‘Yes, it is.’
Mark came and sat on the edge of Walter’s desk. He did not appear to be his usual ebullient self. They did not often speak on a very personal level, and on the few occasions when they did, it was always in a bantering, jokey way.
‘So,’ said Walter, ‘how’s it been going?’
‘Oh, fine. Yeah.’
‘I haven’t been near a doctor, but I can still self-certify, can’t I?’
‘Yeah, but only for the first six months.’
‘And how’s the political career?’
‘Well, it’s early days yet.’
‘They say a day is a long time in politics.’
‘Not with local councils it’s not.’
They lapsed into silence. Walter lifted some papers from his in-tray. He looked at the first page, without really comprehending any of it, then transferred it to his out-tray. When he glanced up at Mark, his colleague was staring down the corridor towards Office 12.
‘What do you make of that guy?’ Mark asked.
‘Steven?’ Mark nodded; Walter shrugged. ‘Dunno. What do you make of him?’
‘He offered me a job.’
Walter immediately felt quite proprietorial. ‘As Number Three?’
‘Number Four. He offered you Number Three?’
‘Only temporarily.’
‘Number Four’s on paternity leave.’
Walter nodded. ‘Did he tell you what they do in there? With the numbers?’
Mark nodded. ‘It’s a bit odd, isn’t it?’
‘You’re telling me.’
‘But at the same time, it explains a lot.’
‘You can say that again. What did you tell him?’
‘That I’d think about it.’
‘Yeah. Same here.’
They both stared at Office 12.
‘You tempted?’ Walter asked.
This time Mark shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He strikes me as someone who knows how to pull a few strings. I was thinking of the politics. Be nice to leapfrog a few levels. I sympathise entirely with the plight of the working man, but I don’t want to tramp round some dodgy housing estate in the middle of the night like I’m selling pegs.’
‘Maybe he could leapfrog you straight into the Cabinet.’
Mark gave him a sarcastic smile. ‘What about you? He sorted out your lovelife, didn’t he? He’s like your pimp.’
Walter snorted. ‘Yeah, right. I don’t think so. But - it’s kind of tempting, isn’t it? Do you think he’s like MI5 or something?’
Mark shook his head vaguely. ‘He’s something all right.’
They both jumped as Walter’s phone rang. They looked at each other, then back towards Office 12.
‘Do you think … ?’ Walter hissed.
‘I don’t know,’ Mark whispered back. ‘Answer it.’
Walter just stared at it.
‘Go on!’
But he couldn’t bring himself to lift the receiver. Mark sighed, then lifted it himself.
‘Yo,’ he said. He listened for a moment. ‘Yes, he’s here. Hold on a mo.’ He held the receiver against his chest. Walter was just raising his hands to say he didn’t want it when Mark said, ‘Someone called Bertha?’
‘Bertha?’
Mark nodded and handed him the phone.
Walter caught the train home as usual after work, took a quick shower, then drove out to Bertha’s house. If he was lucky he could fix her shower in twenty minutes then go on to the hospital to see Margaret. In fact, it would be better if he was late. He was desperate to see her, but not quite so keen to bump into her husband. He wasn’t afraid of Billy, exactly, but it was early days with Margaret, and until he was sure where they were going there was no point in getting involved in a slanging match, as they surely would.
Walter parked and nipped up the steps to Bertha’s front door. He rang the bell, and it opened almost immediately. She was a slow mover, so it appeared she’d been waiting for him in the hall.
‘Oh Walter,’ said Bertha, smiling extravagantly, ‘it’s so good of you.’
‘No problem,’ said Walter. He was thinking about that old Country and Western song where a child rhymes off all the things it - she or he, he couldn’t remember - has done for its mother and how much it’s owed, and the mother comes back with all the things she’s done, but for her there’s ‘no charge’. Walter had nearly knocked Bertha down, but far from there being ‘no charge’, he suspected he would be paying off the debt for the rest of his natural life.
Or hers.
‘Just up here … but can I get you a wee cup of tea first?’
‘No, thanks, I’m in a bit of a rush. I’ll go on up.’
