by Hilary Boyd
Starts eight. Later ok. You say.
Flora told him she’d be there by eight-thirty. She’d ask Mary to come half an hour earlier, and she’d make it up the following morning. They’d done it before.
Great, Flora thought. That sounds like fun. There had been nothing from Fin, and each passing hour of silence chipped away at her burgeoning dreams, making her angrier, more determined than ever to put him behind her and begin enjoying her life.
When Dorothea woke up she seemed disorientated and still anxious.
‘You … are here today?’
Flora nodded. ‘All week.’
‘Every day?’ Dorothea asked, working her fingers together as they lay on the bedcover.
‘Yes, every day.’
‘You said something … about another nurse coming?’
‘Not for my days.’ Flora wanted to make it very clear. ‘I am coming all week, every week. That’s not changing. I was only asking you if you wanted another nurse for Saturday and Sunday when I’m not here.’
Dorothea nodded and seemed to relax. ‘I’m so sorry … I wasn’t quite sure …’
*
Flora was getting Dorothea’s supper, beating the eggs in a plastic bowl, when the doorbell rang. It was Dr Kent.
‘Hi, Flora. Bad time?’
Flora shook her head. ‘No, come in. I was just getting her supper.’ The sound of canned laughter blared from the television in the sitting room. ‘Dad’s Army. Her favourite,’ she explained with a long-suffering grin.
‘Could be worse, could be Nightmare on Elm Street. I was just passing and I hadn’t seen you … well, Dorothea, for a few days. How is she?’
‘Do you want a cup of tea? I’d like to tell you something.’
‘Such a difficult thing to call,’ Simon Kent said, when she’d finished explaining. He was leaning against the counter in the kitchen, cradling his cup, as Flora got on with setting Dorothea’s tray. ‘From what you say, she does seem to be getting more confused since the last TIA, and perhaps the Sunday night thing is just coincidence. Someone ought to talk to Pia in any case. Find out what she has to say about what Dorothea’s like in the daytime.’
‘Rene’s doing that, but according to the report, she’s fine. It says they do things together, like go to church and to the park, but when you ask Dorothea, she says they didn’t.’
‘Ill-treatment of the elderly is rampant,’ he said, ‘and it’s notoriously difficult to prove, unless they speak out.’ He watched her as she melted butter in the small pan and dropped the eggs in for scrambling.
‘I’m glad you don’t put milk in. Ruins it,’ he commented.
She smiled. ‘Mum used to put loads in, and it dribbled out of the egg all over the plate.’
‘Don’t complain. You’re lucky your mother made scrambled eggs at all. I don’t think mine even knew where the kitchen was.’
Flora was surprised. ‘You had servants?’
‘Nooo, me and my brother just looked after ourselves most of the time. She had … hard to put this delicately … a drink problem.’
‘And your father?’
‘He couldn’t handle it. He left, came back, left again. He did his best for a while, but then he met someone else and moved away. You know how it is.’
Flora took some sliced brown bread from the plastic packet and spread butter on it, then cut it up into quarters and laid them round the edge of the plate before spooning the egg into the middle.
‘Your brother’s older?’ she asked.
‘Younger. He’s a research scientist at Cambridge – DNA stuff.’ She could hear the pride in his voice.
‘God, must have been such a responsibility for you.’
The doctor gave a short, harsh laugh. ‘Could say that.’ He put his empty mug in the sink and ran some water into it. ‘It was my daughter’s fourth birthday at the weekend, and I suppose it made me think about the whole fathering thing. Nothing, literally nothing on this planet, would make me lose touch with Jasmine.’
Flora put the plate on the floral-patterned plastic tray and added a glass of water. She waited for a moment, not sure what to say.
‘Sorry, don’t know why I’m laying my dismal past at your door,’ he went on as he moved aside to let her through, the expression in his eyes suddenly miles away.
‘Don’t apologise. It’s good to find out something about you. I feel we’ve known each other for years without knowing anything at all.’
‘I haven’t found out anything about you though, except your mum put too much milk in the scrambled eggs – and you can’t dance.’
