gave me his Power of Attorney, so you and Agnes can stop trying to muck him about."
"Mr March, can't we discuss this more privately? There's a pub over the road."
"All right," said Robert. "I'll just tell the desk where we'll be."
They made their way over to the pub and settled in an alcove with a whiskey each.
The colonel, a forthright man, did not know what to make of Robert. The fella seemed to be radiating dislike of him and he didn't think they'd met before. He had thought at first this was another of Michael's damn Irish scruffs, but a further look at Robert's casually expensive clothes made him less sure. He cleared his throat.
"Haven't been in touch with my brother for some time. Not from Dublin, are you?"
"No," said Robert. "I live in Larton. I met Mike over a painting I bought when the manor contents were sold off. We've got to know each other quite well since then."
"Not a military man, are you?" asked the colonel.
"No," said Robert. "Ex police - the Met. And just so we understand each other, I know there was one hell of a fight in your family and I'm not having you or any of Mike's relatives mucking him about."
The colonel blinked. "I could tell you that's none of your business but I'm sure that wouldn't impress you. Michael must have confided in you to let you handle his affairs and he's never been stupid in that way."
Robert looked at him curiously. "You don't look like Mike at all."
"No, I take after another side of the family. Michael looks like our father and is a romantic like mother, I'm afraid. Oh, we didn't mind when he was in the Middle East, doing good work there, but when the Troubles started he should have resigned his commission and showed where his loyalties lay. Was suggested to him that he did that - he wouldn't listen, of course. Then there was the trouble over the farm girl's brat - wanting the lad accepted in the family. No way were we having that! No sense of decency, that's Michael 's trouble!"
"As Ashley will inherit the best farm in the county," said Robert, "I don't think he's missing anything; he wouldn't like you for an uncle either. I'd better be getting back to the hospital."
"Mr March, I know you may have a poor opinion of ... well, I know Michael isn't well off. If he needs any - "
"We are fine for money," said Robert. "That's the least of our problems. Now I'd like to get back to the hospital."
"Yes, I must get back to my unit. I'll keep in touch with the hospital. Good day, Mr March."
Robert nodded and headed back over the road. Stiff-necked sod, he thought. After an hour a doctor came over to him in the waiting-room and said Mr Faulkner was showing signs of life: if he would care to visit him for a few moments? Robert hurried out with the doctor. Michael was still wired up but seemed to Robert to have a much better colour; he was stirring. As they stood by the bed he opened his eyes and looked about with a bewildered expression.
The doctor took his hand. "Mr Faulkner, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand. Don't try to talk yet. Ah, good. Now, are you thirsty? Just squeeze again. Yes. We'll do something about that in a moment. Just rest for now."
Michael settled back, then he looked at Robert, smiled and closed his eyes. The doctor led Robert away from the bed.
"Well, he can hear, see and understand," said the doctor with relief. "We don't want him to try to speak yet: after this type of operation the speech may be garbled - he knows the words but they come out wrong. He could find it very upsetting. We can explain what's happening and that the effect is usually only temporary. If his progress continues he could be out of intensive-care next week. But he will need care, treatment and a lot of patience for some time yet. As well as speech problems he could have a loss of mobility in some areas. He will need treatment in a rehabilitation centre. Have his family any thoughts on that?"
"I'm dealing with that," said Robert. "Any arrangements that need to be made, get in touch with me: the hospital have my home number."
"Very well, Mr March. We believe he is over the crisis now but he will be doing little but sleep over the next few days. We will, of course, get in touch should there be any change."
Robert stayed the rest of the day. The next morning, after a final visit, Michael was sleepy but definitely looking better. Robert returned to the village where he found everyone seemed to be waiting for news; he even had Lord Bourton calling - from his wine cellar by the sound.
"Rob, Jack Bourton. How's Mike coming along? I'm sorry I couldn't call before - Agnes is back. Oh, good. I'll send the old chap in a bottle of the good stuff. Mot
her's posting you some books she says you will find interesting. Yes, the cat-basket got back all right. Little chappie settling in, is he? Good. Tell Mike I was in touch ..."
Smiling, Robert shook his head.
* * * * *
After a few days, satisfied that Michael showed every sign of surviving, he set off to London to see his agent.
"I'm glad you were able to come up to London," said Mr Halliwell. "There are several matters I'd like to discuss with you. How is the research coming on?"
