Now, turning the page of yesterday’s News, I find myself reading about a fifty-three-year-old former UKIP candidate up in court. Back last year, Pompey were playing the hated Scummers in an FA Cup tie. Scummers is a word I’ve picked up from H. It means anyone born in Southampton. They arrived in some numbers at Fratton Park, and had the nerve to thrash Pompey 4-0. Afterwards, according to the News, there was a full-blown riot, two sets of supporters separated by hundreds of police, some of them on horseback. The Pompey fans couldn’t wait to get at the Scummers and give them a good kicking, but the police were in the way. Frustrated, our UKIP fan instead assaulted one of the horses. Not once, not twice, but three times. Now, months later, the judge has gravely warned him to prepare for a jail sentence.
I shake my head, and then recharge my glass. It’s a shame about the horse, but the story is richly comic. Did Mr UKIP look the beast in the eye? Did he challenge him? Ask him how hard he thought he was? And when he set about him, what did the poor horse make of it all? Pompey, I think. The gruff vigour of the place caught in a brief flurry of violence. I tear the piece out and put it to one side. If H and I are ever on speaking terms again, I suspect it might cheer him up.
Elsewhere in the paper there’s a whole page of lockdown recipes. Irn-Bru fruit loaf? Mega brownies to die for? Cadbury’s Creme Eggs shrouded in pavlova? This is a city that lives to eat exactly what it likes, and when it’s not battering the enemy, Pompey has a very sweet tooth. Hence, I assume, Malo’s amazement about all those seafront fatties.
I find him still locked in a battle of his own next door. With the last of the Greco di Tufo, I curl up in a corner of the sofa and watch a brothel sequence which is more graphic than I’d expected. Malo’s character goes for a black woman with improbable breasts, and he has the tact to back out of the action before it gets too raunchy.
‘Don’t mind me,’ I tell him. ‘She’ll probably eat you alive.’
Malo ignores the comment. He’s been speaking to Clemmie again and it appears that the news from the hospital is good. Mateo is breathing oxygen through a mask but so far the medics see no reason to put him on to a ventilator. His vital signs are beginning to perk up and Clemmie’s mum has been talking to him on Skype.
‘That matters,’ Malo says. ‘Once you’re on the ventilator, it’s fifty-fifty.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Half of them die.’
‘Christ.’
‘Exactly.’
I’m thinking about H, and I suspect Malo is, too. I tell him briefly about my conversation with Tony Morse, and to my slight surprise Malo immediately warms to the prospect of keeping his dad here in the flat.
‘Top idea,’ he says. ‘We’ll all muck in and Dad can boss us about. He’ll be better in no time. How many nurses, do you think?’
‘No idea. Two? Three? More?’
‘Brilliant. And do we get to choose?’
‘Choose? You mean some kind of audition?’
‘Of course. The Asians are the real lookers. There’ll be a couple of them, at least.’
I shake my head, and nod at the screen. Too much GTA has obviously rotted my son’s brain, and I’m about to launch into one of those mumsy lectures about the need to respect women when Malo lifts a finger.
‘Listen,’ he says. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘Hear what?’
He shakes his head, his finger still erect, and then – very faintly – I hear it, too. The muffled sound of a cough. From next door.
NINE
I’m awake most of the night, listening out for H. The coughing comes in fits and starts, the kind of dry rasp that fails to dislodge anything but gets progressively more irksome. I doze off around four in the morning and surface at dawn, feeling guilty. Malo has lent me his dressing gown, a Christmas present from Clemmie. It’s the deepest scarlet with a black Harley-Davidson on the back and is much treasured by my son. I slip it on and go next door. H is still coughing.
‘How are you?’
I’m standing in the thin grey light, peering down at the bed. H can barely raise his head.
‘Not good,’ he manages.
‘Headache?’
‘Yeah, but the cough’s worse. My chest’s on fire. Bloody hurts.’
He’s right. His chest is hot to my touch and when I manage to get him to sit up, his back is the same. Covid, I think. For sure.
‘We need help, H,’ I tell him. ‘Ibuprofen can only take you so far.’
‘Yeah? Like what kind of help?’
