One Small Act of Kindness

by Lucy Dillon

  Pippa didn’t think she’d ever been so grateful to someone in her life. It made her feel almost childlike. The sense of having been saved from a shocking drop, snatched at the last minute by someone on a trapeze, made her dizzy with relief.

  ‘In that case . . . if you’re sure you don’t mind?’ Marcia’s shoulders lifted with the air of someone whose workload had just halved in front of her.

  ‘Of course not. It’s what I hope someone would do for me,’ said Libby. ‘If I was knocked down and didn’t know who I was, or where I was, I’d like to think someone would be decent enough to look after me till I knew what was going on.’

  ‘That’s a very Christian attitude. Have you got ten minutes now? I’ll need to do some paperwork,’ said Marcia, but Pippa could see her pen moving across the page, and she knew that she was already thinking about the next homeless stranger, the newly free bed.

  She looked up at Libby and mouthed, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No problem,’ Libby mouthed back, and smiled her unworried, generous smile.

  ‘Jason, it’s me. Listen, I need to talk to you about something. Quickly.’

  Libby glanced around the foyer, but there was no sign of Margaret or Lord Bob. She reckoned she’d be able to smell Bob before he appeared, or tell by the wave of public adoration coming from afar. And she wanted to run this by Jason before she mentioned it to Margaret, just to make sure she got in there first.

  ‘If you’re ringing about Marek,’ he said, ‘I’ve got good news—’

  ‘I’m not ringing about Marek.’ Libby juggled the facts in her head, trying to work out how best to explain it, but realised there wasn’t a right or wrong way. It was what it was. What else could anyone do?

  ‘It’s Pippa,’ she said. ‘The hospital want to discharge her, but they can’t send her home because she still doesn’t know where she lives. And no one’s come for her. I arrived just as social services were going to send her to a hostel.’

  There was a pause at the other end. Libby thought she could hear the clicking of a mouse. Was Jason browsing the internet while she was talking to him?

  ‘A hostel, Jason,’ she repeated, in case he thought she’d said hotel. ‘Where social services put battered women on the run from their partners, and methadone addicts and all sorts.’

  ‘I know what a hostel is,’ he said mildly. ‘And for the record, I’m not sure Longhampton is a festering pit of domestic violence and crack addicts, but go on.’

  ‘Go on? Well, what do you think I did?’

  ‘You said she could come here.’

  ‘Of course. She doesn’t know anyone else. The look on her face when I said she could stay . . .’ Libby bit her lip, thinking about it. Pippa’s undisguised relief made it much more real, somehow – that absolute defencelessness of having to trust whatever people said to you because you really didn’t have an option. Pippa was the first person she’d truly clicked with in Longhampton, but even if they hadn’t, wouldn’t she still want to help?

  ‘Well, I guess we owe her a bed since she was coming here anyway,’ he said. ‘Do we know how long it’s likely to last?’

  ‘What, the amnesia? Not long, hopefully. But the doctors want her to be around people, which, again, is ideal because we’re there all day.’

  ‘And you’re sure she isn’t some sort of confidence trickster who’ll never leave?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Libby realised she’d walked towards the Tree of Kindness without thinking. A quick glance along its boughs reminded her that putting someone up for a few nights wasn’t a lot to do for a person in need – not by a long shot. There were two new birds up, thanking volunteers for donating bone marrow to a child and for reading A Tale of Two Cities to someone’s dying mother. A lump came to her throat. ‘Jason, she’s got retrograde amnesia and cracked ribs! That’s a hell of a lot of effort to go to for a few free nights in a hotel.’

  ‘I didn’t mean—’

  ‘It’s not as though we don’t have room. If it’s the money you’re bothered about, I’m sure she’ll be happy to settle up once her memory comes back.’ Libby didn’t even mean that, but something prodded her to say it. ‘Or we can invoice social services,’ she added. ‘They probably won’t leave a TripAdvisor review, though.’

  Why was he being so mean? This really wasn’t like Jason, she thought. Normally he’d have been offering to drive up here to collect them before she’d got the words out.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘You sound grumpy. Is the Nespresso machine broken?’

