Left and Leaving Page 11

  Gil wasn’t fussy about what he wore. He needed a couple of respectable outfits for work and he was addicted to his Doc Martens but, aside from that, he dressed out of charity shops. Why wouldn’t you? Last weekend, noting that the temperature was set to drop, he’d invested in a bright orange sweater (hand knitted, he liked to think, by someone’s granny) and a red, heavy-duty fleece, both from Shelter in Kentish Town Road.

  Following the buzz of the snow came news of a lottery win. Gil paid two pounds each week into a syndicate organised by the X-ray Department and it had come up with five of the six numbers in last night’s draw. The winnings would be shared between ten. It wasn’t likely to change his life but his life was okay the way it was and £268 wasn’t to be sniffed at.

  During his lunch break, he called in to see the biker. For a week following the explosion it had been touch-and-go whether the lad – Tyler Freeman – would pull through, but now he had been transferred from ICU to a four-bedded ward. He was doing okay but he still faced tedious weeks in traction followed by months of physio – not an appealing prospect for a twenty-two-year-old kid, already out of his head with boredom. After the immediate drama of their son’s accident, his parents seemed to have lost interest and his girlfriend and workmates (he was a gas fitter) were only able to visit at weekends.

  For the past couple of weeks the boy had been drifting in a fuzz of painkillers. Now that his medication had been reduced, he was beginning to grasp the possible consequences of the accident. No one knew yet how long he would be in hospital or whether he would regain full movement in his leg. Whichever way it went, he would be off work for months. It was tempting to remind him that he was lucky to be alive but the boy was too young, too confident of his own immortality, to buy that. His primary concern was his beloved bike, its remains now rusting in a scrap yard somewhere in south London. Earlier in the week, Tyler had asked Gil to help with the insurance claim.

  Gil’s sons were both mad keen on speedway racing. Janey had gone ballistic when, for their last birthdays, he’d sent them each a hundred dollars to add to their bike funds. She’d accused him of trying to buy their affection, adding ‘You won’t be the one lying awake, wondering if they’re splattered all over the highway.’

  Her accusation wasn’t far off the mark. He did want his sons to think well of their absent father. He could still remember his all-consuming desire to get his own bike, and the loathing he’d felt for his father when he’d tried to stop him. He’d rather the boys didn’t ride motorcycles but when had parental wishes ever got in the way of a child’s obsession? They’d get their bikes whether he helped or not and the extra cash might ensure that the ones they got were roadworthy.

  Medical matters occupied enough of Tyler’s days and Gil made an effort to avoid them. Today they discussed the snow and flicked through a gadget magazine, speculating on how Gil might spend his lottery win, agreeing that he wouldn’t get much for his money, debating whether it might be more fun to blow the lot on scratch cards on the chance of a big payout.

  He kept these visits short. He didn’t want Tyler becoming dependent on him. He never specified when he would return, anxious not to make promises he might not be able to keep. He wasn’t sure why he’d forged a bond with this lad. Okay, he’d happened to accompany him to the hospital that night but there had been no need to take it further. He supposed he must be going soft. It didn’t take much to superimpose Chris or Adam’s face on that of the broken boy in the bed.

  At five-fifteen there were no outstanding ‘request’ forms in the wire basket on the reception desk. All he had to do now was return to the office, download the day’s images, then that was him finished.

  ‘Gil?’

  Turning, he saw Irene Tovey advancing towards him from the corner of the waiting room.

  ‘Irene? What are you doing here?’ He held out his hand but she ignored it, grabbing him in a scented clinch.

  ‘I took a half day for Christmas shopping. I was up this way so I decided to call in. On the off-chance.’

  He might have been anywhere in the building and he was amazed that she’d located him. ‘How did you track me down?’

  ‘I explained to the woman on the desk that you and I are old friends. She said I might find you down here.’

