by K. L. Slater
‘Looks nasty,’ says the ripe-smelling, whiskered man who is wedged into the chair next to me. The chairs are spaced out fairly well but his shoulder still touches mine.
Some people assume a shared situation authorises them to be immediately familiar. I throw him a withering look and make a point of focusing on a poster about immunisation on the opposite wall. He doesn’t say anything else.
The door opens and Emma Danson pops her head out. Glancing down at the form in her hand, she calls out, ‘Tristan Peters?’
The young man on the first chair makes a big deal of clutching his elbow as he follows her into the room. Everyone moves down one chair, but I stay put. The whiskered man looks at me as if to say something, then changes his mind and studies his swollen foot which is encased in a grubby, striped slipper.
I’ve got a corker of a headache coming. My hand is pounding with an aching throb, and the vivid red blossom is expanding rapidly across the white cloth bandaging my wounds.
The sleeves of my jacket feel bonded to my arms. I pull at the cuffs in an effort to relieve the stickiness but to no avail. Why they have to keep these places bathed in a constant, near-tropical heat when the NHS evidently lacks funding is anyone’s guess.
A full twenty-five minutes later, the man next to me limps into the room and four other people have joined the queue after me.
Sweat beads prickle on my upper lip. The ferocious pain in my head and hand seem to join up, until the whole of the left side of my body burns and aches.
I try to swallow but the dryness of my throat refuses to give and I splutter, coughing and groaning. My handbag slips, and I grab at it with my injured hand, sending stabbing, shooting pains all the way up my arm.
I yelp out in pain. The people sitting next to me all lean forward to watch the spectacle, and I want to scream at them to mind their own business.
Why am I even here? I have the most idiotic ideas at times, and yet I know I can’t waste the chance to spend some time with Amanda’s mother, to find out anything I can that might help me, might help Liam to prosecute her.
I get to thinking about my hand and what might happen if the wounds are so deep they can’t be stitched. I pray I haven’t severed a tendon because I could lose the use of my fingers, and whoever heard of a postal worker being employed who only had the use of one hand?
Thinking about my job drums up images of the spare room and the mail piling up. A fresh wave of heat and nausea starts up. I fan myself with my good hand and glare back at the woman next to me who is shamelessly studying the bloodied cloth.
After what seems like forever, the door opens and the man limps out and back down the corridor.
‘Anna Clarke?’
I ease myself out of the hard plastic chair, grimacing, as my hand catches on my bag again.
I don’t know why they have to say your full name out loud at these places; you never know who might be listening, nosing into your business. At one time, ‘Miss Clarke’ would have been sufficient but a formal courtesy is all but non-existent these days.
‘Come on through, Anna,’ Emma Danson says in a patronising sing-song voice I’ve noticed some of the other nurses have a habit of using with the patients.
The room is small but efficiently organised, with a pristine white-sheeted couch and various medical implements displayed on a table alongside.
Emma sits at her desk, and I take my cue to sit on the patient chair at the side.
‘Looks like you’ve made a bit of a mess there.’ She nods at my hand and turns her attention to the computer screen.
She is a small sparrow-like woman with the same black darting eyes as her daughter. I get the impression she’s the kind of person who likes to go through the polite motions of conversation but isn’t really interested what people are actually saying to her.
‘I cut myself,’ I say faintly, looking down at my hand.
‘Very careless,’ she scolds in a jolly voice. ‘Let’s have a look at you, then.’
She shuffles her chair closer and peels away the cloth bandage. I yelp as she tugs gently at a piece that has become quite firmly attached to the drying blood.
Close-up, I can see deep creases fanning out from the corners of her eyes and mouth. There are shadows under her eyes that she has attempted to cover up with a thick concealer, and her hair is overdue for a colour, judging by the fine grey wisps that speckle her temples.
I’m finding it increasingly difficult to move my fingers. The pain is steadily building as she presses on different parts of my hand, and her perfume is sickly sweet.
‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ I croak.
She grabs a kidney-shaped cardboard container from the edge of her desk, and I vomit into it.
Chapter 28
I reach for a tissue from my bag.
‘Sorry,’ I mumble, feeling another wave of heat ripple through me.
For the first time, she actually seems to focus and look at me properly.
‘Let’s get this jacket off.’ She pulls at my sleeve. ‘You’re overheating.’
She folds my jacket and places it behind us on the medical couch. Then she fills a small plastic tumbler with water from the small sink.
‘Your hand looks nasty but it’s really not that bad,’ she says.
I sigh with relief and take a sip of the water. No severed tendons after all then.
Time to get back to the reason I came here.
She stands up and walks over to the table. ‘You seem very anxious, Anna. How did you say you cut your hand?’
‘I was clearing up some glass in my kitchen,’ I tell her. ‘I picked it up with my hands; I wasn’t thinking. I’ve had a lot on my mind, you see.’
Emma returns with some wipes and bandages and sits down opposite me. ‘Well, that’s usually how these things happen.’
‘My boyfriend has been in a very bad car accident,’ I say. ‘He was nearly killed.’
I’m surprised how easily the word ‘boyfriend’ trips off my tongue.