  ‘I’m just . . .’ She heard a groan and could imagine him running a hand through his hair. ‘Sorry, I’ve been looking at the accounts. Marek’s going to send a prep team to get cracking on Monday, but he needs a starting payment by the end of today and I’m trying to see what I can move around. Nothing’s adding up, unless I’ve . . .’ The reception phone started to ring, a strident, old-fashioned peal.

  ‘Oh God, I hate that bloody thing,’ growled Jason, and he really didn’t sound like himself.

  ‘Answer that,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back in a minute anyway – I need to grab some clothes for Pippa. She’s only got what she was brought in with.’

  ‘Have you told Mum?’

  ‘Not yet. I’m waiting for Lord Bob to finish his afternoon performance.’ As she spoke, Libby heard the skittering of claws on corridor tile and Margaret and Lord Bob appeared round the corner. Bob was doing his public show prance, the one that made his jowls swing adorably and his apple bottom sway from side to side. The nurse was clearly charmed, inclining her head to take into account the five-foot height difference.

  Libby watched them approaching and started to gather her bags together. ‘She’s here now. See you soon,’ she said, and hung up.

  Margaret didn’t need any persuading at all about having Pippa stay for a few days. In fact, she seemed astonished that Libby felt she even had to ask.

  ‘But of course she must come to us,’ she said, before Libby had got to the explanation about the homeless shelter. ‘What a question! That poor girl, all on her own. Awful. Awful! I hope you said “yes” straightaway.’

  ‘I did.’ Libby checked in her mirrors before pulling out of the parking space and jumped, as she always did, when she saw Lord Bob’s head looming through the gap between the back seats and the boot. His tongue was lolling and he was panting with the effort of being calmly entertaining for an hour. If he’d been a rock star, thought Libby, he’d have a damp white towel draped round his thick neck. And possibly shades. He was making up for lost time by releasing all the flatulence he’d been holding in while the patients had been stroking his velvety ears.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about her, wondering what she was coming to see us for,’ Margaret went on, sounding more like her usual self than she had for ages, now she had something to organise. Someone to organise. ‘And of course, she must stay with us until her memory comes back. Donald wouldn’t even have given it a second thought. We need to look after her. Did you get all her discharge forms? And her appointments?’

  Libby shot Margaret a side glance on the pretext of turning out of the hospital car park.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m glad it’s OK – I hoped you wouldn’t think it was an intrusion.’

  Margaret’s hands – which Libby used as a sort of visual barometer – stopped moving in her lap. ‘Sometimes it’s good to be reminded that people are worse off than you are. Just because I’m still . . . still very much missing Donald doesn’t mean I can’t feel sorry for other people’s troubles.’

  ‘Of course not!’ Because that was, actually, exactly what Libby had been thinking. She went red.

  Margaret was looking straight ahead, at the sights of Longhampton passing before them. ‘Anyway, it’ll give me something to do, while you’re dealing with these builders. We should pop her in the spare room – it’ll be quieter in there. Away from all
the mess.’

  ‘Well, you’re the best nurse I ever had,’ said Libby. ‘I never wanted to leave when you were looking after me and my broken leg.’ Two weeks’ bed rest in the spare room, and enough Heinz tomato soup to fill a bath. Her own mother would never have taken such good care of her, or let her have a bell by the bedside to ring for toast.

  Maybe this was a good thing, she thought. Someone for Margaret to fuss over, other than Jason, or Bob.

  ‘I must admit I’m rather intrigued by the mystery of it.’ Margaret settled back in her seat. ‘A few people have asked about the accident – if we know what happened. Oh, look, Norman Jeffreys. Hello!’ She leaned forward and waved back at someone heading into the car park, pushing an ancient man in a wheelchair. ‘Hello!’ She sighed. ‘Poor old thing. No, apparently, it was Veronica Parker’s nephew who was driving the Mini. Callum. He’s already been up for careless driving, and his wife’s left him twice. Not that we ever mention anything at Mothers’ Union, but we do worry about Veronica. Have you met Veronica?’

  ‘Um, librarian Veronica?’ Libby tried to remember who Veronica Parker was and where she fitted on Margaret’s complex social chart. Even in London it had never occurred to her that you could judge people on what they grew in their gardens. (Roses: good. Red-hot pokers: bad. Gnomes: beyond the pale.)

