by Sara Barnard
There’s so much I want to ask before I have to leave and the door to this flat is closed on me forever. What comes out is, ‘Is it a nice care home?’
He gives me a funny look, but he answers. ‘Yes, it is. You’ll be able to visit, if that’s something you’d like to do.’
I nod. ‘Definitely. When will she go? Can I visit the hospital?’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘The stroke ward is open to visitors every day from 3 p.m. until the evening. If you call them with any questions, I’m sure they’ll be happy to help you.’ He gives a definitive nod, a dismissal.
‘OK,’ I say, dawdling. ‘Well, thanks.’
He nods again. I hesitate, take one last look around the room, and leave.
Thanks to work, I don’t get to go to the hospital until Thursday. I walk rather than get the bus, using the money I save to buy a tiny bunch of flowers for Dilys. It takes me nearly an hour, and I spend most of the journey thinking – and trying not to – about the last time I walked this route to the hospital. It was dark, then. Past midnight. I had a necklace and a bag of pills in my pocket. Today, flowers.
There’s building work going on at the hospital and I end up getting lost trying to follow the diversion signs. By the time I finally make it to the stroke unit, visiting hours are half over. I tell the woman on reception that I’m family, just in case it matters, and she tells me to go on through.
When I get to Dilys’s bed at the far end of the unit, by the window, I see that she’s asleep. I hesitate, then slide into the seat beside her, settling the flowers on the beside table. There are already a few different types of flowers there, which must mean she’s had a few visitors at some point. Good.
I’ve been sitting there for about five minutes, looking around the ward, trying not to think about how many hours of my life I’ve spent in hospitals, when Dilys opens her eyes. For a moment she looks at me, blinking, and I think with a shot of horror that she doesn’t know who I am, but then her face breaks into a wide, wonky smile.
‘Ah,’ she says. Just that.
‘Hi,’ I say, smiling back.
Her right hand lifts from the bed and flails in my general direction, so I take a hold of it and squeeze. ‘Ah,’ she says again, elongating it this time.
I swallow, trying to fight off my rising nerves. Graham had said the stroke had affected her communication, hadn’t he? Did he mean that she can’t talk at all?
‘I didn’t know where you were,’ I say, stupidly. ‘I was worried.’
She nods, her eyes on mine. She tries to speak again, but the words don’t come out coherently, and I have no idea what she’s even trying to say. She shakes her head in distress, closing her eyes.
‘It’s OK,’ I say. It’s not OK. ‘You don’t have to talk. I can talk enough for both of us.’
At this, she laughs. A short, happy bark. ‘You?’ she asks.
‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘I mean, like I said, I’ve been worried. And I missed you and Clarence. And, my God, Dilys, I’ve got so much washing to do now? It’s just piling up in my flat. I tried to get Graham to give me a key to your flat, but he said no. I think he thinks that I’m a chancer or something? Like, maybe I don’t even know you at all? So I thought I should come here and take a selfie with you, just to show him. That OK with you?’
Dilys laughs again, more softly this time. She looks so small in the bed. Small and old. She never looked old to me before, not like she does now.
‘Hur,’ she says. The word is round and breathy, meaningless to me.
‘Hair?’ I guess. ‘Your hair looks fine, considering. But I can put it up for you or something, if you want?’
She sighs, shaking her head.
‘Maybe next time,’ I say. ‘Look, I brought these.’ I lean over and lift up the flowers. ‘Sorry they’re small.’
She smiles. ‘Buh,’ she says. ‘Buh.’
‘I thought so!’ I say. ‘Small, but beautiful.’ I look at her. ‘Tell me if I’m translating you wrong. Can we agree on a noise that you can make if I’m wrong?’
Dilys gives me a look then, piercing and unmistakable.
‘All right, sorry,’ I say. ‘No special noises. Is Clarence allowed to come and visit? You must miss him.’
She touches her heart, nodding, then makes some kind of gesture with her fingers I can’t interpret.
‘I don’t know what that means, sorry,’ I say. ‘Graham says he’s looking after him?’
Dilys makes the gesture again, nodding insistently.