Walter took the stairs two at a time. He already knew his way around the house. He went straight to her bathroom and began to examine the seal around the shower which was apparently leaking and causing water to drip down the living-room wall directly below. In the background Walter could hear Bertha’s electric lift humming as it slowly brought her upstairs. She didn’t need it. The social services had insisted because they had money left in their budget which they’d lose if they didn’t spend it before the end of the financial year. She could run up the stairs quicker. But she could be lazy like the rest of us.
Walter saw that the seal had indeed come loose, but all he had to do was ease it back into place. By the time Bertha stepped into the bathroom, he was already finished.
‘All done,’ he said, standing up.
‘Already?’
‘Yeah - should be fine now.’
‘Oh dear. I feel so silly, bringing you round just for that.’
‘Nah, don’t worry. You weren’t to know.’
‘Well - you’ll take that cup of tea now.’
He had no choice really. And he wasn’t in that much of a rush. He helped her back onto her lift, then patiently moved one step at a time beside her as she descended. As he did, she smiled patiently across at him. ‘I must admit, I felt a bit like Sherlock Holmes,’ she said, ‘tracking you down like that.’
‘Right enough. Or Columbo, remember him?’ Bertha nodded. He had already apologised to her half a dozen times on the phone, but he did it again. He did feel kind of bad, but probably only because he’d been caught out. ‘I’m just sorry about the mix-up with the number. Don’t know what I was thinking.’
‘It was quite a surprise,’ said Bertha. ‘Abrakebabra - is that what they said? I’ve never had a kebab. Too old now, I expect. But they were very helpful. I only knew your Christian name, but as soon as I mentioned it, they knew exactly who I was talking about. You must go there all the time. The food must be delicious.’
‘Not that often,’ said Walter.
Walter found it an incredibly sad statement on his life so far, to be recognised so easily by the staff of a fast-food joint. If it had been somewhere else, say - the library, then that would have been different. ‘Oh yes, Walter. He’s in here all the time, such a bright fella, six books a week he gets through.’ Or if he’d left her the number of the Ulster Orchestra and the chief conductor had said, ‘Walter! Ja! He iz such an expert in German music of ze seventeenth century!’ Or even Donald Trump’s number. ‘Walter? He’s the only other property tycoon I have any respect for!’ But no. A kebab shop.
Bertha climbed off the chairlift, with a little assistance from Walter, then slowly led him down the hall towards the kitchen. It was an old house, and appeared to be solidly built. Walter thought that if there was a sudden earthquake, they wouldn’t be killed by the building coming down around them, but by the thousands of commemorative plates and dodgy antiques that filled the shelves.
As if she could tell what he was thinking, Bertha paused in the kitchen doorway and looked back up the stairs. She tutted. ‘It’s such a pity,’ she said. ‘Since Frank passed on I’ve devoted my life to this little house of mine. And now I’ve no one to leave it all to.’ She shook her head, then managed a little smile. ‘Listen to me wittering on, and you dying for a cuppa.’
Walter placed his arm gently around her shoulders and gave her a little squeeze. ‘You sit yourself down,’ he said. ‘Let me get it.’
35
Please Release Me, Let Me Go
‘I don’t want you to come to the hospital tonight,’ said Margaret.
Walter, sitting in his office, felt his stomach lurch. His shirt stuck to his back almost instantaneously. The receiver felt slippery in his hand. What had he done?! What had he said?! What had she found out?! His face burned with assumed guilt.
‘But … but … but .. .’
‘They’re sending me home!’
Relief surged through him. Thank God! He could hear the pure joy in her voice. He pictured her lovely, smiling face. ‘That’s fantastic. Are you sure you’re okay? You were quite weak.’
‘Walter, just because you beat me at arm-wrestling, doesn’t mean I’m still ill. You’re a lot more muscular than I am.’
Walter blushed. Was that a compliment? No, no, she doesn’t mean it like that.
‘Well, yes, I take your point. You, ah, gave it your best shot, but I think you’ll find that there aren’t many women I can’t beat at arm-wrestling.’
