Patience

by Victoria Scott

  But he was not going back. James, never the understanding type, had put pressure on him to return to Qatar. James had his family there with him and so he had no idea what it was like to live on a separate continent from those you loved. It was then Pete had seen red; his family came before everything, even money. And the money wasn’t even that good now. These were difficult times, world-wide, and work was drying up a little in the Gulf.

  He had yet to tell Louise about it – and the inevitable impact on their finances – but they’d manage. They had to, because he could never leave her on her own for that long again, that was clear. Anyhow, short-term gigs like this one paid well enough, particularly if you were prepared to work long days and weekends, and he was fine with that. And he hated his digs, so it was a relief to be out.

  His brother, Steve, had offered to put him up at his place, but he couldn’t face it. He’d also offered him work for the family firm, the one he’d learned his trade in. Their uncle’s building business, once a small family-run enterprise, was now a major force in the West Midlands, with Steve at its helm. Pete was grateful for the offer, but reluctant to take a wage from a firm he should, by rights, have been co-director of. It felt like admitting failure. Moving to Oxfordshire all those years ago so that Lou could be back near her family had cost him dearly. He had never replicated his uncle’s success, never striven to be his own boss. Now here he was, near retirement with just a suntan, what seemed like an impending divorce, and a pokey semi-detached to show for it. More fool him.

  The windows of the Portakabin were rendered opaque by steam, and when he opened the door, he was greeted by a wave of damp, warm air that reeked of cigarettes, Lynx deodorant, and fart. His colleagues, a random collection of temporary itinerant labourers working for cash, were huddled next to an oil-filled radiator in the corner of the room, perched on orange plastic chairs, cradling steaming mugs of tea. He went over to the urn and made himself a cup, before pulling up a chair to join them. To his left, Marek – a recent recruit – had laid out one of the tabloid newspapers the foreman had bought on a small, upturned box in front of him. He was checking out the racing news from the day before. The men loved to gamble, sometimes en masse, on payday. Minutes later, he shut the paper with some force – the result was obviously not to his benefit – and stood up and marched over in search of more biscuits.

  Not in the mood for conversation, Pete picked up the paper and began to read. It was the local rag, a publication that was at least 70 per cent advertising and what little news there was came largely, he suspected, from press releases. He flicked through the well-worn content: local primary school holds art contest; animal sanctuary seeks sponsorship; police call-out for witnesses to a hit-and-run. He took a deep breath and closed it, looking for the first time at the front page as he did so. What he saw there caused a surge of adrenaline which drove him out of his seat and back into the rain, his sodden feet forgotten.

  *

  ‘Eliza! Thank God you picked up.’

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘We need to talk, Eliza. Do you have a minute? Can we video chat?’

  ‘I’m at work, Dad. Is it urgent?’

  ‘Yes, Eliza, it is.’ Pete heard a shuffling noise, as Eliza pushed her chair back and began to walk away from her desk.

  ‘OK, I’ll call you back in just a second.’

  Pete turned his car ignition so that he could turn on the heater and waited, his fingers strumming a belligerent beat on his steering wheel.

  The video ring tone rang out from his phone and he picked it up.

  ‘Eliza.’

  His daughter appeared to be standing in a stair well.

  ‘Hi, Dad. What’s up? Is it Mum? Patience?’ Eliza had dark circles under her eyes. She looks tired, he thought.

  ‘No. Yes. Sort of. It’s about the trial.’

  ‘I told you, I’ve got to be independent. I’m not taking sides. I can’t take sides. I’ve told Mum the same thing.’ She was now leaning against the wall behind her, a look of resignation on her face.

  ‘I know, I know. That’s not it. It’s not about that. It’s about the trial itself. It’s in the paper.’

  ‘What’s in the paper?’

  ‘The local rag’s done some actual journalism. They’ve looked into that guy who’s running the trial, Professor Larssen, and guess what? The funding for his trial is dodgy. Big pharma, corruption – all that stuff.’