I tell him about Tony Morse’s offer. At a sensible hour, I’ll give him a ring, see how he’s getting on.
‘No hospital?’
‘No hospital.’
‘That’s a promise?’
‘It is. For now.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Never say never.’ I bend low and tuck him in. ‘Isn’t that what you always told me?’
He seems relieved. His face stares up at me and every time he coughs, he winces with the pain. He’s breathless, too, like a man with important news to impart. Help me. Make this thing stop.
‘The funeral.’ He tries to swallow. ‘We’ve gotta be there.’
‘No, H.’
‘Yes.’
‘But you’re infectious. You’ll put everyone else at risk. Think of the others.’
‘Fuck the others. Why aren’t you wearing a mask?’
Good question. The truth is I haven’t got one and neither has Malo, but I packed a couple of silk scarves in my bag and I leave H for a moment to tie one round my lower face. It smells of Chanel No. 5, another life.
When I get back, H is up on his elbows.
‘Bank robber,’ he grunts between coughs. ‘Wild West.’
I’ve brought him a glass of water. He sips it greedily, then wipes his mouth. He wants us to talk about the funeral again. He has to be there. By now, I’ve had a chance to think this thing through. If Tony can lay hands on full medical care at once, so much the better. If he can’t, I have another proposal.
‘Are you listening, H?’ I settle on the bed, reach for his hand.
‘Go on.’
‘You need to give me all your contacts, all the people you’ve talked to about Dave’s funeral.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I need to talk to them, too.’
‘Saying what?’
‘Stay away. Leave Dave in peace.’
‘You mean fucking Cynth.’
‘Same thing. If you do that for me, give me the contact numbers, I’ll sort everything out.’
‘There’s nothing to sort.’
‘There is, H. None of this is normal. Listen to the news. Three and a half thousand people have died already, and it’s going up by seven hundred a day. At this rate, we’ll all be dead by Christmas. Do you really want that?’
‘You’re kidding. Don’t believe all this government crap.’
‘But it’s true, H.’ I edge a little closer. ‘If you give me the numbers, I’ll drive you up there tomorrow, just you and me, safe distance, quarantine on wheels. At least you’ll get to say goodbye.’
‘Just me?’
‘Just you.’
He’s gazing up at me, frustrated, and angry, and hurt. He wants to shake his head, tell me I’m crazy, tell me I’ve no right to barge into his past like this, but already the virus has robbed him of the energy to put up any real fight.
‘I’m fucked,’ he whispers. ‘My phone’s on the floor there.’
I make the calls at eight in the morning. The list of names is shorter than I’d imagined, barely a dozen, and most of them are still in bed when I get through.
At first, I go on far too long about H being ill, and Cynthia wanting a little peace and quiet, and the responsibility we all have to mark Dave’s passing with a bit of respect by staying away. To sweeten the pill, I throw in the promise of a get-together down at Flixcombe once all this madness is over. Stella, I say. Guinness. Whatever. Fill your boots.
This sparks t
he odd grunt of approval but by the time I’m in the middle of H’s list, it’s beginning to dawn on me that most of these people aren’t that bothered. Unlike H, they’re not tied hand and foot to past glories. It was good fun, they earned a quid or two, led the Filth a dance, and had some great times in between. Three of them, unprompted, remember the weekend they all descended on Disneyland Paris, spray-painted Big Thunder Mountain, gave Mickey Mouse a seeing-to and spent three nights in a Paris police cell before being deported. Another – Mick Pain – sweetly asks me to give his best to Cynthia, whom he remembers as being a bit of a looker in the day. Only Wesley Kane shows any real signs of disappointment.
‘Shame,’ he grunts. ‘I was looking forward to it.’
‘Any particular reason?’
‘Yeah, Dave once grassed me up. He always thought I didn’t know, but I did. Anyone else, he’d have had big trouble coming, but there was something about that guy I never quite worked out.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like how fucking nice he was. I blamed the happy pills to begin with, but I think it was his nature. Some people are born to be funny. I’d set out to give him a slapping and he’d end up making me laugh like a drain. That’s fucking clever, know what I mean?’
I tell him I do, and when he wants to know more about H, I spare him the details.
