One Small Act of Kindness

by Lucy Dillon

  Chapter Five

  Pippa woke up on the fifth day and immediately tried to pin down what she’d been dreaming about. She’d been somewhere . . . Near the sea? With friends? A dog? It had been windy. She’d been happy. That happiness lingered on in her mind like an echoing sound, lifting her inside. She’d felt weightless, and her skin was warm, clouds dancing behind her closed eyes.

  Her hand reached out for her pen, but the more she tried to recall the details, the faster the dream slid away from her, leaving her staring at the traces of dawn light outlining the blackout curtains of her room.

  This was the first morning she hadn’t woken up and thought, How weird – I dreamed I lost my memory. This was the first morning she’d woken knowing that the current version of herself, Pippa, started and finished in this hospital room. There was a before, but the bridge between it and her had gone, and until someone appeared to lead her back over it, the before might as well not exist.

  A clammy sensation crawled over her skin, as the memory faded and the morning’s reality sharpened up in its place. If someone didn’t appear, as they hadn’t so far, all she had were the clothes she’d arrived in. No money, no home, no phone, no qualifications, no CV, no idea who she was beyond that very moment. Nothing.

  Pippa jerked with panic, suppressing the involuntary sob that rose up inside her throat, and focused on her breaths, keeping them shallow on account of her aching ribs, counting to four, over and over, until the first sounds of the ward waking up made her feel less alone. While she breathed, she ran through everything in her mind, hoping to catch some stray fact that had slipped unnoticed through the blankness in her mind, like a cat returning soundlessly from a night out.

  Her head was hurting . . . less than before? The drip had been taken out of her hand, which had a bruise like a purple-green pansy where the needle had gone in. Her ribs ached more. Maybe because the painkillers had worn off overnight.

  Pippa knew that three of her ribs were cracked, on the left-hand side, over her heart. Probably, the doctor had said, pointing at the hairline traces on the bones, from where she hit the car. The wing mirror, maybe, he’d suggested, and she’d nodded, trying to supply the mental image of it, and failing. It could have been the wing mirror. Later on, he’d shown her the multicoloured scan of her brain, and she’d thought how weird it was that the specialist could see inside her head but couldn’t extract anything useful from it, or nudge it back into cooperation.

  Four weeks, he reckoned, for the ribs to heal. Until then, lots of painkillers and rest.

  And his name was, prompted a voice in her head. His name was . . .

  His name was Dr Shah. Dr Suveer Shah. She was in Dean Ward, in the Loughborough Wing. The nurses were Bernie and Karen in the daytime, Sue and Yolanda at night. The head injuries specialist was called Jonathan Reynolds. He’d been to see her every day she’d been awake (three), running through the same questions, and some different ones, trying to work out where her vague memories stopped, but not managing to press whatever the magic memory-reset button was to access the rest.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, giving her the same optimistic smile each time he left. ‘You’re processing new information fine, and there’s nothing presenting on your scans to suggest the memory loss is going to be anything other than short term. You might never recall the accident itself, but when your brain’s ready, I’m pretty confident the rest will come back.’

  ‘Pretty’ confident. Pippa noticed that he never said ‘completely’.

  PC Canning had been in also, to ‘update her on the investigation’, but the facts she could remember weren’t enough to go on, and no one had come forward from the small mention of her accident in that week’s local paper. He was polite, but Pippa pounced on every tiny clue available to her, and she could tell he too was curious as to why no one had come for her. His pity made her feel ashamed, and scared. It clearly wasn’t normal. She wasn’t normal, something about her situation wasn’t normal, and she didn’t even know why.

  In the meantime, she wrote everything down, partly out of fear of waking up to find the last few days had been wiped, and partly to give herself something to do. She’d asked Bernie, one of the day nurses, if there were some magazines or a book she could borrow, and Bernie had sighed and said she’d check, but it probably wasn’t a good idea to strain her eyes, and wouldn’t she be better just taking it easy and resting? As if reading were some sort of chore.

  Pippa had stared at her notebook and written down, I like reading.

  That was who she was. Whatever was written in her notebook.