"It's not at the moment," said Robert. "Thanks to Mike getting himself banged up.
Still, I should be able to get back to it this week: it's going to be a long job anyway. I started on a short story that might develop - I'm just thinking about it at the moment."
"I see," said Mr Halliwell. "Now, I'd like your opinion on this book. It's coming out next month ... says it's the definitive word on the subject." He passed the volume over.
Robert looked at it casually, then started to read. "Is it now ...?" he muttered. "What is this garbage? Who wrote it?"
"I believe you sat next to him at the literary luncheon," said Mr Halliwell. "Professor Lowe."
"Him!" said Robert. "Just what I'd expect from him!"
"Actually," said Mr Halliwell, "there will be rather an interesting discussion on the next review programme: 'Historical Writing, Fiction or Faction?' Would you be interested in taking part? This book will be under discussion. Easter Makinson will be there too: you enjoyed her last book, even if you didn't agree with her conclusions."
"I might," said Robert. "Will it let me off any of those overseas trips? I hate flying: any travelling, come to that."
"Of course," said Mr Halliwell. "I think this will be much more useful, and the fees paid by commercial television companies are so much more generous than the BBC. That's in three weeks' time then. I'll remind you of the date."
Chapter Six
Mr Halliwell turned off his television set with a sigh of satisfaction. Robert had really surpassed all his expectations with his relentless savaging of Professor Lowe's book, tearing his conclusions to shreds, citing references, chapter and verse to prove his statements; he had then joined with Miss Makinson, with whom he had a mild rivalry, to shred an expensive new drama series - fortunately on the other channel - which they both appeared to hold in little regard.
Michael had also watched entranced from his hospital bed, with his nurse. She, after breathing, "Isn't he gorgeous!" had gazed at Robert in rapture, thumping her patient when he asked, "Who?" She then demanded a signed photo which was obtained after some vigorous arm-twisting on her behalf from Michael. Professor Lowe, not a man to take all this lying down, and possessed of a character almost as abrasive as Robert's, counter-attacked through the letter columns of the Times Literary Supplement (scene of many a bloody encounter). Robert, displeased at his comments, also wrote letters. Michael, when it showed signs of slackening off, managed a couple of letters himself - real stirrers signed 'Old Soldier, Tunbridge Wells', name and address with the editor, purely for self-preservation, of course. This kept the book and Robert in the public eye, gratifying the publishers and Mr Halliwell.
Michael also received a visit from a very expensively befurred Amy, who presented him with a bottle of champagne - confiscated by the hospital afterwards - and regaled him with tales of her exploits with the Beaufort and the lack of intelligent conversation to be had in Blankshire.
Receiving the news that Michael would soon be fit to go for rehabilitation, Robert went down to see him and make arrangements. After seeing the doctor he went off to the ward where he found Michael glaring out of the window.
"Had a word with your doctor," Robert remarked. "Should be able to ship you off to the country next Tuesday. What's that sour face for?"
"I'm bored," said Michael with a gusty sigh. "Can't even talk to anyone. All they have on their minds is their bowels - seems to be an obsession with them. Nurses are just as bad and I've read everything I want to on the book trolley." He brightened. "My eyes are beginning to focus properly now. Even tried a Catherine Cookson - couldn't find a horse in it anywhere."
"Cheer up," said Robert. "I went into W.H. Smith's and picked up everything I could find with a hoof on it! Wonder what happened to Westerns," he mused. "And here's some books from Halliwell - think there are some on cricket for you. He sends his best wishes. Can't think why - you've set my work back months."
Unmoved by this, Michael began to look through the books. "I remember him from the luncheon," he remarked. "We had a good chat. Well, how's Piper, and what's the news from the village? And what have you been doing with yourself, apart from becoming a TV sex symbol? My nurses are daft about you."
"That must be disappointing for you," Robert remarked. "The village ... let's see. Maud said to tell you Jack Everard broke his leg at the Quarry Bank last weekend. Piper had to have a new set of shoes, and when I saw what they cost I had a word with him about picking his feet up. Mrs Stubbs' Alf, at the post office, has had his 'prostrate' operation - and you don't want to hear the details. Ashley had four gold stars at school, God knows what for. The new barmaid at the Brewers can't pull a pint properly - froth everywhere. The Village Players are doing 'A Royal Divorce' - as someone's granny said, it was a lovely cry. Jess will be in tomorrow with a cake for you. Amos has had his operation - came through it fine. It's nice to have someone around who isn't sex mad!"