‘Not well,’ I tell him. ‘Gotta go.’
‘Don’t.’
‘I’m sorry?’ There’s something new in his voice that I don’t much like.
‘We need to meet.’
‘Why?’
‘H’s idea. Give me a ring later, yeah? He sounds rough, by the way. Really rough.’
I’m about to ask him what any of this might be about but he’s ended the call. This disturbs me somewhat. H has obviously got to Wesley before I did, but why?
It’s mid-morning before I get through to Tony Morse. A courtesy call to Cynthia has left her very relieved indeed, and when I tell her that there’s just a possibility that H might still turn up, heavily chaperoned by yours truly, she doesn’t seem to mind. H and I are very welcome to be there in the car park. Just as long as the rest of the gang don’t come with us.
My last call finds Tony Morse in a queue outside his local branch of Tesco. His stash of drinkable reds has shrunk to a couple of bottles and he’s badly in need of resupplies.
‘Negligence or thirst?’
‘Desperation, mostly. Are you sitting down?’
‘I am.’
He wants to know about H. Not good, I tell him. Everything I know about this bloody virus tells me he’s got it.
‘OK. You want the good news first?’
‘Please.’
‘I’ve laid hands on a respiratory consultant. He happens to be Chinese, a Mr Wu, but I know how much you love irony.’
‘Can he come and check H out?’
‘Happy to. He’s also given me the name of a nursing agency he uses. I phoned them an hour ago. If H is as bad as he sounds, Wu wants three nurses at any one time. They’ll all do eight-hour shifts, so you’re looking at nine nurses every twenty-four hours.’
‘And oxygen? If H needs it?’
‘Wu is working on that. Prices have gone through the roof, as you might imagine, and it’s the same with most of the drugs.’
‘And this is the bad news?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘So how much are we talking?’
‘Wu wants two thousand upfront.’
‘This is some kind of call-out fee?’ I’m staring at the phone. ‘I could get a couple of dozen plumbers for that kind of money. More if they were Polish.’
‘He calls it a retainer. The two grand is a buy-in. Every house call he makes thereafter is another five hundred. He’ll also need you to sign a waiver.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Proof that H is refusing to go into hospital. Legally, it’s a sensible move. This man doesn’t want to be sued if he ends up with a death on his hands.’
‘Sued by who?’
‘You, probably. I told Wu that was unlikely, but in his position I’d be doing exactly the same thing.’
I nod. I’ve never ceased to marvel at the ease with which the professional classes feather their own nests, and here’s yet another example. Five hundred quid for a peek round H’s bedroom door? Outrageous.
‘And the nurses?’ I ask.
‘Fifty pounds an hour, plus expenses. I make that around four grand a day. About the oxygen and the tabs, to be honest, I’m clueless, but nothing comes cheap these days.’
Too right. This is the bill for keeping H alive, and I’ve been doing my best to resist calculations like these, but denial only takes you so far in life.
‘You’re probably looking at around seven thousand a day,’ Tony says helpfully.
‘And how long might all this last for?’
‘Worst case, Wu thinks five weeks. H may die, of course, but let’s hope he doesn’t. Do the math, and you’re looking at nearly a quarter of a million quid. Does H carry medical insurance?’
‘He might. I’ll ask.’
‘If so, you’ll need to check there’s no clause penalizing him for not using the NHS.’
‘He’ll love that.’
‘I bet. Listen, darling. I’m number one in the queue now, and the Tesco minder has his eye on me. Word is, there’s a crisis on the booze aisle. I can cover Wu’s fees for the time being, but you won’t be surprised when I tell you I need some kind of guarantee I’ll get that money back. Talk to H. He’s a resourceful man. I’m sure it won’t be a problem. Ciao, darling. Talk later, si?’
And suddenly he’s gone. I’m still looking numbly at the phone when Malo joins me in the front room. He’s been sitting with his dad, trying to cheer him up, but I can tell from his face that it hasn’t really worked.
‘Tell me he’s going to be all right, Mum.’ Malo sounds almost plaintive.
I try to muster a smile, and then give him a hug. In truth I can tell him no such thing. Instead, foolishly, I enquire where we might lay hands on £250,000.