  ‘No! That’s Vanessa. Veronica was the church organist who was asked to leave.’

  ‘Can anyone have a secret in this place?’ asked Libby, only semi-joking.

  ‘Not really.’ Margaret waved at someone else heading towards the hospital. ‘The vicar,’ she added, before Libby could even ask. ‘Reverend Jackie. Very nice lady. Did you see how some anonymous person – Janet Harvey, I believe – thanked her on the Tree for taking her cat when she went into the home? Heart of gold.’

  Libby murmured agreement and turned onto the main road towards the hotel. She didn’t really need to have her own act of kindness put on the Tree: it’d be all round the town before poor Pippa was even through their door. Along with poor Pippa’s mysterious circumstance, no doubt.

  Chapter Eight

  The Corcorans’ flat had two spare rooms: Luke’s old room up in the attic and the official guest room, in which Libby had rested her broken leg while working her way through Margaret’s Georgette Heyer collection. Despite being on the small side, it managed to house a pine double bed, a pine chest of drawers topped with a small pine vanity mirror, a pine wardrobe and a pine clothes stand, as well as a thick crop of Highland stag paintings. Every time Libby stepped into the spare room, she had a powerful urge to paint everything white. That and drink tomato soup.

  Jason was oblivious to the pine, but then he didn’t seem to mind that their room – his room – was unchanged from the day he’d left it, including the football posters. Libby was pretty sure that the chest of drawers Margaret had cleared out before they’d arrived had still had his boxer shorts folded in neat blue-and-white rows.

  ‘I’m sure she’d be better in the attic than in here,’ said Libby in an undertone as Jason shucked off the old duvet cover, and she peeled the pillowcases. ‘She’ll wake up every morning thinking she’s in World of Pine.’

  ‘You can’t put a guest in the attic.’ He shook out the pillowcases from Margaret’s neat bundle – plain white linen, tied with red ribbon to indicate a double bed. Singles were yellow, king size blue. ‘It’s full of junk.’

  Libby paused with her hands on her hips. ‘How come your room’s been cryogenically preserved in its original state, but Luke’s attic’s now a dumping ground for all manner

  of tat?’

  ‘Because I sometimes come home, and Luke doesn’t,’ Jason retorted. ‘And there is a lot of tat to be stored, as you may have noticed.’ He finished stuffing the pillowcases and threw a fresh duvet cover over the bed. ‘Duvet, go!’

  They began hunting for the duvet corners with practised speed; it always cheered Libby up, their bed-making routine. It was a chore she’d hated for years, so Jason had challenged her to see how quickly they could get it over and done with, like F1 mechanics servicing a pit stop; now, hundreds of duvets later, they moved in a rhythm, back and forth, smooth and shake. The teamwork of it was satisfying, and watching the concentration set on Jason’s face made Libby want to laugh and kiss him at the same time.

  Libby had never told any of her London friends about the duvet routine, not even Erin. She knew how much she’d roll her eyes if someone told her they’d turned bed-making into a private joke. It was appallingly twee. But it was nice. Libby had dreaded that the nice, twee habits she and Jason had built up would vanish when things collapsed; it meant more to her than she could express that they still did this.

  Libby shoved her duvet corner into the cover’s corner, pulled it down in time with Jason, then looked up to see him grinning triumphantly at her.

  ‘Getting slow,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve got longer arms.’

  ‘No, I’m just naturally skill,’ he replied, airily. ‘And,’ he added, ‘Dad used to give me and Luke fifty pence for every duvet we changed when he was on laundry duty. Soon get quick when there’s up to four pounds at stake.’

  ‘You never told me that.’

  ‘I’d forgotten till I came back. It was fine until Mum found out. Then she put us on a flat rate.’ He wrinkled his nose, remembering. ‘She said she wanted it to be fair, but I think she thought Luke was quicker than me. He wasn’t,’ he added. ‘But he used to get the money back off me at poker afterwards. The cheeky sod.’