Flora grinned. ‘No, well, you might want to keep it that way.’
He shook his head.
‘Anyway, about Dorothea. Do you want me to talk to her?’
Flora considered this. ‘Thanks, but leave it for now. Both Mary and I have been on at her and she’s just clammed up. I don’t want to upset her.’
‘Of course not. Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do.’ He picked up his black bag. ‘I’d better let you get on.’
They said goodbye, leaving Flora with memories of her mother absent-mindedly doling out their supper in the family kitchen in Kent. The house was a 1930s suburban four-bedroom, the furniture and decor mostly reproduction and without much style, but the garden, sloping up to a small copse, was a work of art. Prue always said she and Flora were surplus to requirements for their parents. Linda Bancroft went through the motions of mothering in a conscientious way, but always seemed happier alone in her garden.
This passion had begun when their father had gone to work in Saudi on a lucrative engineering contract. He’d wanted them all to join him, apparently, but her mother had refused – she didn’t like the restrictive society there, particularly for a woman – and her parents eventually drifted apart. Flora was eight when her father began working abroad. He would come back at first, with exotic presents such as camel-skin pouffes, silver bracelets and elaborately embroidered scarves. Flora and Prue would be wound up with intense excitement for days before his arrival, their enthusiasm slowly dwindling as the visit progressed: Frank Bancroft, career-driven and introverted, wasn’t much interested in children, not even his own.
The time between his visits grew longer, and eventually they stopped altogether. Her parents never divorced, never settled with other partners, just lived apart – Frank eventually in Dubai – until they both died, her mum from bowel cancer when Flora was seventeen, her father not until much later. But she hadn’t seen him in the ten years before his death. Prue, on the rare occasions when they talked about their father, made clear that she despised Frank for his lack of parental concern. Flora wasn’t sure what she felt. Perhaps nothing much.
CHAPTER 6
25 September
As Flora hurried home on Tuesday night, she knew she should have changed at Dorothea’s flat, but she hated doing that. It meant deciding what to wear in the morning, which might feel completely wrong when she put it on in the evening, then lugging it all to work with her, often forgetting a vital bit of kit – shoes, for instance, or mascara. And Jake, with his smooth outfits, made her more self-conscious about her appearance. Not that she had a great selection in the wardrobe. Shopping for clothes had always been low on her priority list, and the dip in her wage packet since leaving hospital didn’t help.
She jumped into the shower as soon as she got home and rushed to get dressed. She knew she was going to be late, but was leaving it till the last moment to tell Jake, sort of hoping some miracle would occur to slow time. Tonight it was black jeans again, a thin pearl-grey jumper with buttons on the sleeves, and the black pumps.
She put her hair up in a loose knot and applied some mascara and lip gloss. Not very thrilling, she thought, as she peered dispiritedly in the bathroom mirror – the only one in her flat and quite inadequate for the purpose. She looked tired. It’ll have to do, she told herself, gathering her keys, her purse, her Oyster card, her lip gloss into her black bag.
Slinging her leather
jacket on and wrapping a patterned pink scarf around her neck to alleviate the gloomy black, she hurried out of the flat. And almost screamed in fright.
Coming down the area steps was Fin McCrea.
‘Fuck, you scared me!’
Fin stopped in his tracks and grinned broadly. ‘Nice way to greet an old friend.’
‘What are you doing here? Why didn’t you ring?’ Her voice sounded tinny and thin, her breath caught in her throat.
‘Oh, the usual … me being a total idiot. I went to wash my hands at the hospital and I was being careful of your number, but it was one of those lever taps that gushes out and sprays all over the place and the last three numbers ran so I couldn’t read them. I tried every combination but all I did was irritate all the poor sods with the wrong combos.’
He was at the bottom of the steps now, his broad shoulders and height looming in the darkness and the damp, cramped space.
‘You’re going out?’
‘Well, yes. Obviously,’ she retorted. His presence was so unsettling.
‘Can’t you cancel, Flo? I really, really want to talk to you.’
