by Eva Glyn
I tried to focus on Megan’s easy breathing beside me but the image was so strong I knew it was real. With such devastation, how could the tree have survived, so close to the top of the steep bank up from the Hamble? It had never felt exposed with the woods all around it, but with a great wind ripping and roaring up the river, it would surely have had no chance. But I had to find out for sure.
I said nothing to Megan as I worked my last weekend taking the trailer back and forth to Watergate and my last Saturday in the shop. It was very quiet – I guess a lot of weekenders’ plans had been put off by the weather. On Monday I helped Megan sort out and mark-up stock for the end-of-season sale in virtual silence.
Megan never knew how close she came to the truth when she accused me of being away with the fairies but she gave me the opening I was looking for.
I put down the pile of shirts I was carrying and took hold of her hands. “I sorry. I’m so worried about what’s happened back home. I’m going to have to see for myself.”
She nodded. “That’s understandable. When are you thinking of leaving?”
“Tomorrow.”
She never asked if I would be coming back, and I never told her I wouldn’t. The weather was awful so she lent me some waterproofs from the shop. I felt bad about those for a long while, until someone made me understand that perhaps Megan knew, after all, that they were a parting gift.
Chapter Sixteen
Izzie
On Boxing Day morning, Claire and her friend Sasha want to go to Winchester for the sales. Early. Very early. I buy them breakfast at Caffè Nero then leave them to shiver in the queue outside Next. Thick tights or not, their skirts seem impossibly tiny for this time of year. What are they thinking?
Perhaps I’d rather not know. I escape down a side street towards the cathedral.
Inside, the world is muffled. A few worshippers thread their way through the unmanned pay stations to morning prayer, but I’m not here to join them. Instead, I study the parish notice board and amongst the posters for carol services and Christmas appeals I strike gold: the Winchester Churches Nightshelter is not far away in Jewry Street. I fight my way back through the bargain-hunters but once I am outside the red brick building I hesitate. What will I say if I find him?
I need not have worried. There is hardly anyone around but the volunteer who answers the door tells me she worked a fair bit in the run-up to Christmas and has never seen Robin, or anyone vaguely fitting his description. She suggests I try Hyde Street Hostel instead.
Hyde Street has an air of being a little more open. A man in overalls is painting the inside porch and just beyond him is a window with Reception etched onto the glass. The woman sitting on the other side slides it across when she sees me.
“Can I help you?” she asks, in a surprisingly posh accent.
“I’m looking for someone who might be staying here. He’s called Robin Vail. Very tall man, straggly hair and a beard.”
“I’m sorry, we can’t divulge details of our residents.” She folds her arms over her cashmere jumper.
“Whyever not?”
“They have a right to privacy,” the woman snaps.
“But he is one of your residents then?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
She draws in a sharp breath. “I was speaking hypothetically.”
But I know she wasn’t. “Can you at least pass on a message?”
“I told you, I was speaking hypothetically.” She enunciates each syllable as though I am too stupid to understand it.
“Oh for God’s sake. I’m his oldest friend and I want to help him.”
The woman slams the glass shut in my face and I explode. “You miserable old cow! Get off your high horse and think about people’s feelings for a change.”
I turn on my heel and march towards the door. The man in overalls leaps up to open it and I thank him.
“Try the hospital,” he whispers. “I heard he was taken there.”
Outside, I watch the exhaust plume behind a Mini waiting at the lights. Robin is ill. What sort of ill? I waver, but perhaps now he needs someone even more. I don’t walk straight to the Royal Hampshire; I go back to Caffè Nero, treat myself to a caramel latte, and phone them on my mobile to ask which ward Robin is on. Shawford; visiting three to eight. Easy.
Claire casts the die when she texts. She and Sasha have bumped into a friend from college and they want to go to her house for the afternoon. I offer to pick them up at five so I’ll have to come back to Winchester anyway. I go home. I have lunch. I wonder what to wear. In the end I decide not to change in case Claire notices. I don’t want to tell her about my search for Robin in case it all goes pear-shaped. I have a horrible feeling it will, but the last few days have made me realise that perhaps the way I behaved years ago is at least in part responsible for Robin’s predicament. I have to see if there’s anything I can do to put that right.
The thought keeps me going all the way to the hospital and then to the ward. The Christmas tree on the reception desk winks at me as I wait for a nurse to pass. I ask her where I can find Robin. If she is surprised that he has a visitor she doesn’t show it and I traipse after her almost to the end of the largest room on the ward.
There are green curtains with a horrible zigzag pattern around the bed and she peeps inside before pulling them part way back.
“Someone to see you, Robin, love,” she says.
He is propped on a mound of pillows, holding an oxygen mask over his face. His eyes flicker with surprise. He closes them.
“Would you rather I came another time?”
He pulls the mask away to speak and there is a ghost of a smile. “I thought I was hallucinating – I’m pumped so full of drugs I might be.”
“And we’re going to keep pumping them into you until you can breathe properly again, so you might as well lump it.” The nurse laughs as she pulls the curtain back around us and it makes me feel more comfortable.