‘Oh, hey,’ I say, pulling out my phone. ‘You can type it for me, right?’ There’s a message on screen from Matt, but I click away from it and open the Notes app. ‘Here.’
I lean over and hold the phone up in front of her, watching as she squints at the screen, then back at me.
‘It’s a phone,’ I say slowly. She scowls at me and pinches my thumb. ‘Ow! OK, fine! I was just saying!’
Dilys jabs at the screen for a few seconds, then stops. I turn the phone so I can see. Will visit care home.
‘OK, cool,’ I say. ‘Not long, then. How are you feeling about going there?’
She takes her time over this response, tapping and then pausing, tapping and pausing. When I’m sure she’s done, I look. Sad.
‘I’ll visit,’ I say. ‘Every week, if you want.’
She reaches for the phone, and I hold it up for her. No washing.
‘No washing,’ I confirm. ‘Just you and me.’
Music.
‘I can bring my guitar?’
She nods insistently.
‘And flowers every time.’
Dilys touches my hand, then her heart. ‘You,’ she says. ‘You.’
‘No flowers?’
She shakes her head, smiling. ‘You.’
‘Hello.’ A cheery voice comes from above me, and I look up to see a nurse standing there. ‘A new visitor for you, Dilys?’
I glance at Dilys in time to see her beam and nod. She’s proud, I realize, and my chest tightens for a moment.
‘Visiting time is over, I’m afraid, my love,’ the nurse says.
‘OK,’ I say, getting to my feet. I smile at Dilys. ‘So, I’ll come and see you once you’re at the care home, yeah?’
She nods. ‘You.’
‘Me,’ I say agreeably. I swing my bag up over my shoulder. ‘Bye.’
The nurse seems friendly, so I dawdle behind her on the way out of the ward until she turns to look at me. ‘Can I help you?’ she asks.
‘I was just wondering about Dilys,’ I say. ‘Can you tell me what’s actually wrong? Like, why she can’t speak and stuff?’
‘The stroke has affected the muscles in her face and throat,’ the nurse says. ‘It will make communication more difficult for a while, but it won’t be forever.’
‘It won’t?’
‘Oh, no.’ She smiles kindly at me. ‘That’s the sort of thing that will get sorted out as part of her rehabilitation.’
‘How long will that take?’
‘It may be weeks, but more likely a few months.’ The nurse looks over at someone on the other side of the hall and nods. ‘Just on my way,’ she calls. To me, she adds, ‘You might like to take some information about stroke and recovery with you?’ She points to the desk, which is covered with pamphlets and leaflets. ‘Take care, now.’
I gather up a few obediently and make my slow way out of the hospital, taking a longer route to the exit so I don’t have to pass A&E and deal with whatever memories it would throw up in me. I wait until I’m outside before I take out my phone to read the message from Matt.
Hey, I’ve been booked to do a last-minute gig in Hastings this weekend. Just as a support act, but it sounds cool. Wondered if you wanted to come? If you’re free?
I smile down at my phone, leaning against a stone pillar outside the hospital.
Me:
Congrats! When is it?
Matt:
Saturday night! Club called the Cliff. I can put you on the list?
Sure, just let me know.
Is Kel going?
No, he doesn’t usually travel for my gig stuff.
Is that OK? Would you mind being on your own?
On my own with you? No ☺
I’m not actually working at 8 a.m. My shift doesn’t start until noon, but I don’t want him thinking I’m going there to stay over with him. I like the easy flirting thing we have going on over WhatsApp, and I want to tease that out over longer than just jumping into bed with him at the first opportunity.
The last train back to Brighton leaves Hastings not long after eleven, so I’d have enough time to watch his set, talk to him afterwards, maybe kiss a little and then leave to go home. Perfect.
There’s a question in my head, just a quiet one, pointing out that Hastings is a long way to go just to see a boy for a couple of hours, that there are plenty of boys in Brighton, and what makes this one so special? But it’s easy to ignore, and the feeling in my chest at the thought of seeing him again – and knowing that he wants to see me – is far more persuasive.