‘No! Of course I can’t. Why would I?’
Fin pulled a face.
‘It’s a bit bloody late to drop in on someone unannounced, anyway.’
He looked upwards towards the rest of the house. ‘I thought it best to come under cover of night.’ His voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. ‘I … wasn’t so sure I wanted to be spotted by your sister … yet. I’m sure she hates me.’
Flora gave a short laugh. ‘No, I can see why you wouldn’t.’
There was silence.
‘Listen, I’m late already, I’ve really got to go.’ She moved towards the steps.
‘Will you be long? I could come back.’
Flora just looked at him. ‘Fin, I am going on a date. I have no idea if I’ll be back at all tonight.’
It was as if she had slapped him.
‘I see.’
Exasperated, she said, ‘Did you think I was just sitting at home these last three years, waiting on the off-chance for you to drop by?’ She had been, in fact, but that was beside the point.
He shook his head. ‘No, no, sorry, of course not. Look, I know I fucked up with the number thing, Flo, but I swear I went to Waitrose every morning that week I bumped into you, in the hope you might show up again. I’m desperate to see you. Can I come round tomorrow? Or can we meet somewhere else? I don’t mind what we do as long as we can talk.’
She was halfway up the steps, thinking of Jake sitting waiting for her in Soho. ‘OK. Let’s meet at Gloucester Road station at eight-thirty tomorrow. We can have a drink somewhere round there.’ She was no more keen than he was to have Prue on their case.
Fin perked up at the prospect. Following her up the steps, he repeated, ‘Eight-thirty tomorrow at Gloucester Road station.’
‘Don’t write it on your hand this time,’ she said, before running off towards Ladbroke Grove.
*
The rest of the evening was a blur. She couldn’t concentrate. Jake was sitting at a table with some friends – two women and another man – so at least the pressure wasn’t on for her to engage on a one-to-one basis. And the music was loud, the basement space small; no one was able to talk much. Jake’s friend was the singer in the band. Tiny, and beautiful in a boyish way, she had a pure, distinctive voice that gave the soft jazz songs an appealing edge. The packed audience loved her.
‘She’s good, eh?’ Jake grinned at Flora during a break in the music.
She nodded. ‘Love her voice.’
‘Glad you could make it,’ he said, but after a hello kiss, he had made no move to hold her hand or be physically close to her, for which she was grateful. Watching him as he talked and laughed with his friends, she realised that she hardly knew him – not least when she compared his face to the intensely familiar lines and contours of Fin’s.
One thought vibrated in her head: seeing Fin.
There was a move afoot to go on to a club. The singer had joined them at the table, clearly on a high from her performance and wanting to party.
‘You’ll come, won’t you?’ Jake took Flora’s hand for the first time as they got up to go. ‘It’s just over in Greek Street.’
‘I’d love to, but I think I’d better get off. I have to be on at eight and I’m a bloody lightweight. Going to work almost killed me after our night last week.’
He laughed. ‘Yeah, know what you mean, but we were in thrall to Margarita last week. Come for a bit? Go on, it’ll be fun.’ He pulled her up the stairs behind him. The others were already waiting on the pavement and began moving off down the street when they saw Jake.
Flora just wanted to be home. She wanted to think about what Fin had said: ‘I went to Waitrose every morning …’
She held Jake back. ‘Sorry, Jake. Listen, you go. I’m afraid I’m being a party pooper, but thanks for a great evening. Your friend was brilliant.’
Jake grinned good-naturedly. ‘OK, if you’re sure I can’t persuade you.’
They kissed each other goodnight, chaste and on each cheek, as if the intimacy of the other night had never existed.
‘You’re going to Tottenham Court Road?’
Flora nodded.
‘Let’s talk later in the week,’ he said, ‘maybe do something at the weekend?’
She knew from the way he looked at her what he had in mind, and she felt her face freeze in a noncommittal smile.
‘’Night, Jake,’ she said.