I perch on the chair next to the bed.
“So, how are you?”
“Better than I was. Chest infection coupled with hypothermia. They’ve only just stopped checking to see if any of my toes have dropped off.”
He’s making a joke of it but my eyes fill with tears. This is so rubbish. I have to be strong.
“Thank you for coming, Izzie,” he wheezes. ”I meant what I said about hallucinating. I really thought I was.”
“I wasn’t sure you recognised me at the Buttercross.” The plastic digs into my fingers as I grip the edge of my seat.
“Soon as you walked into me; you haven’t changed that much.”
“It’s twenty years…” I venture.
“I know. What have you been doing all that time? You have a daughter? A husband?”
“I have a wonderful daughter, Claire, but her father died at the end of August.”
“Oh, Izzie, that must be so tough.”
“Well we’re through the worst of it now… first Christmas and all that. You’d know.” I bite my lip; should I have said it?
“First Christmas, first birthday, first anniversary – but you move beyond it, Izzie, really you do.”
Robin’s speech is becoming more laboured and he reaches for the oxygen mask.
“Am I tiring you?” I ask.
“A bit – but I haven’t had a visitor before. Makes me reluctant to let you go.”
He is speaking between gulps of oxygen. I want to touch his hand but the drip is in the way. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
He nods, and with the mask over his face, closes his eyes. I slip through the curtain and almost collide with a metal trolley stacked with cups. Apologising to the woman pushing it, I hurry away.
Chapter Seventeen
Claire is so full of her day that she doesn’t ask about mine and I’m glad. It’s not that I want to hide Robin from her, exactly; it’s just hard to come to terms with them co
lliding on the same page of my life.
I need to see Robin again before I come clean with Claire but I don’t know how to lie to her. I toss and turn most of the night but I’m saved when over breakfast she asks, somewhat tentatively, if I’d mind her going over to Sasha’s for tea and maybe even to sleep over if I won’t get too lonely. I don’t know why she worries but I assure her I’ll be fine and as it’s a nice, crisp day, suggest we go for a walk in the New Forest and have a pub lunch together first. It’ll be time away from this memory-ridden house – I can’t quite square the Robin thing with Connor’s ghost either.
If anything I’m even more nervous about my second visit to the hospital. After dropping Claire at Sasha’s I go home and this time I do get changed and put on a bit of makeup. Nothing dramatic: a nice embroidered T-shirt and cardigan over my jeans, with just a touch of mascara and lip gloss. I feel I should take Robin something but I don’t know what. I don’t know what he likes to eat these days, whether he reads, if there’s anything he needs. In the end I opt for a chocolate orange – pretty safe ground at Christmas.
It’s past seven o’clock when I reach the hospital. This time I find Robin’s bed without assistance but he doesn’t raise his head from the local free-sheet folded on his lap until I speak.
“Hello Robin. How are you today?”
In truth he seems better, but mainly because his beard is tidier and now his hair has been washed I can see it hasn’t lost its chestnut sheen.
“Izzie, it’s you. I didn’t look because every time I have, it’s been someone else.”
Something catches in my throat. Has he really been waiting for me to come since three?
“I had to drop Claire off at one of her friends’ first,” I explain. He smiles.
“Oh, no, I’m not saying you’re late – I just thought you’d changed your mind.”
“Not at all.”
I move the plastic chair closer to him and sit down.
“Well a lot of people would have. It’s not everyone who spends Christmas visiting a tramp in hospital.”
“I’m not visiting a tramp. I’m visiting a…” I pause, groping for the right words. “An old friend.”
He shakes his head. “It’s been such a long time.”
“Too long?”
“Well we can find out, can’t we? Or we can start again from scratch.” A pillow slides towards me as he eases himself up the bed.
“What, like we know nothing at all about each other? Like nothing ever… happened?” As I wait for his reply, to my shame I know which option I’d prefer. And Robin chooses it.
“It’s very nice of you to visit me, strange lady, but who are you?”
“Who…?”
“Name, rank, number… life story…” He says it as though he’s playing a game, but at the same time he is pulling his mask towards him.
“OK,” I say, “I’ll talk, you listen. And try to stay awake.”
As he takes a draught of the oxygen he raises his eyebrows. Whoever he is, I like this man.
“My name is Isobel O’Briain and I’m forty-four years old. I live in Bishop’s Waltham with my wonderful daughter, Claire. She’s almost seventeen and she’s studying for her A-levels at Peter Symonds. I’m a teacher myself – I work at Fareham College – everything from adult numeracy to A-level maths.
“I did a degree in pure mathematics at Bristol University then I moved to Southampton and worked selling office supplies for a while. Then I got on a teacher training course but I’d only been working for a year when I had Claire. We didn’t have much money so I went back to work as soon as I could but Connor – her father – was a musician so he worked irregular hours and between us and the crèche at the school it worked out fine.
“We moved to Bishop’s Waltham when she was eight and we’ve been in the house ever since. It’s a nice house, and we had a nice car and nice holidays…” I find my voice cracking. Oh God, why do I have to be so frigging weak?