She stops fiddling with the pack of wipes and looks up at me.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Is your boyfriend here at the QMC?’
I shake my head.
‘He’s home now but he’s very ill. There’s not a single scratch on the driver that hit him.’
Emma starts to dab at my hand none too gently, causing me to gasp.
‘Sorry,’ she says but continues in the same firm manner.
‘It doesn’t seem fair,’ I go on. ‘Him in such a bad way, and the other driver free to carry on as if nothing has happened.’
Her mouth sets in a straight line and she blinks rapidly. When she looks up from my hand, I think I see a teary brightness.
‘People seem to forget it can affect the other driver too.’
Like your fake-it daughter? Feigning guilt to Liam in her online message?
My heart is hammering and my hand is stinging terribly but I carry on. I’ve gone through this much pain, I might as well make it count.
‘You sound as though you’ve been there,’ I comment.
Emma sighs and puts down the wipes. She folds her hands into her lap and looks straight at me.
‘It’s usually a rule of mine not to discuss my personal life with patients,’ she says. ‘But, if it helps, my daughter was involved in an accident just over a week ago. So you see, I do understand.’
Involved in an accident? She caused the whole fucking thing!
‘Is she badly hurt?’
Emma picks up the wipes again and shakes her head, sighing deeply.
‘Not physically but mentally, yes. I worry she might never drive again. She feels like it was her fault, you see. She went to see the man she hit and says he’s such a nice chap but she can’t forgive herself.’
I can’t think of anything to say without risk of blowing my cover, so I keep quiet.
‘She isn’t sleeping,’ she sighs. ‘It’s not easy. An accident affects everyone in different ways and people don’t always thin
k about that.’
She means people like me.
Emma pours some liquid on to a piece of cotton wool and the stringent smell of pure alcohol fills the air.
I suck a breath in sharply between my teeth as she applies it to my palm. The sting feels like she is slicing my hand up all over again.
‘Nearly finished,’ she murmurs, dabbing at my wounds.
‘Is your daughter in trouble with the police over the accident?’ I ask.
Her face darkens. ‘We’re praying not but we just don’t know yet; they’re still investigating.’
Her tone has changed, become more formal, and I know she won’t say much more about it.
‘Prosecution or not, I guess your daughter will have to live with what she’s done for the rest of her life,’ I say.
She looks up at me.
‘Strangely enough, it’s as though the accident has brought them together,’ she says. ‘Her and the man she hit, I mean. He’s been unbelievably forgiving.’
‘Really?’ My voice sounds reedy and thin.
Emma nods and smiles, unfurling the bandage.
‘She’s visiting him regularly now he’s home; they’re getting to know each other. Who’d have thought any good could have come from it all?’
I stand up, knocking over the bottle of antiseptic.
‘Wait! I’m not finished yet.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say vaguely, grabbing my jacket and heading for the door.
‘Your hand—’
I don’t hear the rest. I storm out of the room and down the corridor.
I’ve got what I came here for: confirmation of Amanda’s scheme to fool Liam into feeling sorry for her so he’ll tell the police not to prosecute her. It’s so obvious and yet both Ivy and Liam just don’t get it.
What was she hiding? If the accident had been just that – an accident – surely she’d have no need to cover anything up.
Out in the car I swallow down two ibuprofens with bottled water and do my breathing exercises for a few minutes.
After that I Google a few things and then I make a phone call. When it is done I feel so much better.
Now I can enjoy the rest of my day.
* * *
The next morning at work, I volunteer to distribute the junk mail – the advertisement flyers that businesses pay us to deliver with the general mail – to everyone’s workstations.
I meander over to the workstations, take out a wedge of flyers and glance around. Nobody is paying the slightest bit of attention to me, so it’s easy to quickly rifle through the pigeonhole that contains Rowland Street’s mail.
It takes longer because I’m trying to just use my good hand but nobody has noticed that. Until Roisin walks past.
‘Anna! What happened to your hand?’
I snatch my hand out of the pigeonhole and spin around.
‘I broke a glass,’ I say. ‘In the kitchen.’
I wonder if she’s noticed I was looking through someone else’s mail allocations.
‘You OK, love?’ She won’t stop staring at me. I realise my eyes are open a touch too wide, and I’ve sort of frozen my arm in mid-air. I blink and shake my arm, letting it fall to my side.
‘That’s better, got a bit of cramp,’ I say. ‘Catch you later, Roisin.’
‘Fancy a coffee after your shift?’ she asks me yet again.
I take a breath and hear myself say: ‘Yes, OK then. Where do you want to meet?’
Her face lights up, and I feel bad it’s taken me so long to accept her offer to meet up. We arrange the time and place, and I can’t help smiling as I walk away. This is a bit of a landmark for me.
I feel her eyes on my back, and I know she’s probably thinking I’m a bit strange.
I slip out two official-looking envelopes for number 42 that I managed to slide in between my flyers before Roisin appeared. After a cursory check that she’s not still watching me, I move over to the counter where Liam and Ivy’s mail is processed.
Nothing of interest there, just an electricity bill, and a motorcycle magazine which I immediately bin. There’s enough clutter as it is in that bedroom of his.