*
The day dragged by, Flora making every effort to contain her expectations. We are just meeting for a drink, she kept telling herself. He wants to apologise, nothing more. But her heart told her different.
‘Are you meeting your young man?’ Dorothea asked her when she went to say goodnight. Flora had changed as soon as Mary arrived. She deliberately didn’t dress up, just wore her jeans and a jumper, kept her hair down and put on a bit of make-up. She didn’t want to be seen to be trying.
‘Umm … he’s not really my young man.’ Flora found she was blushing, not missed by Dorothea.
‘Perhaps you’d like him to be?’ Her eyes sparkled with interest.
‘It’s complicated, I’m afraid.’
‘It can be. I had … a few boyfriends in my time.’ She paused, her head turned on her pillow towards the wall. ‘But only one that mattered.’ She didn’t go on.
‘It didn’t work out?’ Flora had never liked to ask the old lady why she hadn’t married.
‘He died.’ The old lady’s voice was soft.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry. Was it in the war?’
Dorothea turned back to look at Flora, her expression still veiled by the past. ‘No … no, not the war. It … was an accident, they said.’
Puzzled, Flora didn’t like to ask what this meant. But Dorothea wanted to speak.
‘He was an artist. A very talented man. But he had … he had times when he couldn’t cope. And one time … one time he … well, he fell.’ Her eyes filled with tears. Flora had never seen such emotion from the old lady before. ‘He fell from the bridge … so they said.’
‘How awful.’ Flora was shocked.
‘We were engaged to be married.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
The old lady gave her a sad smile. ‘It was a long time ago now. But he was such a man. So beautiful. The brightest of stars. You’ve never seen the like.’
‘You must have loved him very much,’ Flora said.
Dorothea didn’t answer. For a moment there was silence, only the sound of her hands rubbing backwards and forwards on the quilt.
‘Sometimes you have to look beyond the complications,’ she said, almost to herself.
Flora squeezed her hand. ‘Mary’s here. Good night, Dorothea, see you in the morning. I hope you sleep well.’
‘I hope I do too,’ said the old lady, smiling.
‘Another date?’ Mary looked Flora up and down. ‘Two nights running. Must be
serious.’
‘This isn’t the same one as last night.’
‘Oooh. Two fellas at once. Go, girl.’
‘No … no. Well, not in the way you think.’
Mary laughed. ‘I’m not saying a word!’
‘Tonight’s just a friend.’ Flora heard the insistence in her voice.
‘Right. Well, you enjoy yourself, whatever he is.’
‘Thanks. See you tomorrow. Nothing happened, it’s all in the report.’
It was blustery outside. The welcome blast of fresh air hit Flora as she left the block. She walked quickly, although it would only take her minutes to reach the station. She felt hollow and cold, anticipation holding her body tense. Please let him be there … she felt unable to wait another minute.
And he was. Standing at the entrance, wearing a navy pea jacket that had seen better days, jeans, and heavy black boots she remembered from when they were together.
‘Flora.’ He moved towards her, then stopped.
‘Hi, Fin.’
They both hovered, unsure.
‘Where shall we go?’
She shook her head. ‘Don’t know. I work in Gloucester Road, but I don’t hang out round here much.’
‘Well, there’s one of those bar chains just along a bit on the left. It’s probably OK.’
‘Fine. Let’s do it.’ She didn’t care where they went.
They walked along the pavement, side by side. Flora was so aware of his body next to her, it was as if they were actually touching. The wine bar was not full, but there was something depressing about the space. It was over-lit and smelled of toilets and chip fat. They glanced at each other and Fin pulled a face.
‘Not liking this.’
‘Me neither.’
They turned on their heels and found a pub on the other side of the street which felt cosier, choosing a seat against the back wall.
‘Glass of red?’
‘Thanks.’
He hadn’t forgotten. For a second it was as if none of the events of the past three years had happened; she and Fin were just going out for a casual drink as they always had. She shook herself, suddenly frightened by the distance she had travelled from reality. You are not together now, she told herself firmly, trying to marshal her thoughts about what she wanted to say to him.