  Ninety minutes and two almost perfect full English breakfasts later, Libby and Margaret were heading up to the hospital with Lord Bob freshly brushed in the back of the car, ready to bring comfort, affection and a meaty tang of dog breath into the lives of Longhampton’s elderly folk.

  Jason, who was still walking gingerly after his training session, had been left to check out the two guests in room four, with instructions to offer them a complimentary breakfast voucher if they so much as mentioned the poached egg. Libby’s poached eggs weren’t quite as reliable as her fried ones, and the Pattersons had the look of people who liked to write scathing reviews of disappointing eggs on the internet.

  Almost as soon as she’d pulled out of the hotel car park, Libby found herself stuck behind two horses whose riders seemed to be having a leisurely conversation. They clearly weren’t, Libby thought, discussing the huge rush they were in to get to town.

  Next to her, Margaret fidgeted in her seat, which immediately put Libby on high alert; Margaret liked to save difficult conversations for a time when Libby was trying to concentrate on something else, like chopping onions or maintaining a steady speed of ten miles per hour behind two enormous hunters. One of them was swishing its tail in a manner that made Libby worry for the bonnet of the car.

  ‘Jason tells me you’ve invited a journalist to put us in a magazine,’ she said.

  Oh. Just that? Well, that wasn’t too bad. Libby relaxed.

  ‘Yes! Well, I didn’t invite her, exactly. One of my friends recommended she came to check us out. When we’re finished decorating, of course.’

  Margaret made the noise she always made, the one that indicated she understood the need for decorating but didn’t completely agree with it. ‘A friend from London?’

  Libby pulled out to see round the horses, but there was no way past. ‘Yes. Erin. She’s American, works a lot with stylists and magazines. We used to share a cleaner. She’s lovely.’

  ‘You need some friends around here,’ said Margaret, as if Libby had somehow decided against the idea. ‘Why don’t you think about signing up for the PAT rota yourself? It’s such a good way of meeting people. I mean, it’s easier for Jason – he has old friends he can pick up again. You need your own girlfriends.’ She paused, then added, coyly, ‘If you had a little one, or two, you could be meeting people every day on the school run.’

  Oh, that was what she was leading up to. Libby gripped the steering wheel tighter. Margaret had never been one of those mothers-in-law who dropped massive hints about grandchildren, but lately she’d noticed a few comments creeping in. More sighs at adverts for nappies, more wistful observations about how adorable Jason had been as a toddler. How she’d be around to help, now they were all living together. How her friends loved being grandmothers, how it had given them all a new lease of life.

  Libby pulled herself up before the irritation could take hold. She knew she was being oversensitive. She and Jason wanted to have a baby. But what with one thing and another, any plans in that direction had moved down the priority list, beneath the hotel, their finances, supporting Margaret in her bereavement . . . Libby needed things to be solid. She didn’t want to visit her own broken-up childhood on her children. And more than money, she and Jason needed to get back that trust.

  ‘Is that something we might all look forw
ard to soon?’ Margaret enquired.

  ‘Not right now,’ Libby replied, still trying to see round the horses. ‘We have to get the hotel sorted first, don’t we?’

  ‘Oh.’ Margaret gave a little laugh. ‘I rather thought, with the country air, and more space, and less stress, you and Jason might—’

  ‘Whoa, too much information, Margaret!’ said Libby.

  Also, less stress? Less stress? Sometimes she wished Jason had shared a few more details of why they were actually here with his mother.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Instantly, Margaret’s hands folded in her lap, a prim barrier. ‘I just wondered.’

  ‘Jason and I would love to start a family soon, but we want everything to be right.’ The road was finally clear. Libby indicated to pass the horses. Slowly. ‘You know what hard work running the hotel is. We need to get a system up and running, generate some more new business. This is a big change for us both – we’re still learning.’ She glanced across, trying to frame it as generously as she could. ‘We need you passing on your hotel wisdom, Margaret, not tying you up with childcare!’

  ‘Oh, you seem to be managing very well. I’m not sure I’m doing anything. I’m not the one in charge anymore, am I?’

  Libby knew deep down this was true; she knew Margaret knew it too. It was awkward.