  H&S had a reputation for being overly officious. They were forever threatening ‘swift action’ against anyone who divulged staff details to members of the public. But they had a point. Often patients were scared or angered by what was happening to them. Occasionally they took it into their heads to lash out and anyone, from consultant to hospital porter, was a potential target. Whoever was on the reception desk had, without checking with him, blithely pointed this woman in his direction. Maybe they considered a photographer didn’t merit the same protection as a doctor. But policy was policy. And, come to think of it, Irene was out of order too. ‘Old friends’? That was naughty.

  In the beginning, he hadn’t been too bothered by her calls. She wittered on and all he had to do was toss in the odd ‘wow’ or ‘really’ or ‘that’s terrific’. But then the gifts started turning up. A pen. Socks. A key fob in the shape of that fish symbol. They made him uncomfortable. He didn’t want the wretched things and he’d shoved them in a desk drawer until he could think what to do with them. Three weeks on and her calls were becoming more frequent. She was getting to be a pain in the butt with all that ‘guardian angel’ and ‘divine providence’ baloney.

  ‘I’m going to treat you to coffee and cake,’ she said. ‘A little pre-Christmas celebration.’

  It was five-thirty. He was tired. He had a stiff neck. All he wanted to do was get home.

  He looked at his watch, frowning as though dismayed by what he saw. ‘Is that the time? Sorry, Irene. Gotta go. I promised my girlfriend I’d be home early this evening.’

  It was an unimaginative excuse, but one sentimental Irene might go for.

  But it seemed not.

  ‘Can’t she spare you for half an hour?’ she said. ‘Just thirty little minutes?’ She made an odd, pouty face, and he noticed blobs of lipstick – a crude shade of purplish crimson – glistening at the corners of her mouth.

  He shrugged with what he hoped would be interpreted as regret. ‘Wish I could stay, Irene, but Feray’s a stickler.’

  ‘Oh. Well. That’s a shame. I was so looking forward to seeing you. Still…’ She gave a bright, brave smile and fished her gloves out of her bag. ‘I mustn’t hold you up. I wouldn’t want to land you in her bad books. I’ll get on home.’

  She turned to leave and, as she did, he imagined her in a pokey flat, phoning Vivian to tell her he was so under his girlfriend’s thumb that he didn’t dare keep her waiting, even to have tea with an old friend.

  ‘You’re right, Irene. Half an hour won’t hurt. There’s a coffee shop on the ground floor.’

  The cafeteria was a no-frills affair available to both staff and visitors. The Formica-topped tables and plastic-seated chairs gave it an institutional ambience. Despite the efforts of the cleaner swishing a mop aimlessly across the tiles, the floor was slippery with snow melt and a yellow sign warned of the danger. By this time of day, the place had a world-weary feel to it.

  ‘My treat, don’t forget,’ Irene said as they queued at the counter and, although he didn’t want it, Gil took a chocolate-chip muffin.

  When they were seated, Irene said, ‘You’d better phone your girlfriend – Freya, isn’t it? I don’t want her after me.’ Again, that bright little smile.

  ‘Feray,’ he said. ‘It’s Turkish.’

  Keeping up the charade, he texted Feray, not to tell her that he’d be late – she’d want to spend the evening with her kids anyway so he’d planned to keep out of the way – but to thank her for last night, childishly satisfied to be putting one over on Irene.

  Several staff members hailed him as they passed, which clearly impressed his companion. ‘You’re a very popular man,’ she said.

  To occupy the time, he told her about hi
s job, explaining how it brought him into contact with most of the hospital staff. Then he turned the conversation to her. ‘You mentioned that you work for a firm of accountants.’

  ‘Yes. We’re a small firm. By today’s standards, anyway. Three partners, four accountants, a couple of part-timers and two of us in the office.’

  ‘And you enjoy working there?’

  ‘I do. We’re a proper family. I’ve been there for fifteen years.’

  She took a tiny diary from her handbag. There could barely be room to write more than a word or two on each page, yet she scrutinised it as if it were her days were so crammed with appointments that she might easily forget what she was doing. ‘It’s our Christmas meal next Tuesday. The fourteenth. We always have it at the Spaghetti House in St Martin’s Lane. D’you know it?’