  ‘Hang on, Dad, back up. What does it actually say?’

  Pete grabbed the paper, which had been lying on the passenger seat, and began to read while balancing the phone on his lap.

  ‘The Bugle can exclusively reveal that Professor Philip Larssen, a world-renowned geneticist who’s currently leading a ground-breaking gene therapy trial in Birmingham, is being investigated over alleged malpractice concerning a previous research project.

  ‘Sources close to the eminent scientist have told The Bugle that Prof. Larssen has questions to answer about a source of funding for a recent trial of the drug Curlinapam, which is currently being considered as a treatment for Huntingdon’s disease.’

  ‘Where was the funding from, Dad?’

  ‘Some of it came from a dodgy Russian pharmaceutical firm, apparently, but it wasn’t disclosed. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been allowed to do the trial.’

  Pete put the paper back down and held the phone up in front of his face once more, so he could see Eliza’s expression. Both her eyebrows were raised.

  ‘What makes them dodgy?’

  ‘It says here that they apparently aren’t that keen on being honest about side effects.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Don’t you understand? It means that we can’t trust this man.’ Pete had now begun to gesticulate wildly with his free hand. ‘We can’t allow him to experiment on Patience. We have to stop it!’

  ‘How certain are you that the story is correct? I work in PR and I know how journalists work – there may be another side to this.’

  ‘Eliza, this man is out to make money. All of this stuff about making people’s lives better’ – Pete accidentally knocked his phone out of his hand, but kept talking as he rifled around in the footwell in his efforts to retrieve it – ‘of helping Rett sufferers to throw away their wheelchairs and walk – it’s rubbish. He just wants the cash.’

  ‘You can’t prove that.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll take a picture of this and send it to you. And then, you have a think. Seriously. I know you want to be independent, but seriously, before you sign her life away, you need to read this.’

  Pete located the phone under his left foot and lifted it back up triumphantly.

  ‘OK, Dad, I get it.’

  ‘So you won’t sign it?’

  ‘I’m not saying that. I’m going to go and see Mum first. See what she has to say about it.’

  ‘She’s brainwashed, pet. And not in her right state of mind. You know that as well as I do.’

  Pete suddenly felt overwhelmingly tired. He put the phone down on the seat next to him and put his head in his hands.

  ‘Dad? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, love?’

  ‘I’m sorry. About being made to take sides. I do love you, you know.’

  ‘I know, pet. Just keep an open mind, Eliza. It’s never too late.’

  19

  Eliza

  January 15

  It was dark when Eliza drew up outside the house, but the lights in Patience’s bedroom were shining brightly onto the driveway, the curtains undrawn. Eliza locked the car quickly and used her spare house keys to let herself in.

  ‘Mum?’

  Eliza turned into her sister’s room and saw that the bed, usually neatly turned down by carers, was a tumult of blankets and pillows.

  ‘E-lise-sa?’ The blankets stirred, and a head emerged. ‘Sorrrry, was jussst havin’ a nap…’

  ‘Oh, Mum!’

  As Eliza approached the bed, the stench of alcohol grew stronger. Then there was a clatter as she
knocked over a bottle of gin which had been deposited on the floor beside the bed. It was empty.

  ‘I’ll get you a glass of water.’

  Eliza hurried out of the room and went into the kitchen. Dirty plates and cups were piled up in the sink and the encrusted remnants of cheap ready meals littered the surfaces. She opened the cupboards and finding no clean glasses, opened the dishwasher, only to be hit by the smell of rotting food and stagnant water.

  Fighting the urge to vomit, she retrieved a glass from the upper level and washed it thoroughly under the tap.

  She should have come sooner. She should have told work that she needed time off to deal with a family crisis. But after that incident with Jimmy in the church, and weighing up the abortion she knew she needed, she just hadn’t felt up to it. Now she felt incredibly guilty. Her mum needed her and she had been wilfully absent.

