By Bread Alone

by Sarah-Kate Lynch

  “There’s no need to look at me like that,” Granny Mac said croakily. “You don’t need to call MI5 just because I took an extra twenty winks. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, you know.”

  “I’d better call in sick,” Esme said, hopping around in her grandmother’s room trying to get a pair of opaques on. “I can’t leave you at home like this and Pog has a huge meeting with the Germans so he can’t stay home either.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Granny Mac said, leaping out of bed in a fashion very sprightly for someone whose batteries were running out. “I’m not at home ‘like this’ or any such nonsense. Now leave me alone to get dressed.”

  The kitchen, to Esme’s relief, was a relative oasis of calm, with Henry quietly feeding the boys their breakfast. He gave his daughter-in-law the barest of glances.

  “You’ll be out again this evening, I take it,” he said in his clipped way.

  “Who, me? No,” Esme said, shoving a bit of bread in the toaster and attempting to run her fingers through the bird’s nest that was her hair. She poured not quite boiling water onto a tea bag in a dirty cup and, sipping it down, peered at the calendar on the refrigerator.

  “Oh, shit,” she said, then bit her lip because Henry hated her swearing in front of the boys and even if he didn’t, she shouldn’t do it anyway. “I forgot. I said I would go to Ridge’s parents night with Alice tonight.” Ridge was not terribly academic or sporty or charming and Alice hated going to meet the teachers on her own. Esme had promised she would go with her and wouldn’t think of pulling out.

  She didn’t need to look at Henry to know he was glowering at her and reached into her bag for her diary, flipping it open to the day’s date. She had a lunch with the executives of a major hosiery manufacturer on the brink of placing an advertising contract with Apparel, then she had page proofs to check for Smoke, her fortnightly meeting with Sebastian and the official opening of the Baker test kitchen at four. It was going to be a difficult day.

  Teddy smiled at her from his high chair and blew a snot bubble out of his nose, which gave Esme what she realized in retrospect was probably the last truly happy moment of her life. A snot bubble.

  She got up, kissed both her sons on their curly ginger heads and turned to Henry. “Could you keep an eye on Granny Mac for me?” she said in as low a voice as she could afford for fear her grandmother would hear her. “She seems a bit off . . .”

  Henry spooned porridge into Teddy’s open rosebud mouth. “There are homes for people like your grandmother,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said, “homes like this one.”

  Henry harrumphed and Esme bristled but then reminded herself that he was just a lonely old man who needed love and attention like anyone else.

  “Please,” she said, appealing to the good nature she was sure he must have but kept so well hidden. “I’ll take tomorrow off and see if I can trick her into going to the doctor but today I just need your help a bit more than usual.”

  “You’re taking me for granted,” Henry said. “And I don’t much care for it.”

  Esme pulled a run in her tights, which she had been straightening, in frustration. This was the man who had begged to be able to look after his grandsons? Who thought at home with their elders was the best place for them? He really was impossible.

  “I’m sorry,” she smiled sweetly. “It won’t happen again. Tomorrow, I promise, I’ll make up for it.” A crack of thunder ended the conversation and she swore quietly to herself again as she looked out the new (unpainted, handleless) glass doors at the courtyard, where fat raindrops were pinging hysterically off the tiles.

  Pog trampled down the stairs, his floppy hair still wet and his cheeks flushed as he nodded and listened to someone on the other end of his cell phone.

  “See you tonight,” he mouthed, rolling his eyes, and then kissed Esme on the forehead and went into the kitchen.

  “Bye, Granny Mac,” Esme called up the stairs, jumping from foot to foot as she waited for an answer even though she was now impossibly late.

  “Granny Mac? Are you—”

  “For God’s sake!” her grandmother roared, appearing around the corner onto the landing. “Will you get about your business and leave me be!” And she marched robustly down the stairs pushing Esme out of the way as she headed for the kitchen.

  Esme took a deep breath and opened the front door. Three burly builders with a kaleidoscope of differently tattooed biceps simultaneously blew full strength Marlboro smoke into her face but she just smiled, did her best to rise above it all and scuttled to the tube station, her umbrella blowing inside out on the way.