  Libby smoothed the cover and straightened up. ‘What is your mother’s problem with Luke?’ she asked. ‘I mentioned that award the other day and she managed to get in a dig about him and Suzanne. I mean, I understand he was a handful, but what did he actually do? Set fire to the dogs’ home?’

  Jason ran a hand through his thick hair. ‘Nothing like that. It’s Dad, I guess. Stressing Dad out. Mum blames Luke for Dad’s high blood pressure.’

  ‘Really? But when did he leave home? Nearly twenty years ago?’

  ‘Oh, I know – it’s nothing to do with Luke. Dad worked sixteen-hour days trying to keep this place going; he liked his cheese, never exercised – that was why he had high blood pressure. Mum just doesn’t want that to be the reason.’

  ‘So, what did he do?’ Libby didn’t like pushing Jason to talk about upsetting things – she knew Donald’s death had hit him hard, even though he’d insisted ‘Dad would’ve wanted us being strong for Mum, not sitting around being miserable for him’ – but the gaps in her knowledge of his family were starting to feel uncomfortable now she was living in their house. ‘I need to know, Jase. I worry about putting my foot in it with your mother. I don’t want to upset her, especially not with . . . you know.’

  He sighed. ‘Luke wasn’t bad, but he had some dodgy mates. Nothing major – bit of fighting, bit of covering up for the older lads. Set fire to a few things. He put Dad in some awkward positions when we were growing up. Dad was on the council, chaired various charity committees, magistrate . . . Luke didn’t give a toss. It got to the point where Dad couldn’t have got him off the next charge, which was when he joined the army.’

  ‘But once Luke was in the army, he did all right, didn’t he?’ Libby tried to piece it together with the Luke she’d met: quietly spoken, sharp-eyed, sharp-boned, with an air of tightly wound energy. Like Margaret, funnily enough.

  ‘No, he did really well. But that’s not what people like to gossip about, is it? Not, “Ooh, I hear Luke Corcoran’s been made a captain.” It’s all “Ooh, who’d have thought Donald Corcoran’s lad would be up for joyriding.” God love Longhampton, but there’s not a lot else to talk about. Mum probably blames Luke for Dad never being elected mayor or chief mason or whatever it was that she thinks he ought to have been.’

  ‘Donald as mayor? Did he want that?’ Libby’s memories of Donald were of his quiet affability,
not his political ambitions. He’d carved the Christmas turkey in exactly equal slices by the dresser, while Margaret had done all the flamboyant business with the flaming puddings. ‘I can’t imagine your dad doing all that civic-duty stuff. Although, I can totally imagine . . .’ She trailed off, unsure if it would come out right.

  ‘Mum as lady mayor? Yeah, I can too.’ Jason pulled a wry face. ‘Most of her wardrobe was designed to have a great big gold chain of office over the top.’

  ‘You should see her up at the hospital with Bob, chatting with everyone, knowing everyone’s name – she would have been great as a mayor,’ said Libby. ‘What am I saying? She still would be. She’s barely sixty. Why doesn’t she do it now? Has she thought about joining the town council? I know she’s still coming to terms with being on her own, but she’s got so much to offer in her own right, not just as Donald’s wife. I don’t think she realises how much people admire her round here.’

  She didn’t add, ‘And it’d stop her getting wound up about the hotel,’ but she could tell Jason was thinking it too.

  He shook his head. ‘Mum’s old-fashioned. I think she liked the idea of it being her and Dad.’

  ‘I know.’ Libby saw Jason glance down, wrong-footed by the memory, and reached over to grab his hand. ‘I’m sorry, Jase. I miss him too.’ And she did: the hotel was different without Donald. He wouldn’t have seemed out of place in a pre-war cricket line-up, with his neat grey side-parting and trusting gaze. A million times nicer than her own quick-tempered, manipulative father. ‘I only married you on the understanding that you’d end up like your dad.’

  ‘Thanks. Something to aim for, I guess.’

  ‘What did he think about Luke?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, your dad never did all this flinching and eye-rolling that your mother does. I don’t even remember him saying a bad word about Luke.’

  Jason squeezed her hand and dropped it, gathering up the discarded sheets. ‘No, Dad was always a lot more chilled about Luke than Mum was. Maybe he took a “boys will be boys” view about the stuff he got up to.’