When I return to my own workstation, I fold the smuggled letters up and slip them into my trouser pocket. My mood brightens with the anticipation of reading them later.
I have a fairly good morning considering the challenges of my new delivery plan. I load up the mailbags, cycle home, dump the contents upstairs and refill the bags with the oldest mail I can find amongst the ever-growing mountain in the spare bedroom.
I cycle back and manage to deliver over three quarters of it, spilling over my shift time by just an hour.
I have the strangest feeling I’m being watched, but there’s nobody around when I scan the street. It must be because Roisin was staring at me earlier.
My injured hand is sore and throbbing but I don’t feel sick or hot anymore so I can just about manage to do my job, even though it slows me down.
The weather is fine for a change. The sun makes repeated attempts to break through the clouds and a pleasant breeze fans my efforts. The plan to get on a level footing with my deliveries is going to work, I’m convinced of it. I have proved today that it can be done.
* * *
I get to the coffee shop a few minutes early, and Roisin is already here. She smiles and waves me over.
‘I got you a caramel cappuccino,’ she beams. ‘Hope that’s OK.’
I’m not one for fussy drinks; I’d have preferred a plain latte or a normal coffee that tastes like the Nescafé I use at home.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘How much do I owe you?’
She wafts my question away with a hand and takes a long draught of her own caramel-coloured drink.
I do the same. I watch her, try and mirror what she does so I get this meetfriendsforcoffee thing right.
‘So,’ she says, ‘how are you?’
‘I’m fine,’ I say. She looks at me like she expects more words. ‘I’m better now I’ve finished my shift.’
‘Yeah, me too. That place, it’s enough to drive you mad, right?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Yeah, crazy place. And they’re changing the shifts and rotas, too. I don’t know what’s going to happen; I hope they don’t reduce our hours.’ She holds the handle of her long glass and wobbles it a bit so the coffee inside swirls around and leaves a ring of foam at the top.
I’d like to discuss my delivery round concerns with her but it’s too early. Roisin seems nice but I don’t know her well enough yet to let my guard down.
She looks at me and drops her head to one side.
‘What dress size are you, Anna? I’m guessing about a fourteen?’
I nod, wondering where this is going.
‘I have this lovely top I bought a few weeks ago. A nice salmon pink colour. Looks all wrong with my hair but it’ll suit you, I’m sure of it. I’ll bring it in for you to try.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. I can’t remember the last time I had something new to wear.
Roisin looks pleased.
‘Do you live near here?’ I ask, getting into the swing of it now.
‘Not right here in the city, too expensive. But not far away, in Lenton. I flatshare with another girl. You?’
‘Sneinton,’ I say. ‘Park Hall Road.’
‘Ah, I know it well.’ Her face lights up. ‘My sister works around that area.’
‘Is she a postie?’
‘Who?’
‘Your sister.’
‘Oh no,’ she laughs. ‘Linda’s a care assistant. She calls on old people who need home assistance; I think she’s got a client on that street, actually.’
I don’t know whether the man who just walked by our table knocks my arm or if I just bring it up to my face too quickly but my coffee is knocked over and floods the table.
* * *
When I get back home, I feed Albert and have a quick scout around to see if the source of the smell has revealed itself. Thankfully
, it isn’t as overpowering as it was yesterday. Still, it is unpleasant enough that it makes me want to get out of the house as quickly as I can.
I take one of the vanilla slices I bought earlier and pop round to Mrs Peat’s with the other still in its plastic casing.
‘How lovely,’ she says when I take the cake through with a cuppa. ‘But Anna, what have you done to your hand?’
‘It’s nothing,’ I mumble, dropping my arm to my side. ‘It looks worse than it is. I cut it this morning clearing up some glass.’
Mrs Peat tuts her disapproval and sinks her teeth into the cake. The thought of all that cream and chewed pastry sticking to her dentures makes me feel quite bilious.
‘Has Linda, your carer, got a sister?’ I ask her, averting my eyes.
‘I’m not sure, dear. I can’t say as she’s ever mentioned a sister. Why do you ask?’
‘Someone at work said she has a sister who’s a care assistant. She has a client on this street.’
‘Well, Park Hall Road is quite long. It’s true there are a few of us on here who need a bit more help these days.’
Mrs Peat is right. Lots of people have lived around here all their lives. It could just be a coincidence. I feel my neck and shoulders soften a little.
Still, it’s a good opportunity to speak to her about privacy.
‘You don’t talk to Linda about me, do you?’ She stops chewing and looks up. ‘I mean I wouldn’t want anyone knowing my business.’
‘You worry too much, Anna. Drink your tea, dear.’
‘I’m sorry I haven’t been round for a couple of days,’ I say. ‘I’ve been busy with work and going to the hospital.’
‘You’re not to apologise,’ Mrs Peat says firmly. ‘I’m always grateful for you popping round here but I do realise you have a life.’
At last, I do. I really do have a life. Somewhere along the line, my solitary routine changed. Now, for the first time in a long time, there are other people in it.
I try this new realisation on for size. It feels a bit like wearing a new stylish hat to find it has a scratchy lining. I never expected it, and I’m not quite sure I want it.