  The day passed in a blur. She hadn’t even had time, she realized as Shonel from the art department hurried her up about the test kitchen do, to go to the bathroom. It was five past four already and she was supposed to be making the key speech in ten minutes.

  “Come on,” Shonel urged her from the door, “everyone else is already there.”

  Esme took a quick glance at her phone before deciding—realizing more than deciding really—that her bladder needed attention before she checked in at home. She had picked the damn phone up half a dozen times to ring and check on her grandmother but had been interrupted on every occasion.

  “I’ll ring in the taxi,” she said to Shonel. “You go and grab one while I go to the loo. I’ll get kidney blowback at this rate.”

  Sitting in the back of the cab, Esme rummaged around in her bag, eventually finding her phone only to discover its battery was flat. “Oh, bollocks,” she said. “Shonel, can I borrow yours?” Her art director looked sourly at her boss then down at her own hairy legs and Birkenstock sandals.

  “They give you brain cancer,” Shonel said. “They’re worse than cigarettes.”

  Arriving at the test kitchen in Portland Street, Esme was immediately swamped by well-wishers, staff members and advertisers availing themselves of the free pinot gris, Irish cheese and freshly baked breads—sourdough not among them, she could tell, just by sniffing the air. She would have to talk to someone about that.

  “Is there a phone here?” she asked Jenny Gibson, a truculent teenager with a wicked feel for pastry whom she had taken on to help in the kitchen.

  “Not bleedin’ likely,” Jenny answered her. “You try telling British Telecom you’re in a hurry and see how far you get.”

  “Shit, shit, shit,” Esme muttered before turning on her energetic smile and calling for everyone’s attention, the formalities about to begin.

  Afterward she grabbed a glass of wine from a passing waiter and, as she gulped desperately at it, happened to notice that a lanky-looking man dressed in black and looking very disinterested was slipping a phone into his pocket.

  “Excuse me,” she trilled. “Could I borrow that?” And before the greasy article could respond, she had whisked it out of his hand and punched in her home phone number.

  After eight rings it clicked on to the answering machine. Esme felt a clunk of worry in her stomach. She checked her watch. It was five thirty. The boys should be having their tea. Why was no one answering?

  She dialed the number again—still it rang and clicked on to the answering machine. Then she tried Pog but his phone was turned off, no doubt during his meeting.

  “Do you mind?” the lanky man asked her, reaching for his phone, which at that moment Esme realized was the same outdated model as her own. Despite the thumping of her heart, she smiled at him. “I’m sorry,” she said, clutching the phone as she slipped through the crowd and out the door, ignoring his surprised whining behind her.

  Hailing a taxi she jumped in and slipped his battery into her phone. She would get it back to him somehow. That wasn’t important. For a full minute she stared at the tiny LCD screen as her own phone flickered into life, telling her it was on, then telling her it had a signal and then, with a series of loud terrifying beeps, informing her that she had one, two, three, four, five, six messages.

  Shakily, Esme pressed the
button to reveal the contents of the first message. “Henry rang, please call home,” the first one read. “Henry says call home,” read the second. “Call home asap,” read the third, fourth, fifth and sixth.

  Esme felt the glass of warm pinot gris rise up in her stomach and hit the back of her throat. She tried to tell herself that probably nothing major was wrong but still she could not rid herself of the taste of fear. Her breathing quickened and she felt a film of sweat on her forehead despite the chill in the air.

  “Please,” she said as loudly as she could as she knocked on the cabbie’s window and dialed home again. “Please, could you go faster?”

  The phone rang eight times and clicked on to the answering machine again.

  “Henry,” she said, her voice sounding foreign and frightened. “It’s Esme. Are you there? Please pick up.” Her plea disappeared emptily into the phone. “I’m on my way home. I didn’t get your messages. I’m so sorry. Is everything all right?” Still, silence. “Is Granny Mac all right?” She bit her lip, wondering if the pounding of her heart could be heard on the tape. “I’m on my way. I’ll see you soon. I’m sorry, Henry.”