  ‘I’m sure it’ll happen soon,’ she said, not wanting to upset her, or promise anything. ‘And you’ll have a world of good advice to give us there too.’

  The hands unfolded and folded again, making the eternity rings glitter. ‘Young people today seem to need everything to be perfect.’ There was an edge of peevishness in her voice. ‘When Donald and I moved here, Luke was a tiny baby and Jason was on the way, and we just got on with things.’

  ‘Yes, well . . . Jason and I have had a difficult year. I’d like to get that behind us first.’

  ‘More difficult than my year?’ Margaret turned her head; her pale blue eyes were silvery with tears. ‘A bit of good news would be just what the family needs, I would say.’

  Guilt swept through Libby. ‘I’m sorry, Margaret. You’ve had an awful year. But this tip from Erin is good news, honestly.’ She racked her brains for some more good news, then remembered something Jason had told her the previous night. ‘What about Luke? Wasn’t Jason saying he’d won some award for his company? Some enterprise recognition?’

  Margaret knitted her fingers together. ‘So I hear. Of course that’s good news. But business isn’t everything. If Luke had spent less time with the company and more time with Suzanne over the years, he might have had someone to share his success with. Poor Suzanne.’

  ‘I know, it’s a shame it didn’t work out for them.’ Libby didn’t think there was a lot of poor Suzanne about it. Not from what little she’d seen of her. Luke’s ex-wife was an army medic, a tough cookie with honours to prove it, and the marriage hadn’t lasted long; she and Jason had stumbled on them outside the registry office arguing about who was going to drive to the reception. ‘But if they weren’t suited, better that they still have the chance to meet someone else . . .’

  ‘Suzanne was Luke’s chance to settle down and grow up. And he threw it away,’ said Margaret, with a finality that Libby didn’t feel able to argue with. ‘So, did you say you were going to see that accident lady?’ she went on, in a conversation-changing tone.

  ‘Yes, I am.’ She should have known better than to try to change the conversation to Luke. ‘You see? I’m meeting new people. I’ve got a new friend there.’

  And she pulled away from the horses just as one of them dropped a series of dung balls down the winding road.

  Pippa was making a list of names beginning with ‘L’, trying to jog her memory when the nice daytime nurse, Bernie, put her head round the door, her pale red eyebrows raised in fun. ‘Are you up to seeing a visitor?’

  ‘Yes! Who is it?’

  At last, she thought, anticipation fluttering in her stomach, someone’s come! It was closely followed by a darker flutter. What if it was a boyfriend, or a husband, but she didn’t recognise him? How would she even know if it was a friend?

  It didn’t matter. Someone had come to see her! Someone who might have answers.

  Bernie’s face fell, seeing her excitement. ‘Sorry, love, it’s not . . . It’s the lady from the accident. Lizzy?’

  ‘Libby,’ said Pippa.

  ‘Just testing you,’ said Bernie with a wink.

  ‘Hello!’ Libby peered round her. ‘I was passing, so I thought I’d pop in and say hello! I’m sort of sorry to find you still here . . .’

  ‘Still here,’ said Pippa. ‘Going round and round like an unclaimed suitcase on the baggage carousel.’

  ‘Oh, I always think they’re the most intriguing suitcases,’ said Bernie. ‘They’re . . . mysterious! Now, would you ladies like a cup of tea?’ Pippa knew she was trying to make up for the disappointment. The ward was understaffed and Bernie rarely had time to make a cup of tea for herself, let alone visitors. Bernie was kind like that; it was in her notebook too. She planned to stick a thank-you for Bernie’s extra teas on the Tree of Kindness in the foyer when she left; the nurses had let her walk down that far the previous day for exercise and the messages of thanks had made her quite tearful. Although she was still on quite strong painkillers.

  ‘Ooh, yes. That’d be lovely,’ said Libby before Pippa could say, ‘No, it’s fine – don’t worry.’

  ‘So, how are you feeling today?’ Libby folded herself into the chair by the bed. ‘Any developments?’

  ‘Nope. Not unless you count some new bruises that have come up.’ Pippa showed her the ring of purple circles round the top of her arm.