Margaret giggled. Across the office, Mark raised a concerned eyebrow. Walter winked at him, then swivelled his chair in the opposite direction.
‘Do you want me to pick you up?’ he offered. ‘You can’t always depend on the taxis up there and I could be with you in half an hour.’
‘No, Walter. I’m fine. Billy’s taking me home.’
‘Oh. Right.’
She could hear the disappointment in his voice. Maeve had said to her, treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen. She didn’t really agree with that. In her experience it was more like treat ’em mean, lose ’em. But she really didn’t want Walter taking her home, because then she would feel obliged to invite him in, and the house was in a complete mess. At least, it had been in a complete mess when she’d left for her appointment at Emma Cochrane’s boutique. So unless a burglar had broken in and tidied up, it most certainly still was. Billy, on the other hand, could give her a lift home no problem, and although he might make hopeful eyes at her about coming in for coffee or sex, she would feel no qualms at all about turning him away. That’s what ex-husbands were for. Treat ’em mean and … well, just treat ’em mean.
‘But you could call by later on, if you liked.’
‘Really?’
‘If you felt like it.’
‘Well, obviously I’d need to check my diary. Let me see … ah yes, I have a window between seven-fifteen and … Well, actually it seems to be clear for the next fifteen years.’
‘You can’t stay for the next fifteen years.’ She said it quite abruptly. Her voice was a little cooler.
‘I was only joking.’
Margaret giggled exquisitely. ‘So was I! See you later!’ She laughed again, then the line went dead.
Walter replaced the phone and turned his chair around to face Mark again.
‘Chuck E’s in love,’ sang Mark.
Billy arrived at visiting time as usual, and was a little surprised to find her packed up and waiting expectantly on her bed.
‘I thought you could give me a lift home,’ she said.
‘Did you.’
‘It’s on your way back to work.’
Billy shrugged. ‘You’re better then.’
‘So they tell me.’
‘And where’s Lover Boy?’
‘Which one?’
He glared at her. But then he took hold of her bag and turned for the door. She followed him out and down the corridor to the reception desk where she’d been told to sign out. Billy stood by the doors while the receptionist got her to sign her medical release forms and then called up her file on the computer.
‘All right then,’ said the receptionist, ‘a clean bill of health. And talking of bills, if I could just have your credit card, we’ll have you on the road in a jiffy.’
‘My credit card?’
‘We accept Visa, American Express, Mastercard. But not Kidney Donor Cards.’ She smiled up at Margaret.
Margaret frowned. ‘It’s being paid for by someone else. Emma Cochrane?’ She nodded down at the screen.
The receptionist scrolled further down her file. ‘Oh - right. I see. Ahm. Well. I see what’s happened. This Miss Cochrane, she has our Family and Friends emergency cover, but unfortunately that only extends to emergency treatment and one night’s stay in a private room. After that, it automatically reverts to the patient. Sorry. There’s also the supplemental charges - lab tests and X-rays, consultant’s report, second opinion, plus food and cleaning and laundry.’
Margaret gave a little cough. She glanced around at Billy, tapping his foot impatiently, and lowered her voice a little. ‘How much are we talking about here?’
‘£3223.56.’
‘Holy shit!’
‘Plus an optional fifteen per cent service charge.’
‘Service charge? It’s not a bloody restaurant!’
‘Well, actually, it is. We have the finest chefs and—’
‘Okay, okay, all right.’ Margaret rubbed at her brow. She had a Visa card in her purse, but she most certainly couldn’t afford three grand. She could hardly afford the service charge. If she handed over her card it would either be rejected or Mr Visa would send the hard men round in the morning to confiscate her house. ‘I … I … just don’t understand how this could happen. I mean, shouldn’t someone have told me that I was being charged for all this?’
‘We tried, but you were in a coma.’
Margaret snorted. ‘So if I’d stayed in a coma for another year, you’d have charged me the full whack?’
‘Oh no.’ The receptionist shook her head vigorously. ‘Anything over three weeks and we offer a discount. It can be as much as twenty-five per cent.’