  The house in All Souls Road was still standing, which at least allowed Esme to breathe again as she threw a twenty-pound note at the cabbie and raced up the stairs to the front door.

  “Hello!” she shouted in the hallway. “Henry!” The kitchen was empty, as was the living room. “Granny Mac!” she called again, panic rising, as she saw the message light pulsing on the answering machine. Her words were getting swallowed in gulps of fear.

  “Henry,” she called again as she made for the stairs.

  “I’m up here.” His irritated voice bounced down the stairwell. “In the bathroom. Where the hell have you been?”

  His crotchetiness assuaged her panic. She felt the blood rush through to all its rightful places again. She breathed deeply as she pushed the half-closed bathroom door open.

  Henry was sitting on the edge of the bath holding a naked Rory wrapped in a towel on his lap. Before she could get any closer, the little boy heaved and Henry gently rolled him toward the lavatory, where he vomited a trickle of clear fluid into the bowl.

  “Oh, my poor baby,” Esme cried, kneeling beside them and kissing Rory on the foot that was the closest bit to her. “How long has he been like this?”

  “He’s been going at both ends since two o’clock,” growled Henry, and Esme looked at his wrinkled scowl but saw in his eyes that he was worried and scared, not cross. “I can’t imagine the poor devil has anything else to get rid of but it’s still coming.”

  Esme put her hand on Rory’s head; it was hot, but not dangerously so. His body was limp, and he opened his eyes to look at her but did not raise his head.

  “Where’s Teddy?” she asked.

  “With your grandmother,” Henry replied. “In her room.”

  “Should we take Rory to the doctor, do you think?” Esme asked her father-in-law. “Or the hospital?”

  “I rang the surgery,” Henry answered her. “And they said it’s just a virus. They’ve had a waiting room full of it for the past two days and it should pass in twelve hours. I expect Ted will get it, too.”

  A wave of guilt pulsed through Esme but she pushed it away. She should have been here. She should have rung the surgery. She should be worried that Teddy would get the bug, too.

  “Are you all right with him?” she asked, nodding at her poor sick son as she stood up.

  Henry shot her a look which she knew meant, “Haven’t I been up until now?”

  Esme’s relief that all was well was short-lived. The moment she walked into Granny Mac’s room it was clear that something was wrong. Her grandmother lay on the bed fully clothed but seemingly awake, and as Esme approached her, she did not move or even look her way.

  “Granny Mac!” Esme chided. But there was no response. And as Esme leaned over her she realized with horror that one side of her grandmother’s face had collapsed downward as though the puppeteer controlling her had gone off for a cup of tea and left her hanging from the back of a chair.

  “Granny Mac!” Esme cried again, this time taking her grandmother’s thin shoulders in her hands and pulling her slight body toward her own.

  Her grandmother gurgled and Esme held her tighter, too many terrifying thoughts crowding her mind. Why had she gone to work? Why had she ignored the warning signals? How could she have been so careless, so heartless, so selfish, so stupid? “Don’t leave me,” she whispered, rocking her grandmother awkwardly back and forward. “Please, please, please don’t leave me.”

  Granny Mac gurgled again, louder this time, and Esme, suddenly afraid she was hurting her and aware that she should be doing something other than holding her and pleading with her, lowered her back onto her pillow.

  “Eeggggghhhh,” her grandmother moaned, saliva drooling out the dropped side of her mouth. “Eeeegggghhhhyyyyyy.”

  “I’m going to call an ambulance,” Esme said as soothingly as she could yet she felt nothing but terror and turmoil. If Granny Mac died then she would surely die, too. “I’m going to get some help.”

  “Eeeegggghhhhh,” her grandmother groaned again, seemingly more agitated this time. “Eeeeeggggghhhhhy.”

  She fixed Esme with her bright black eyes and despite her incapacitated state held her granddaughter’s distraught gaze.

  “Egg,” she said almost clearly. “Eggy.”

  Ted, thought Esme. Teddy. She immediately started to pant and stood up. Where was Teddy? Her grandmother’s eyes were still fixed on her and Esme knew in that moment she had something to fear.

  Teddy was supposed to be in here with Granny Mac, Henry had said so. Idiotically, she looked under the bed.