Robin takes the oxygen mask away from his face. “I’m sorry, Izzie. I didn’t mean it to hurt. It was thoughtless of me; it must all be so raw.”
I try to stop my voice from shaking as I say, “Well, you’d know.”
“Yes, and I also know the pain doesn’t go on forever. You have to believe that – hold onto it. It took me too long to find out for myself.”
I bow my head. If only I’d understood back then.
“Come on,” Robin wheezes, “let’s think about something else. I couldn’t finish the crossword in the paper. Can you help me?”
The rest of the hour passes quickly. I leave Robin with his chocolate orange and promise I’ll be back the next day.
Chapter Eighteen
It’s more by luck than judgement that I find the right opportunity to tell Claire about Robin. Sasha’s mother drops her home just as I’m finishing my second cup of coffee and trying to come to terms with the thought of breakfast. She breezes into the kitchen and gives me a big kiss before her eyes lock onto the wine bottle on the table. It is three-quarters empty.
“Oh, Mum,” she says, “I hate thinking of you sitting here on your own all evening.”
“Don’t be silly. I had a couple of glasses on Boxing Day and there’s a couple left for tonight. And anyway, I wasn’t here all evening; I went out.”
She gapes at me. “Where?”
“Remember that tramp we saw before Christmas, the one I knew from years back? Well you were right, Claire. I did want to know what happened to him. And he’s in hospital.”
She leans against the work surface, biting her bottom lip as she processes the information.
“How did you find out?” she asks after a few moments.
“It wasn’t that hard. I just contacted a few of the hostels in Winchester and someone told me he’d been taken ill.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Pneumonia and hypothermia. He told me they’ve only just stopped checking none of his toes have fallen off.” I laugh, encouraging her to do the same.
“He’s got a sense of humour, then?”
“Claire, Robin is an articulate, intelligent man.” I stand up and open the bread bin. Time for some toast.
“Then why is he on the streets?”
“I don’t know.”
“Didn’t you ask him?”
I look up from cutting a thin, thin slice. “He’s on oxygen most of the time; it’s hard for him to talk. I didn’t stay long. But I’m going again; there’s no one else to visit him.”
“Oh, Mum, you are lovely. There aren’t many people who’d spend their Christmas break visiting a tramp.” It’s more or less exactly what Robin said.
Visiting is one thing but the next time I go in they’re thinking about discharging Robin and it’s hard for them to find somewhere for him to go. He doesn’t actually tell me this. There’s a nurse talking to him about it when I arrive and it’s clearly a problem; he can’t go back on the streets. Night hostels are apparently exactly that and with council departments more or less closed it’s difficult to see where the funding for anything else would come from.
After the nurse leaves, Robin and I talk about other things, but the ugly grey elephant looms large between us. I’ve bought him The Times and we struggle with the crossword together, failing miserably. I stop in a lay-by on the way home, and as I watch the dusk fall I wonder if I’m going to fail him miserably again.
If I was on my own I would have no hesitation in asking Robin to convalesce in my home, but it isn’t fair on Claire to expect her to live with a stranger, however temporarily. And I hardly know Robin now. What sort of man would I be bringing into close contact with my teenage daughter? It’s really too stupid to contemplate – and yet I am. A sunny, freckly Robin on the beach at Kimmeridge flashes through my mind – and then a monosyllabic depressive, unable to get up for work in the mornings, incapable of holding down his job.
I’m getting nowhere. The tip of my finger is sore from drawing figures of eight on the rough plast
ic of the steering wheel. I start the engine and make my way home.
I am in the kitchen making a cup of tea when Claire strolls downstairs.
“How was Robin today?”
“Improving all the time. They’re even beginning to talk about discharging him.”
She puts her head on one side. “Where do homeless people go when they leave hospital?” She’s studying sociology; I could have guessed she would be interested.
“It’s a problem. If they sent him back onto the streets he’d be ill again before you know it. I think the current plan is to wait for a space to come up in a care home where there’d be some council funding.”
“That sounds pretty grim.” She helps herself to a biscuit.
“It does, doesn’t it?”
“And there really isn’t anywhere else he could go? None of the hostels or anything?”
“I think they’re pretty inflexible.” I remember the woman at Hyde Street. “They’re just not geared up for people to be there during the day. Health and safety or something.”
Claire is wearing her outraged sixth-former face. “But that’s so wrong,” she exclaims. I nod.
“I know, and Robin’s really embarrassed about it too.”
“Why can’t he come here?”
I am open mouthed. “Claire, you’ve never met him and I haven’t seen him for twenty years; it would be inviting a stranger into our home.”
“But you’re going to see him every day…”
“That’s not the same.”
“Yes, but he can’t be a stranger anymore.”
“Claire, he is. I know nothing about him at all.”
“You’d find out if he was here. You said you wanted to.” There is challenge in her eyes.
“Not at any price. He could have a criminal record, be a drug addict… anything.”