  She poured some water into the glass and walked swiftly back into Patience’s room. Her mother was now sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes. She was wearing pyjamas, even though it was only 7 p.m. Had she been wearing them all day, she wondered? Maybe all week? It certainly smelled like it.

  ‘Here you go, Mum.’

  Louise took the glass without looking at Eliza. She drank deeply, draining it in a few gulps.

  ‘Checking up on me, are you?’ she said, handing the glass back.

  ‘Sorry, Mum. It wasn’t deliberate. I decided to come on the spur of the moment, after work.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Mum, I’m here now. And I want to help.’

  ‘Do you now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Louise glared at her.

  ‘Well, you can start by finding me some paracetamol. I’m not feeling very well today.’

  Eliza located the tablets and took them to her mother along with another glass of water and a fresh set of pyjamas. Then she returned to the kitchen, turned the dishwasher on, emptied the bin and loaded the washing machine. After an hour, the room was at least sanitary. She considered their dinner options. As there was no food in the cupboards to speak of, she used an old takeaway menu she’d found behind the bin and ordered from it. They’d dine on Mr Wu’s special set meal B tonight.

  ‘Food should be here in half an hour,’ she said to Louise, who was now sitting with her feet up on the sofa under a blanket, like an invalid. ‘Are you feeling hungry?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Louise replied, pulling the blanket further up her body.

  ‘Good. You need food. There’s not much in the kitchen, Mum.’ Eliza perched on the end of the sofa, by her mother’s feet.

  ‘I know. I haven’t been feeling well, as I said. I haven’t been able to get out.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And since Patience isn’t here, I haven’t needed to go shopping.’

  ‘Right. She’ll be coming home in a few days, though, all being well?’

  ‘So they say. If they decide to trust me with her.’

  Eliza put her hands on her mother’s blanket, stroking the legs beneath. Louise pulled her legs towards her body in response.

  ‘Mum, don’t be silly. No one is saying they don’t trust you. We just thought you needed a break. You’re obviously under the weather.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Louise crossed her arms and looked down at her lap.

  ‘It’s cold in here,’ said Eliza, rubbing her own arms to keep warm. ‘Is the heating timer on the blink?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I don’t have it on much, though. To save money.’

  ‘It’s freezing, Mum. And you and Dad aren’t that short of cash. Surely you can afford some heat?’

  ‘My bank account says differently,’ Louise replied.

  Eliza smiled, as if her mother had made a joke. ‘Don’t be silly, Mum. Dad wouldn’t keep you short of money.’

  ‘You reckon? You think because he’s been working out there in Doha he’d have loads of cash to splash? Me too. But apparently not. At the moment, I’m getting through the cash he transfers in three weeks. The final week of the month is a wasteland.’

  Eliza looked at her mother. She looked beaten. Exhausted. She definitely wasn’t laughing.

  ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I should have come home more. I’m sorry, Mum.’

  ‘You’ve got your own life to lead, darling, and a wedding to plan! I can’t expect you to stay at home with me forever, can I? Anyway, Patience will always be here, won’t she, so…’

  Louise had meant that as a joke, and Eliza tried to smile.

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ Eliza asked. ‘I mean, I don’t have much money either, but I could lend you a bit.’

  Louise visibly softened. ‘Don’t be silly, darling, I don’t want your money. This will pass. All of it. You’ll see.’

  ‘I think you’re depressed, Mum.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Maybe. Or maybe it’s just a natural way to respond to what’s happened? I mean, Patience getting hurt on my watch, and then your dad… Anyway, it will pass, I’m sure.’

  Eliza moved up the sofa and leaned in for a hug. They sat like that for a few minutes, enjoying the feeling of mutual security it brought.

  It was Louise who broke the silence. ‘There’s something you can do for me tomorrow, though,’ she said.

  *

  ‘Are you sure you’re up to this?’

  It was the following morning and Louise had rallied significantly. She hadn’t had a drink all evening. Eliza, meanwhile, had spent a terrible night in the spare room, battling with heartburn, nausea and guilt-induced insomnia. Louise looked at her with concern. ‘I could have asked Philip if we could reschedule,’ she said.