  “Is he in here somewhere?” she asked, even though she knew her grandmother could not answer her. She checked the closet knowing that he probably wasn’t there either, and despite the dreadful feeling that she should not leave Granny Mac alone like this, she took one last look at her and stumbled into the hall.

  “Henry!” she called. “Have you seen Teddy?” She checked the twins’ bedroom, not allowing herself to fly into a fully fledged panic, then slipped out into the hallway again. Henry was standing in the bathroom door, still holding a floppy Rory, whose head was turned to look at his mother.

  “Teddy is not with Granny Mac,” Esme said. “I think she has had a stroke, Henry. When was the last time you saw her? What did she say?”

  “He’s not in her room?” Henry was confused. “I sent him in there, not long ago. Just before you came home. Are you sure?”

  Just before she got home. Esme breathed out. It hadn’t been long. He would be fine.

  “You check our room, I’ll check downstairs again,” Esme instructed. He may have slipped downstairs when she was in the bathroom with Henry or in with Granny Mac. Granny Mac!

  She leaped downstairs and picked up the phone, punching in 999 and asking for the ambulance service.

  “Thirty-nine All Souls Road,” she said, as she checked the cupboard under the stairs and the space behind the sofa where the boys often hid. “Morag MacDougall. She’s never been sick a day in her life but she seems sort of paralyzed and one side of her face isn’t working properly. Is that a stroke? I mean it sounds like a stroke. Do you think it’s a stroke? Will she be all right?” She was gabbling, she knew, as she moved back into the kitchen and checked the pantry. How would this woman on a headphone based in God knew where know if Granny Mac would be all right?

  “Thank you,” she said as the woman repeated the address. “How long—” but the words dried on her lips as she suddenly saw what she had missed before—that one of the paintless, handleless doors from the kitchen into the courtyard was slightly open. She dropped the phone and raced outside. There were lethal tools and probably dangerous poisons lying willy-nilly all over the place. A little boy could come to terrible harm out there.

  “Teddy!” she called, not noticing that the rain still fell hard and cold on and aro
und her. “Ted!” There were few places to hide and she knew the seven-foot-high brick wall around the garden was impenetrable. Where was he?

  She trod across the damaged lawn, mud sucking at her shoes, to check the shrubs and foliage around the perimeter. “Teddo!” she called as she pushed sodden branches out of the way. “Baby boy!”

  There was no sign of him. Thoughts of child molesters and kidnappers tried to niggle at her brain but she pushed them away. He must be somewhere. The front door was deadlocked. Henry’s room!

  She turned and ran as quickly as the sticky ground would let her back inside, sliding as she passed the fountain bowl on a bit of black polyethylene that had been draped over it and spilled down the side and across the ground.

  Henry was in the kitchen, still holding Rory, who was crying now, his face twisted with pain and distress.

  “Your room,” Esme said.

  “I’ve checked it,” Henry told her over Rory’s howling. “I’ve checked everywhere upstairs.”

  The doorbell rang, making him start.

  “It’ll be the ambulance,” Esme said, pushing past him and skating down the hallway to open the door. “She’s upstairs,” she told the two paramedics. “I’ll show you.”

  But then she stopped and spun around. “My son,” she said. “We can’t find him.” He wasn’t upstairs and he wasn’t downstairs. She turned again and started to lead the ambulance men up the stairs. Well, he must be outside. She stopped yet again. “She’s in the room at the end of the hall. On the left.” How could she leave Granny Mac alone with these men? Her grandmother would kill her. “Henry!” she called down the stairs, plainly distraught.

  “It’s all right,” one of the ambulancemen said, reaching for her arm and giving it a pat. “We’ll sort out your gran. You find the nipper.”

  Esme bounded down the stairs again, bumping into Henry, completely gray in the face now and still holding on to a roaring Rory as he emerged from the cupboard under the stairs.

  “I’ve checked there,” Esme said. “I’ve checked everywhere. I’ve looked in every nook and cranny and hiding place and hole I can think of. There’s nowhere outside he could be. Nowhere that we can’t see—”