I have the day off on Saturday so I head to Hastings early. It’s windy and cold and the beach is deserted, which makes me happy. I pull my hood up and hunch myself down on the pebbles, looking out to sea and daydreaming about dark-haired boys and guitars.
When it’s almost eight, I take off my comfy, beloved Vans and replace them with heels before I head for the Cliff. I’m wearing a black dress and tights together with a chunky silver necklace and my leather jacket, which was a present from Sarah for my sixteenth birthday and is my favourite piece of clothing ever. I feel good. I know I look good. I can’t keep the smile off my face.
The club is bigger than I’d expected, with an upstairs bar and dance floor. The gig is downstairs and the space is already pretty full when I get there. I get a drink and make my way into the crowd, shaking off the attention of a couple of guys who try to get me to stand with them, settling myself a couple of metres back from the stage. I’m close enough for a good view, but with the buffer of other people so I won’t look too keen. I’ve timed it perfectly, because Matt comes onstage only a few minutes after I’ve found my spot.
He looks good, even allowing for the fact that being onstage makes everyone look instantly hotter. He’s all in black – I make a mental note to make a Johnny Cash reference to him later – and he’s smiling. The first song in his short set is a cover and I settle into it, but I can’t quite lose myself like I usually would. I’m very aware of the audience, which is paying him only the barest amount of cursory attention.
Most people don’t care about support acts, me included, but I’ve never thought anything of it before now, standing amongst a disinterested audience watching Matt, sweet Matt, trying his hardest on an empty stage. I wonder if it’s as lonely up there as it looks.
His eyes, wandering over the crowd as he sings, land on me as he launches into the bridge of his second song, and his whole face lights up. That’s what happens; an instant transformation from his onstage smile to genuine, delighted recognition. A mix, I think, of being happy to see me specifically and being happy to see a familiar face. I’ll take that. I smile back.
After half an hour, he gives a final wave to the crowd – the applause is fairly enthusiastic, considering – and disappears backstage. I dither for a moment on the spot – already the crowd is beginning to grow as people start to claim their territory for the main act – and then head for the bar.
My dithering costs me valuable seconds and I end up in a queue. In the few minutes it takes me to get to the front, three different guys ask me if I’m on my own and offer to get me a drink.
‘Are you on your own?’ I ask the third one, when it’s starting to get too irritating to let pass.
He looks surprised. ‘No? Of course not.’
‘Why do you think I am, then?’
I’m not using a friendly voice, but still he smiles, like he thinks I’m flirting. ‘Aw, you know what I mean. You got a boyfriend?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘He’s the bouncer.’ Which gets rid of him.
When I finally get to the bar, I get two drinks. Even if Matt doesn’t appear for a while, at least no one will assume I’m ‘on my own’ if I have a drink in each hand. I sip and wait, watching the crowd, thinking idly about mixers and why it’s normal to have Coke with vodka and not Dr Pepper or Fanta. Who makes decisions like that? And how come we all just go along with it?
And then there’s Matt suddenly in front of me, a huge smile on his face. ‘Hey!’ he says. ‘You came!’
I smile back – it’s probably more of a beam, but I can’t quite contain it – and hold his drink out towards him. ‘Of course I did! Here.’
‘You are a goddess,’ he says, taking it. ‘I should be buying you the drinks.’
‘This is for playing a great set,’ I say. ‘You can get the next one. Deal?’
He grins. ‘Awesome. Was it actually great, though? Be honest. It didn’t exactly set the club on fire, did it?’
‘Well, I thought it was great,’ I say. ‘And my opinion matters most.’
‘Fair,’ he says. ‘You look gorgeous, by the way.’
Another beam. God, try and control yourself, Watts. ‘Thanks.’ But he looks so good. And the way he smiles is so … I take a long, cooling sip of vodka and Coke. ‘What’s the main act like?’
Matt shrugs. ‘They’re OK. Do you want to stay and listen?’
‘Is there an alternative?’
‘We could go upstairs and talk in the bar,’ he suggests.