  ‘Ouch.’ Libby winced. ‘Well, to take your mind off things . . . I thought you might need some reading matter.’ She rummaged in her shoulder bag.

  Libby’s bag was an expensive one, Pippa noted: soft plum leather with brass fittings and a swing tag. The sort of tag that was supposed to say something about the owner, although she didn’t recognise the brand and so wasn’t sure what that was. Libby looked like the sort of person who’d have the ‘right’ bag, though: stylish but not too flashy, not stupidly expensive. She reached for her pen to add it to the book, but stopped herself.

  Libby had a page in Pippa’s notebook – Libby Corcoran: Swan Hotel, married, just moved here, thirty-ish, no children. Together with Libby’s smooth accent, and her chunky honey-and-gold highlights and her leather ballet flats, and now the bag, Pippa guessed that the hotel must be pretty posh.

  So why had she been heading there? Had she been meeting someone? A shape formed at the back of her brain, dark and definite, but immediately slithered away, leaving a cold spot in its wake.

  ‘Here you go – you can give them to the waiting room if there’s nothing that takes your fancy.’ Libby offered her a stack of glossy magazines. ‘I thought they might prompt a memory – if you see a dress you’ve got, or come across a feature you’ve read before in the hairdresser’s?’

  ‘That’s really kind. Thank you.’

  ‘Oh, it’s no bother. I get them for the hotel lounge.’ She flipped through the pile. ‘Vogue, Red, Vanity Fair, Cosmo, Country Life. I didn’t know which magazines you read, but—’

  ‘But I don’t either. So that’s fine.’

  Libby started to apologise, then saw Pippa was joking. She grinned, and her face suddenly looked much less grown-up. Less grown-up than the smart bag and the ballet flats, somehow. More Libby. More kooky sandals.

  ‘Well, I don’t think I read Country Life.’ Pippa gazed at the covers spread out on the blanket and recognised, to her relief, some of the famous faces – Judi Dench on The Lady, Kate Moss on Vogue – but other women seemed blandly anonymous. Just smiling, blonde, pretty. Panic rippled through her. How much memory had she lost? How many years?

  ‘Should I know her?’ She pointed at Heat’s
cover star, a dark-haired woman scrutinising her stomach folds in a straining bikini.

  ‘Hmm.’ Libby frowned at it and shook her head. ‘Nope. I have no idea who that is . . . Oh, she’s in Made in Chelsea. Do you watch that? I don’t. Ha! Maybe this isn’t such a great idea. I’m going to feel like I’ve lost my memory too at this rate.’

  Pippa laughed as Libby clucked in self-reproach. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘That was in bad taste.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Least it means I’ve got a sense of humour.’ Pippa met her gaze and smiled until Libby looked less embarrassed. She thought Libby had a sympathetic, expressive face, one that revealed every emotion passing across her mind. Her eyes widened and crinkled when she smiled or frowned, and her hands moved constantly as she talked, covering her mouth, tucking her hair behind her small ears. Going on what Pippa had seen so far – two visits, a thoughtful present, friendly conversation – Libby seemed like a good person. She gave off a sort of wholesome helpfulness.

  ‘Maybe we should do a quiz?’ Libby suggested, examining the magazines. ‘Work out . . .’ She peered at the cover of one. ‘“What’s Your Romcom Relationship Style?”’

  ‘What’s my what?’

  ‘No, really. Look . . .’ She showed her a photo spread of some actors whom Pippa wasn’t sure she recognised.

  But then all the magazine covers seemed peppered with urgent questions, none of which Pippa knew the answer to. Are You a Control Freak? What’s Your Relationship Age? Are You Your Own Best Friend? If someone was here who knew me, she thought, they’d probably say, ‘Yes, you’re a total control freak. Remember how many different colours you painted the sitting room before you got the right green?’ Or they might laugh and remind her how she’d have to ring round all her mates before she could decide on what to wear on a date.

  That was how you knew who you were. A lifetime of episodes and anecdotes and tests and moments, confirmed and catalogued by friends. And if they were gone – the friends, and the memories – how did you know who you were without having to start all over again?