  Eliza mustered every ounce of energy she had left and smiled at her mother.

  ‘No, it’s fine. As you reminded me this morning, Mum, time is of the essence. I’m fine. Just tired. It’s been a tough week. But this is important.’

  ‘OK,’ said Louise. ‘If you’re sure. But let’s go to the café first. You need a snack. You look peaky.’

  Eliza followed her, grateful for any opportunity to rest. Louise led her around a corner and into a small coffee shop, furnished with metal tables and chairs.

  ‘What do you want?’ Louise asked. ‘I’m buying, because you bought dinner.’

  ‘Oh, just a tea, Mum,’ said Eliza. ‘Black.’

  Louise headed off to order the drinks. While she was away, Eliza wondered whether now might be a good time to break the news about the wedding to her. After all, she needed to know, so that she and Dad could use the money for something else. And she seemed a bit better this morning, a bit stronger.

  ‘There you go,’ Louise said, presenting Eliza with a polystyrene cup of tea and a paper plate laden with a Danish pastry, glistening with white icing and glacé cherries. ‘I got this for us to share,’ she said. ‘But it’s mostly for you.’

  Eliza’s heart swelled, and her nausea evaporated. Suddenly, she was a child again, and Louise was taking her out for a special lunch, just the two of them, to celebrate her exam results, or the end of term.

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ she said. ‘That looks wonderful.’

  Louise sat down opposite her and took a knife to the pastry, cutting it into thirds. Eliza remembered her doing this with meals she hadn’t wanted to eat when she was tiny. If Eliza would agree to eat one third, she’d agree to eat the rest.

  ‘Mum,’ she said, suddenly deciding that this was the moment, this was when she would tell her, ‘I—’

  ‘I wanted to say how sorry I am,’ Louise said, cutting in. ‘It was unfair, me trying to make you take sides on this trial.’

  Eliza took a deep breath. She must not be put off now. She had to tell her.

  ‘It means so much to me, you coming with me this morning,’ Louise continued. ‘Do you know, you’ve been one of the only good things in my life in the past year or so? Amongst all of the shit, you’ve been a shining light. I’m so lucky to have you.’

  And that was it. She
couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t.

  ‘I have been so worried about Patience, since her seizure last summer. I think that’s what set me off, with the depression.’

  ‘Have you seen a doctor yet, Mum? To talk about it?’

  Louise sighed. ‘I’ve made an appointment. I am going, as you have all asked me to. Next week.’

  ‘That’s great, Mum.’

  They sat there in companionable silence for a few minutes, finishing the pastry. Eliza reflected that it definitely wasn’t the first time she’d been unable to convey what she was really thinking to her mum; sadly, it probably wouldn’t be the last.

  ‘Shall we go?’ Louise said suddenly – clearly, Eliza thought, to avoid having to talk about her mental health for one more second.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Eliza. ‘Let’s get this over and done with.’

  They set off together, Louise leading her daughter through the maze of corridors to a door several floors up, where she knocked, and they waited.

  ‘Come in!’

  Louise opened the door and held it for Eliza. She walked into the room and was hit immediately by a cloud of baked, stale air. It smelled of mothballs, dust and coffee. Sitting on a chair in the centre of this cloud was a man she presumed to be Philip Larssen.

  ‘Good afternoon, Louise,’ the man said, standing up gingerly and holding out a hand. ‘I’m glad you’re feeling a bit better.’ He turned towards Eliza. ‘And you must be Elizabeth,’ he said.

  ‘Eliza. Yes. That’s me.’

  The man smiled. It was a kindly smile, a genuine one.

  ‘Sorry, yes, you prefer Eliza. I forgot. I forget a lot of things. Apologies. Anyway, please sit down.’ He gesticulated vaguely towards one of two chairs in the corner. ‘Thank you for coming. Did your mum explain what this was about?’