I do want to do that, but I also want to exercise a bit of self-control. ‘Maybe stay for one song?’ I say. ‘Just so I know what they’re like?’
He nods. ‘Sure. How’ve you been? It seems like ages since I saw you.’
I end up telling him about Dilys. I don’t plan to, but it spills out. I tell him about her being gone after I got back from a few days away – I don’t tell him exactly why I was away – and then Graham being in her flat, and eventually seeing her in hospital. I tell him about her music room and how she wants to give me a ‘classical education’.
He listens, his head leaning slightly towards mine so he can hear me over the noise of the club, a slight frown of concentration on his face. When I’m done, he says, ‘How do you actually know her?’
‘She’s my neighbour,’ I say.
‘And like a grandmother?’
‘Not really,’ I say, meaning to say that she’s more like a friend, but I stop myself because it sounds stupid even in my head. Dilys is in her seventies. ‘Yeah, I guess so. I don’t really know what that’s actually like, though, because I never knew my grandparents. And she doesn’t have grandchildren, so she wouldn’t know either. She’s just Dilys.’ I correct myself. ‘Not just. Forget the just. She’s Dilys.’
He smiles. ‘Well, she sounds cooler than my grandparents. Mine don’t really get the music thing. I think they’d rather I had a proper job.’
‘Proper is overrated,’ I say. I have to raise my voice because the lights have gone down and the roar from the audience has increased in compensation.
Matt and I look at each other and smile, shrugging. Conversation over. I turn to face the stage and he steps in closer to me as the crowd sways forward, close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him. When the band starts playing and that unique electricity that comes from live music buzzes through the room, tingling my skin, Matt touches his lips to the back of my neck and I feel like I’ve come untied. I want to turn and face him, but I know what will happen if I do, and I want to tease it out just a little longer. I wait through the whole song, squeezing his hand as it finds mine, smiling when I take a second to glance back at him.
When the song ends, I turn. He mouths, ‘Upstairs?’ and I nod.
We drink, we talk, we laugh. I miss my train. I don’t care.
We are tangled together in a booth in the co
rner of the upstairs bar. His hands are in my hair, he is kissing me so deeply it is sending shockwaves through my whole body. I am half on the booth seat, half on his lap.
I’m pretty drunk. So drunk, in fact, that I don’t even remember that I’d decided earlier that I would not get carried away, I would not do anything more than kiss Matt Sheffan. I want to do a lot more than kiss him. And there’s no question that he wants to do a lot more than that with me.
At some point, we leave the club. I don’t think I’ve even danced. We stumble down the road, pausing every few steps to lock together again. He kisses me against the wet glass of a bus shelter, his whole body hot against mine. We make it to his hotel, tumble into the lift, and stop. We smile at each other. He lifts a hand and runs his fingers so, so gently down my cheek.
The doors ping open and he takes my hand, leading me down the corridor. It occurs to me that at no stage have either of us actually talked about this out loud. Just, somehow, here we are, falling into his hotel room, the door slamming shut behind us. He doesn’t even turn the light on. The wall is at my back, his hands are at my waist, his fingers slipping under my dress. I curl my hand into the front pocket of his jeans and he groans into my mouth.
‘OK,’ he says. ‘OK, I need you.’
He steps backwards and pulls me with him towards the bed, turning us both at the last second so I fall beneath him, the mattress soft and yielding at my back. I pull off his shirt, he does the same with my dress. His hand slides under my back and unclips my bra with a skill I register as a bit too good even through my drunken state of bliss, and then his jeans are off, his hands are on me, I’m arching my back, he’s between my legs, his mouth is at my neck, and then we’re moving together, his fingers pressing against my skin, his breath in my ear. We’re a tangle of sweat and skin and clothes and drunk and sex.
This wasn’t what I’d planned. This isn’t what I should be doing. I close my eyes and pull his body closer.
I wake up to find I’ve been sleeping on my bra strap. I don’t even need to look into a mirror to know the clasp has left a mark on my face. Trying not to make a sound, I lift my head and glance over to the other side of the bed, where Matt lies asleep under the rumpled covers, sprawled on his back, mouth open.