Margaret just stared at her. The receptionist looked back to her screen. ‘As the booking was made by Miss Cochrane, I could try reverting the charges to her account. I’d probably have to phone her though, just to confirm?’ She smiled hopefully.
Margaret shook her head. She wasn’t going to put Emma Cochrane in that position. Emma had already done so much for her, she couldn’t possibly sting her for another three grand. She’d got her into this wonderful place when she could just as easily have left her in a skip outside some other of Belfast’s collapsing hospitals. She’d saved her life. Perhaps she’d also had one eye on their future business relationship, but it was still a more than generous gesture. At the end of the day, Emma’s boutique was just that - a boutique. It wasn’t some massive chainstore that could just write her a big cheque and think nothing of it. Three thousand pounds probably represented a fair whack of her monthly profit. She had done her bit for Margaret, and now Margaret would have to sort this out herself.
‘Is there a problem?’ It was Billy, at her shoulder.
‘No, nothing. I just …’ Margaret trailed off. She was on the verge of tears. Everything had been going so well.
‘It’s just a matter of settling the bill,’ said the receptionist.
‘How much?’ Billy asked.
The receptionist turned her screen around so he could read it.
‘Christ,’ said Billy. ‘You could bury someone for that.’ He gave Margaret a hard look, then reached for his wallet.
‘Billy - don’t, please.’
‘It’s no problem.’ He handed over his credit card.
‘Thank you,’ Margaret said weakly.
‘You can thank me later,’ said Billy.
He didn’t even look at her. But she knew exactly what he meant.
36
The House of Love
This is my defining moment. I have at last met a woman who can change my life. And now fate, fatigued by repeatedly slapping me in the face, has been sent to motivational classes. It is now a power for good. How else to explain Bertha being thrown into my life like this?
Walter was driving over to Margaret’s, Milk
Tray and flowers on the passenger seat. In some ways it was a good thing that he wasn’t actually thinking about her - because then he’d get nervous and panic about what he was going to say or how he was going to put his foot in it. By concentrating on Bertha he could just turn up at Margaret’s and be himself, not some babbling fool.
Bertha. Eighty-five years old. Nobody to leave her house to. The moment she’d said it, it was as if a huge great light bulb was switched on in his head. Not even a light bulb - a nuclear-powered chandelier.
Nobody to leave it to.
He had been fantasising for years about getting into the property game, and now an opportunity had presented itself out of nowhere.
She has no one.
If I keep calling round and fixing things, she’ll grow to depend on me. She’ll change her will. She’ll do it of her own accord, No pressure. I’ll drop a few tiny little hints. Subtle.
And then she’ll go to her solicitor’s. I’ll give her a lift.
The solicitor will say, ‘Are you sure, Bertha?’
She’ll say. ‘It’s my house! It’s my money! Walter means everything to me!’
Walter forced himself to concentrate on his driving. He tried to not let himself get carried away. That had been a major failing in the past. Getting over-excited about things, getting obsessive, then spoiling them.
First of all, she said she had no one to leave it to, but that didn’t mean there weren’t people who wouldn’t make a claim on it. There were bound to be grandchildren or nieces or nephews. They might not have spoken to her for years, but they would still come out of the woodwork once she popped her clogs. Perhaps she didn’t even have a will. How to find out?
Walter tried to picture the scene. He’s just finished fixing something else, he’s sitting having tea with Bertha. ‘So, Bertha, you’re eighty-five, you’re bound to die soon, have you made a will yet? And could you put me in it? Just the house. You can keep the commemorative plates.’
Walter smiled. I don’t think so.
He would probably have to introduce the subject of the will himself. He would drop it nonchalantly into the conversation. ‘Sorry I was late, had to call in to see my solicitor. He’s been on my back about making a will. I said to him, “What’s the hurry?” and he said, “Well, Walter, you never know.” I suppose he has a point.’ Then he would look across at Bertha and say, ‘I presume you’re sorted?’ And she’d say, ‘Actually, yes I am, but I think I’m going to change it. I’m going to leave this beautiful, expensive house to charity, but that vase has your name on it, Walter.’
I Predict a Riot Page 14