by Eva Glyn
“You told me he was intelligent and articulate.”
“He is. I’m just not taking any risks with your safety, that’s all.”
“Hah! So if you were on your own you’d do it?”
I pass her tea and sit down. “Yes, I think I probably would. But I’m not. And that’s all there is to it.”
“Mum, will you just let me meet him?”
“It won’t change my mind, you know.”
“I’m not saying that. I guess…” She turns her mug in her hands. “I guess… I’m curious too.”
Chapter Nineteen
Robin is sitting in the chair next to his bed wearing a standard-issue striped hospital dressing-gown over an unmatched pair of pyjamas which don’t quite reach his ankles. They ride up even further as he struggles out of his seat to greet us. The ward feels unbearably stuffy and I loosen my scarf.
“Please excuse the uncoordinated manner of my dress. Beggars quite literally can’t be choosers and I haven’t had conventional nightwear in my wardrobe for quite some time.”
I don’t know where to put myself but Claire laughs out loud. “Mum said you had a sense of humour.”
“You must be Claire.” He puts out his hand and she shakes it. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”
To my shame, I find I am scanning his face for signs of lust.
I swallow hard. “How are you today?” I ask.
He beams at me. “Big improvement. I’ve hardly had to use my oxygen and the drip’s come out too. They’ve decided I’m well enough to take my medication in horse-sized tablets instead.”
Claire’s attention is caught by the newspaper on his bed. “You read The Times?”
“Only when your mother’s kind enough to bring it for me and even then I can’t say I’ve gone from one cover to the other; I sort of cherry pick.”
“So which bits do you like best?” She perches on the edge of the bed, close to his chair. I continue to hover.
“Well, let me tell you the bits I didn’t read – it’s easier. Sport, for a start, leaves me completely cold and the business news isn’t especially relevant to me either. Nor the court circular to be fair. But other than that it’s always useful to catch up with what’s going on in the world. Gives you a few conversational gambits when you’re lucky enough to have visitors. What do you think of The Times, Claire?”
“I prefer The Independent. They wrote an obituary for Dad. It was really weird reading it but I was very proud, all the same.”
“Your mum said he was a musician but I didn’t know he was a famous one.” He looks up at me and smiles.
“He wasn’t exactly famous but he was leader of the Bournemouth Philharmonic Orchestra and credited with developing concert programmes that made classical music accessible without dumbing it down.”
“Claire, you’re more or less quoting now.” I shift from foot to foot; I haven’t often heard her talk about Connor, certainly not in this way. Maybe she’s making sure that Robin knows he was a wonderful man. Maybe she’s warning him against stepping into Connor’s territory?
Robin’s gaze drops back to Claire. “Well it must be nice to have a father you can be so proud of.”
“What did your father do?” she pounces.
“I don’t know. I never knew who he was.” I am amazed at both his reply and his frankness. I am about to chastise Claire for her probing but I don’t want to appear an old harridan in front of Robin, and anyway, he changes the subject himself.
“So are you musical as well, Claire?”
“No. Dad did let me try his violin a few times when I was little but I couldn’t get the hang of it. He thought it was funny but Mum said I made a horrible noise.”
“You did too, Claire. All scratchy and—”
“Oh, hello Robin. I see you have visitors.” A woman clutching a buff-coloured file has materialised on the other side of his bed.
Robin turns to her, sounding uncertain. “Yes, I have. But… can I help you?”
“It’s me who’s going to be helping you, Robin. I’m Sylvia. I’m from social services and I’ve just been assigned to your case.”
A flush of colour rises up Robin’s neck under his beard. “I’m not sure why…”
“People in your position need support, Robin. We can’t just let you go back on the streets when you’re discharged.” Her voice is like treacle; I can see why it’s sticking in his throat.
“No, I’ll be fine… I’ll… work something out.”
“I’m afraid that isn’t an option.”
“Whyever not?” The sound of my voice surprises me, as does Claire’s thumbs up behind Sylvia’s back where only I can see.
“Robin is a vulnerable person.” Sylvia rolls the last words around her tongue with relish.
“In what way?”
She looks at me with pity. “He’s homeless.”
“No, he’s not.” It’s all I can do not to gape at Claire as she butts in. “He’s coming to stay with us.”
“Is that right?” Sylvia clutches the file in front of her as she looks to me for confirmation.
“Yes, yes it is.”
Robin reaches for his oxygen mask.
“Oh, well, in that case… I’ll just tell the discharge nurse on my way out.”
Claire turns and watches as Sylvia retreats up the ward. When Robin looks up he is trying not to laugh. “Thanks for getting me off the hook, but I won’t hold you to your offer.”
I want to ask him where he thinks he’s going to go.
As we’re walking past the ward reception one of the nurses stops me and thanks me for giving Robin somewhere to stay.
“It was getting to be quite a problem,” she explains. “And he’s such a nice man. None of us wanted to see him back on the streets again.” She puts her hand on my arm. “You really are a true friend.”
I smile and walk on.
As soon as we round the corner I turn on Claire. “Now look what you’ve done.”
She gives me her butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth look that used to twist her father around her little finger. “What do you mean?”