"Wish they'd stuck to a whodunnit," said Michael. "They were always good for a laugh."
Robert left him happily looking through the books.
* * * * *
The following Tuesday Michael went off to rehabilitation, and within a few days Robert received a letter from him, very carefully written, detailing his sufferings and progress and ending:
So, all being well I could be pretty fit in a month or so. Army's been in touch about a medical discharge. I'm not worried about that, wouldn't be here at all if it wasn't for you. Life looks pretty good now. Thank you, Robert. Mike.
Robert sniffed and went to look out of the window. He couldn't face the clutter on the table and so went out into the garden where he began to potter. Spotting the vicar in the distance he hurried back indoors and made some tea. He was just looking gloomily at his papers again when he noticed Mike's letter and decided he would reply to that now.
Dear Mike ... I can't get over to see you this weekend, deadline is getting close and I've been stuck with writing a screenplay. All Halliwell's fault of course. You know I keep going on about no-one getting to do a play or film of one of my books after the travesty they made of the last one? Well, yes, I know the critics liked it but I didn't!
Well, he wheeled in this rep. from the BBC to me; they wanted to dramatise my first book. I told them it wasn't suitable, they said they'd make something of it. I said, Oh yes, I'm sure, but would I approve? Added that I never watched television unless you came over to see the Horse of the Year show in colour - missed you this week, crunching apples and yelling at the riders. Ashley says he will be competing in the Pony Club trials next year - now there's a thought ...
Anyway, to cut a long story short, I agreed to do a screenplay. Still not sure how that happened. They sent this small blonde person to give me guidelines - she knows it all. Still better than travelling round America lecturing to women's clubs. Halliwell said my last visit put back Anglo-American relations twenty years. Told him I was only speaking my mind to some damned Irish anyway.
Trouble is, after re-reading my book there are things I want to alter, so I'm up to my eyes in paper here. First draft has to be ready by Friday. If it's acceptable I'll call on you later next week with a bottle, if not, I'll bring a bottle anyway. I don't believe half of the stuff you're writing me. Do what you're told for bloody once! Regards, Robert.
Michael smiled and turned to his other letter.
Dear Mr Faulkner ... I will pick up the package of books on my way home next Tuesday and drop off another. Your comments on 'At The Water's Edge'
... yes, I do agree, it is drivel, but very well written drivel. As you said yourself, you couldn't put it down. Not a book you would read twice, but then publishers are interested in copies sold and not in a book's staying power these days. There are several more weighty volumes to come, the three-decker novel seems to be making a comeback.
I see you share my appreciation of 'The Riven Heart'; delightful, isn't it? It is meant to be taken seriously, of course. My wife has wept copiously over the other copy, another good sign. I'm sure it's going to be a great success.
Mr March informs me he is proceeding with his screenplay, having persuaded the BBC to take a revised version of the book. I suspect they are having nervous breakdowns in case he develops writer's block or something. Have advised them he is very conscientious about deadlines. Till Tuesday then. Yours sincerely, A.
Halliwell.
* * * * *
Robert looked about the room in surprise. "Very nice," he remarked. "I've stayed in a lot worse hotels than this. You're looking a lot better."
"Feel it," said Michael. "I can cross a room without falling over now. Still feel a bit shaky on the stairs but they say that will settle with time. Can start riding again in a month or two, as long as I wear a hard hat. Looking forward to going home, too."
Robert picked up a thick manuscript. "I knew you were a great reader but ... Hey, this is from my publisher ..."
"I've been doing some reading for them and Mr Halliwell," said Michael. "It's great. I didn't know they'd pay you to read books. He drops 'em off, I read them and write a sort of essay on them. He gives me another load to read ..."
"These your notes?" asked Robert. "Can I look?"
"Sure, go ahead. What have you been doing with yourself? How's the screenplay coming on?"
"Hang on a minute!" said Robert, "I'm reading. Well, you're a surprise. I thought you just had hay between the ears. I'm starting the second draft tomorrow. They seem happy with it so far. It needs some alterations but I'm getting the hang of things so I won't be able to complain about this one - unless they put that twerp who was in the last one in it!