‘For Dad, you mean?’
‘I’m afraid so. Sorting all this at home doesn’t come cheap.’
‘But a quarter of a million quid? You’re serious?’
‘Yes.’
‘Shit.’
‘Exactly.’
H gets steadily worse as the day goes on. I try and have a sensible conversation, chiefly about Wesley Kane, but H is racked by the coughing and finds it near impossible to talk. When I mention the money we’ll need to find, he rolls his eyes.
‘Anything,’ he says. ‘I’ll pay any fucking price.’
‘Do you have health insurance, by any chance?’
‘No. No fucking need. I’ve been battered. This is horrible. I can’t breathe any more. I’m suffocating. Just make this stop.’
I nod and leave the room. A call to Tony, with yours truly close to panic, brings Mr Wu to the door within the hour. He phones ahead to announce his imminent arrival, and Malo and I stand at the window, watching him park his car across the road. According to Malo it’s a top-of-the-range Lexus, which must prove that every Covid cloud has a silver lining.
Wu gets out and opens the boot with his key fob. He’s tall and slim, and looks much younger than I’d anticipated. He has PPE sealed in plastic – over-trousers, scrubs, mask, visor, surgical boots – and he dons the lot on the pavement beside the car. Then he pulls on a pair of surgical gloves, retrieves a sizeable cardboard box and a leather briefcase from the back of the car and sets off across the road.
I send Malo down to let him in and await their footsteps on the stairs. Already, this feels like a visitation from a distant planet and, looking back, the sight of Mr Wu crossing the road in his PPE gear was the moment everything began to spool out of control. He’s come to banish the plague, I think. Next, he’ll be daubing a cross on the door.
‘Ms Andressen?’ Perfect English, barely accented, accompanied by a formal bow. Then he nods at the cardb
oard box that Malo has carried up from the street. ‘Masks, Ms Andressen. And surgical gel. And PPE for both of you. Please wear it all times when you’re in contact with Mr Prentice.’
Mr Prentice. With a slight shock, I realize he’s talking about H.
‘Of course.’ I’m watching Malo unpack the contents of the box. ‘Very sensible.’
Malo and I robe up in the front room. Mr Wu is meticulous about making sure that every item of PPE is adjusted the way it should be, circling each of us carefully, peering especially hard at the fit of the mask and the plastic visor. The last time I had this degree of attention was an RSC production of Twelfth Night at Stratford. Playing Olivia was never really to my taste, but the costume certainly helped.
Mr Wu is happy. Next, he takes us into the kitchen and stands beside the sink, watching us while we wash our hands. First, soap. Then, gel. Malo, in particular, is impressed. When he catches Mr Wu taking a look round, he tells him about my recent efforts with the bleach.
‘I know.’ Mr Wu’s voice is muffled behind the mask. ‘I can smell it.’
A vigorous nod suggests he’s pleased but my little moment of glory is short-lived. Should H have contracted the virus, Mr Wu will be insisting on something called ‘deep-cleaning’ daily. For a brief moment I’m trying to work out whether I have enough bleach left, but it turns out he has a specialist firm in mind. It will be £550 a visit. Nearly four thousand pounds a week. Another expense.
I take Mr Wu in to meet H. He does his best to offer a limp handshake, but even this is beyond him. Mr Wu stands over the bed, gazing down. A series of questions elicit a nod, or a shake of H’s head, before Mr Wu’s fingertips explore H’s glands and he has a peer down H’s throat. A stethoscope check comes next, chest and back, before Mr Wu takes H’s temperature. The reading on his thermometer steadies at 105 degrees Fahrenheit.
Finally, our visitor produces three testing kits and asks H to open his mouth for the swab. After that, the same swab goes up his nose. The stick sealed in an airtight tube, Mr Wu makes a note of the time and the date, plus H’s name. The other two swabs are for us. These, he explains, will go to a laboratory in Southampton. The motorbike is waiting outside in the street as we speak. Malo heads for the stairs to hand the samples over while Mr Wu shepherds me back to the front room, carefully closing H’s bedroom door behind him. Having the swab at the very back of my throat has left me feeling slightly nauseous.
Intermission Page 8