  Gil shook his head.

  ‘It’s lovely. You should go some time. The partners treat us and we exchange our Secret Santa gifts. That’s what I’ve been shopping for today.’ She tapped the carrier bag that she’d placed on the table. ‘It’s a scented candle. Everyone loves candles, don’t they?’ She dropped the diary back into her handbag.

  ‘What d’you do for Christmas?’ he said.

  ‘Me? I always spend it with my sister and her husband in Maidenhead. My nephew and niece are grown up now. It’ll be just the three of us.’ She glanced at him. ‘I expect you’ll be celebrating with Feray.’

  Hearing her drop Feray’s name so casually into the conversation, stirred a sensation of unease.

  ‘I’ve really got to go,’ he said, tapping his watch. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’

  ‘My pleasure. Oh. Before you disappear, can I twist your arm? Our choir’s doing a sponsored carol sing. We’re going to sing non-stop for six hours. It’s for Open Doors. Have you heard of them?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘They send bibles and religious literature to Christian communities who are suffering persecution for their faith.’

  She took a folded sheet from her bag and handed it to him.

  ‘Fantastic,’ he said.

  He added his details below the half dozen names already on the list. ‘Why don’t I give you the money now?’ He pulled a handful of coins from his trouser pocket.

  She shook her head. ‘That wouldn’t be right. ’

  But he was adamant, insisting that he’d like to make a donation to such a worthy charity, more than happy to shell out three pounds to pre-empt another meeting with this silly, thick-skinned woman.

  14

  It took Vivian several seconds to remember where she was. She’d slept intermittently. The bed was comfortable enough but last night, with so much on her mind, she’d found it difficult to let go. It had snowed during the night, which on any other morning would have thrilled her but today it threatened to be an additional complication to what would be a difficult day.

  The house was warm thanks to her decision to leave the heating on overnight and after a bath and a breakfast of porridge and coffee she felt ready to face the day.

  She phoned Howard. Despite the weather, he was already at the office. She brought him up to date on what was happening and promised that she would come in as soon as she’d been to the hospital.

  Next she tried Nick. Her call went straight to voicemail and, wondering where he might be this early in the morning, she left a message sketching out yesterday’s events and promising to call later.

  She made a list of things her father would need. Toiletries. Towels. Pyjamas and dressing gown. Slippers. No – he wouldn’t be walking anywhere for a while. Reading and writing matter. Would he need money? She’d never had anything to do with hospitals and had no idea how it worked. When her mother had been admitted for an unspecified gynaecological problem, she’d forbidden Vivian (a student at the time) to visit her. Bodily functions were taboo in the Carey household, particularly anything to do with ‘down there’ and Vivian had been only too glad to avoid seeing her mother in what might, for both of them, be embarrassing circumstances. Anneliese Carey had only been in for a few days and they’d never talked about it afterwards.

  She went in search of the things on her list, conscious of her ignorance of her father’s habits and routines. Spectacles, for instance. The ones he’d been wearing when he’d gone to the shed had, by some miracle, survived the fall. But did he need a different pair for reading? And what about teeth? There were a number of denture-related products on the bathroom shelf – toothpaste and tablets in a metal tube and a brutal-looking toothbrush – but which were necessary? Collecting a survival kit for her father should have been straightforward but she was at a loss. In the end she dusted off the holdall that she found on top of the wardrobe and filled it with what she hoped would get him through the next couple of days.

  Before setting off, she spent ten minutes checking and re-checking that everything was in order. She would be back here in forty-eight hours but she was unfamiliar with the ins and outs of the house. Her father would be livid were he to discover that she’d left the heating on but burst pipes posed a greater threat than his wrath.

  Having called next door to thank Mrs Francks for her prompt action and to fill her in on the current situation, she phoned for a cab.

  Last night, by the time a bed had been found for her father, Vivian, intent on escape, had simply followed the ‘way out’ signs. Now she spent a frustrating fifteen minutes navigating her way through the sprawl of ugly buildings, negotiating lifts and labyrinthine corridors. Before this whole business was over, she would probably be able to do this with her eyes shut – a depressing prospect.