“Telling that social worker Robin was coming to us.”
“But she was awful, Mum. I thought I wanted to be a social worker, but if they’re all like that… sticking their noses in…”
“From what I’ve seen today you’re perfectly suited to it.”
She sticks her hands in her pockets. “I didn’t mean any harm. I just wanted to get her off his back.”
“Well you did that most effectively. But now where do you think he’ll go?”
“He’ll find somewhere… or… he could, you know…”
“Claire, grow up!” I don’t even wait for her to follow me down the corridor. I’m out of here.
Chapter Twenty
Given Robin sleeps in the car most of the way to Bishop’s Waltham, it was never likely he'd “hop out around the corner” as he so hopefully put it before we left the hospital. As we pull up in front of the house the living room curtains are open and the TV flickers in the grey afternoon. Just as Robin opens his eyes, Claire bobs up from the sofa and waves.
It takes every shred of energy Robin has to cross the drive, but instead of sitting in the lounge for a while he insists he’d be better off in bed. I don’t doubt it, but he only gets about a third of the way up the stairs before he loses his breath. I make him sit down and wait.
“I’m a pathetic old man, Izzie,” he grumbles. “What the hell have you taken on?”
“Oh don’t worry,” I tell him. “In a couple of days you’ll be running up them two at a time.”
He grunts. He’s probably too short of air to waste it replying to stupid remarks.
Claire and I move around the house like a pair of church mice until about six o’clock when Robin turns up in the kitchen. His clothes are respectable, if not particularly clean, and it seems tactless to offer to wash them straight away. I’d rather live with a faint tang of sweat than cause offense, and than
kfully Claire keeps her mouth shut as well.
I make spaghetti bolognese for tea and soon the scent of garlic and onions fills the kitchen. As I cook I pour myself a glass of wine, but Robin refuses to join me because of all the tablets he’s taking. It seems overly cautious and it makes me wonder how long his problems with drink continued. Claire plays the gracious hostess and offers him a cup of tea instead.
Robin eats as though he is savouring every mouthful. In hospital he was surprisingly talkative but the change of environment seems to have silenced him and I remember how he was in the latter part of our relationship. Is the good-natured Robin an accomplished act? I can see Claire is troubled by his manner too.
Once he has finished, Robin pushes himself to his feet and leans on the back of his chair. “I’d offer to load the dishwasher but I need all my energy to crawl up those stairs. I can’t remember feeling so bushed. I’m sorry.”
I am overcome by guilt for my less than charitable thoughts. Claire beams up at him. “That’s OK. The dishwasher’s my job. Mind you, I’ve got plenty of other chores I’d be more than happy for you to take on. Perhaps we can negotiate when you’re feeling up to it?”
Robin smiles back and wheezes. “Tomorrow you can give me a list.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Robin
I stared at the blue and white curtains, struggling to think where I was. I experienced a moment of waking, being unsure, then pure disbelief as I watched the honeysuckle clamber up and down the stripes. No, not drug induced. I was in Izzie’s house. If I listened carefully I could just hear her voice in the kitchen below.
I picked up my watch from the white melamine bedside table. 9:30 on December 31st. Izzie probably had plans for tonight. I needed to be on my way.
My feet landed on the softness of carpet but it didn’t help my legs to feel any more stable. I shuffled along to the bathroom like a geriatric and once I’d locked the door behind me, I had to sit on the toilet seat for some minutes just to catch my breath. Standing under the shower was too much and as I sunk into the bath I realised I wasn’t going anywhere today – or even maybe tomorrow.
It seemed to take forever to haul myself into my clothes, but Izzie was still in the kitchen, drinking a mug of tea.
“How are you feeling this morning?” she asked.
“Pathetic.” I slumped into a chair. “I wanted to be out of your hair today but it’s taken me half an hour just to get dressed.”
To my surprise she laughed. “Don’t you think that’s a tad ambitious?”
“I don’t want to be any trouble. Certainly not spoil your New Year’s.”
She stood up to fill the kettle. “Tea? Coffee?”
“Tea please.”
“And how would you like it?”
“White, no sugar please.”
“Bacon butty?”
My mouth was watering but I shook my head. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”
“I was going to make one for myself.”
My resistance crumbled and I smiled. “Go on then.”
“Do you still like ketchup?”
How on earth had she remembered?
I cradled my mug in my hands and watched as she moved around the kitchen. She hadn’t changed much over the years; I would have known her anywhere. Maybe the blue of her eyes was softer and of course there were lines around them now… The light from the fridge made a halo of her hair as she rooted around for the bacon and I wondered again if the drugs were making me hallucinate. I shook my head.
“What’s wrong?”
“I think it must be the tablets. I feel a bit lightheaded.”
“You’ll be better once you’ve eaten.”
Izzie was right – although eat and sleep was about all I could manage that day. Claire was going out with her friends but Izzie had no plans to see in the New Year. When I thought about it, I understood.
“I expect you’ll be glad to see the back of 2006,” I said.
“It’s been tough. An awful year. Worst one since… well, for a very long time.”
I nodded. “For me too. I… I lost someone as well.”