  It hadn’t occurred to her that there might be set visiting times and when she reached the nursing station she was told to come back between three and eight o’clock. Holding up the bag, she explained why she was there and that she wouldn’t be able to return until Saturday.

  The nurse sighed. ‘No more than five minutes.’ She consulted a chart and pointed down the corridor. ‘He’s down there. Third on the left.’

  There were four beds in the side ward. Two were empty, rumpled bedding suggesting their occupants weren’t far away. The third was concealed behind closed curtains. Her father’s bed was next to a window, which was obscured by a venetian blind.

  He was propped up on several pillows, eyes closed, arms outside the covers and neatly at his side as if he were lying at attention. There was a livid bruise on his cheek, another spreading up his arm from his right hand. He was wearing some sort of washed-out garment, the pattern barely discernible. She’d imagined that his pelvic area would be protected in some way – a frame, perhaps, to keep the bedclothes away from his hip – but there was no sign of anything like that.

  She stood at the foot of the bed. ‘Dad?’

  He opened his eyes and gave a little smile. ‘Vivian?’ She was thankful to see that he was wearing his dentures.

  He went to raise himself up but winced and gave up. ‘I think my specs are in the drawer.’ His hand reached out to the locker at the side of the bed.

  The drawer contained tissues, a small bar of soap, a worn towel and his glasses. Noting how grimy they were she said ‘I’ll give them a wipe, shall I?’

  ‘Please.’

  She did the best she could with a tissue and a few drops of water from the jug on the locker. ‘There.’ She handed them to him. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Moving is agony. But so is lying still. They’ve given me a shot of something, but it’s not working. And that doesn’t help.’ He nodded towards the bag suspended from the bed frame. It was half full of brownish liquid and, for a split second, she couldn’t think what it was.

  ‘Have they mentioned an op?’ she said.

  He frowned and cupped a hand to his ear. ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’ Maybe Dr Ababne had had second thoughts about operating. Either way, it was their job to tell him, and their problem to deal with him when he objected.

  ‘I’ve brought a few things.’ She dumped the bag on the chair next to
the bed and began decanting its contents. ‘Towel. Wash bag. Pyjamas. Pen and paper. And these were on the kitchen table.’

  He peered at the two library books she was holding up. ‘I’ve read them,’ he said, as if she should have known. ‘Did you bring my mints? My mouth’s dry.’

  ‘I’ll bring them next time.’ She poured water into a beaker and offered it to him. ‘Here.’

  He told her what they’d given him for breakfast, grumbling that they didn’t have his favourite cereal and that the toast was cold. He was propped at an awkward angle, neither sitting nor lying, and watching him struggle to raise the beaker to his lips and tilt it without spilling its contents, she wondered how he’d managed to feed himself.

  The nurse bustled in reminding her that her time was up, lingering to make sure that she left.

  ‘We’ll take good care of him,’ she said as if Philip Carey weren’t there.

  Irritated by the woman’s disregard for her father, Vivian smiled at him and touched his hand. ‘I have to go to work now, Dad. I shan’t be able to come tomorrow but I’ll be in on Saturday.’

  When she bent to kiss his forehead, his skin was damp to her lips and he smelled sour.

  He grasped her arm, pulling her towards him, whispering in her ear. ‘You will come back?’

  ‘Of course. On Saturday. They’ve got my number so they’ll let me know if…if there’s anything I need to know.’

  She’d spent less than ten minutes in the ward yet she felt exhausted. Panicky, too. She was registered as next of kin and she would be fooling herself if she imagined that anyone was going to share this with her.

  ‘You have to tell his sons,’ Howard said. ‘He’s as much their father as yours. I know it’s not easy for them but they should share some of the burden.’

  He was right, and she would contact them soon, but there was no point in counting on them for anything.

  ‘I feel dreadful,’ she said. ‘I’m letting you down. I’ve already missed two half days because of Dad. And there was that day after the bomb.’