Izzie tried to cover her surprise but the speed with which she looked down at the table gave her away.
“Not in the same way you have,” I hurried on. “Not a life partner. But someone precious all the same.”
“Really?” Her voice was flat, her eyes full of her own sorrow. Perhaps… perhaps I could distract her.
“I don’t suppose you remember Jennifer?”
“Jennifer? The woman who lived by the fairy tree?”
I nodded.
She drew a circle in the crumbs on the table. “I didn’t realise… you kept in touch with her?”
“No. I went away. My mother died… anyway, eventually I came back. But it’s a long story… Perhaps for another time?”
“Tell me, Robin. Tell me when you came back.”
And so I did.
The train journey from Newquay to Southampton was disjointed. The closer I got to the south coast the worse the disruption became. I slept on the station at Salisbury then found a bus to Winchester, another to Eastleigh, then walked the rest of the way.
By the time I rounded the bend in the road by the Horse & Jockey it was every bit as bad as I’d imagined: not a tree left standing on the banks of the creek, just a mass of vegetation so tangled I’d have needed a machete to get near the fairy tree.
Instead I walked along the road. It was almost a week after the storm so the pavements were clear, but looking into the gardens I could see small trees and shrubs uprooted and in one place a garage roof had been ripped clean away. The lane next to Burridge Cricket Club was blocked so I walked across the pitch instead, and for the first time had a clear view of the top end of the wood. The damage here wasn’t so bad and there were still a number of trees standing. I couldn’t see whether the fairy tree was one of them.
I skirted along the edge of the field. Sometimes I had to make lengthy detours around fallen trees but eventually I reached a place where I should be able to see the fairy tree if it was still upright. I braced myself for the worst but there had been some sort of miracle and there it was, climbing from amidst the wreckage strewn around its base. I could see it had lost a branch, torn away by a stricken neighbour, but otherwise it seemed to be intact. I stood at the top of the wood for a long time, just staring at it.
A pheasant’s call reminded me I couldn’t stand there forever – it was mid-afternoon and I had next to no money – so where was I going to spend the night? I had a backpack full of camping gear and a wood full of fallen trees so I scrambled down the slope, past the thin ends of horizontal branches, and into the scrub below. The air was heavy with the sweetness of sap; every time I’ve split a log since I’ve remembered it.
Close to the fairy tree the tops of two beeches had crashed together in a massive tangle. I took off my rucksack and burrowed underneath. Progress through the labyrinth of branches was slow as I had to snap off twigs left, right, and centre. A few feet in, I found a gap which could be made just about big enough to sleep under, but when I rolled on my back it was clear that the shelter it would provide from any rain would be minimal. In a reversal of their normal uses, I stretched my waterproof groundsheet on top of the branches and used my tent to cover the crushed vegetation that had become my floor.
Having constructed a makeshift shelter, my next priority was food and drink. Daylight was fading fast and my way down to the Hamble was so blocked that I knew it was pointless even trying. I had a packet of biscuits in my rucksack but I was getting thirsty. I thought for a while then remembered seeing a cattle trough in the field. It was almost completely dark when I slipped out and filled my billycan. I came back, boiled the water, sipped most of it while it was hot to keep out the chill, ate a few biscuits, then wrapped myself in my sleeping bag and fell asleep.
Over the next few days I was able to make some modifications to my new home – including the addition of a corrugated pl
astic roof which looked as though it had blown off someone’s shed. I also beat a path down to the Hamble for water, but the issue of food loomed large. I counted out every last note and coin I had; it totalled £42 and even carefully eked out it wouldn’t last long.
I knew I couldn’t live in the woods indefinitely but I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. I must have known a couple of dozen people living within a few miles but on not one of their doorsteps could I imagine turning up, filthy, homeless, and out of work. Not even Auntie Jean would have wanted to see me like that.
I tried fishing in the Hamble but to no avail. Then one day I found a rabbit caught in some barbed wire. It was barely alive so I knew the kindest thing was to finish it off, and although it was a skinny little thing it was a welcome source of protein to supplement the bread and cans of cut-price baked beans I’d bought from the local shop. The way it met its end got me thinking and I spent hours trying to create what I hoped would be an effective yet humane snare from a piece of wire I borrowed from the cricket club fence.
Effective it was – humane it certainly wasn’t. The very first morning I was confronted with a snarling fox, its foreleg almost torn right through in its struggle to escape. I was mortified, and I stood for a long time trying to work out what to do. I jumped out of my skin when I heard someone say, “I hope you’re not thinking about setting it free; that old bugger’s been in my chicken coop one time too many.”
I looked up and about ten yards further up the slope was a woman in a hooded anorak. I couldn’t see her face but I knew her voice instantly. It was Jennifer. I just hoped she wouldn’t recognise me.
“I don’t know what to do with it, to be honest,” I told her.
“Then don’t do anything. Just wait while I fetch my gun.”
It didn’t even cross my mind to run away; she had told me to stay and I did, watching the fox lick the open wound. At least it would be out of its misery soon.
When Jennifer came back she told me to climb the slope and stand next to her.
