by Lissa Evans
‘To thank me.’
‘To thank you?’
‘Yes, I gave him a free baseball hat that was kicking round the surgery and he’s very happy about it. I’m sure he’ll go soon. He’ll get bored and wander off.’
‘Do you want me to ring the police?’ shouted Ayesha.
‘Give it five minutes,’ shouted Spencer back.
The doorbell began a series of little trills of varying length, and Iris closed her eyes for a moment and imagined herself all alone in a field, sitting quietly with a book. She opened them again and looked at the phone in her hand.
‘Tom.’
‘What?’ He was still sitting on the floor, bacon on head.
She covered the receiver with her hand. ‘You’re articulate. Persuade your grandad to come to his own party.’
‘All right.’
‘Tell him that we’re all longing for him to arrive, and that Leslie’s brought home-made potato wine just like they had at Catterick and tell him –’ she took a deep breath ‘– tell him you’ve already met Mrs McHugh and you think she’s lovely – and I think she’s lovely, and I think it’s about time he introduced her to everyone.’
‘I’ve already met who?’
‘Dad’s girlfriend. She told you and Robin off for smoking in the street.’
He gaped at her.
‘She’s about four foot eleven. Tartan skirt, white hair, Scottish accent?’
‘What, her? That’s Grandad’s girlfriend?’
‘Yes.’
‘Jesus, she could talk for Europe.’
‘Yes.’
‘He probably had to snog her to get her to shut up.’
‘Tom –’
He grinned. ‘It’s all right, I won’t say that.’
She was sitting on the edge of the raised flower bed in the back garden when Spencer brought her out a glass of wine.
‘You’ve rumbled me,’ she said.
‘Ten minutes is far too long to spend wrapping up a lawnmower.’
‘Especially when it’s already wrapped and in the shed. It was just an excuse.’ She took a sip and choked. ‘Good God.’
‘It’s made from potatoes, apparently. Can I join you?’
She shifted up the damp wall a few inches. The light was beginning to fade, and she had been sitting watching the yellow square of the kitchen window as if it were a mute television screen. Ayesha had found an apron and was putting the vol-au-vents in the oven, Auntie Kath was washing up and Robin was doing a wholly inadequate job of the drying. In the corner, his back to the window, Tom was talking non-stop while fiddling with something shiny on the work surface.
‘What’s Tom doing, do you know?’
‘Flirting with Ayesha, mainly.’
‘No sign of my father, I suppose.’
‘Not yet. I wouldn’t worry, they’re having a riot in the front room – no one’s even touched the squash.’ He shifted round so he could look at her. ‘Are you all right, Iris?’
She nearly said ‘Fine’ and then stopped herself. ‘Not really.’ The admission, slight as it was, was liberating. ‘I’ve been jealous,’ she said, and was still surprised at the thought. It had emerged, fully formed, as she sat on the wall in the twilight.
‘Jealous of whom?’
‘Dad.’
‘Really?’ He looked at her carefully. ‘This isn’t anything to do with his new lawnmower?’
‘No.’ She managed a smile. ‘No. I mean… anyone else would be pleased, wouldn’t they, if their father had managed to start enjoying himself after years of –’ she searched for the right word ‘– grimness. But all I could think was how unfair it was.’
Spencer said nothing, and in the silence Iris could hear a soft sawing noise from a nearby garden.
‘You see, I had all these little changes planned for this year. I had a whole campaign in miniature and I was… easing myself into it. And then Dad just did it; he dived in, he altered his whole life in one go and I’ve been –’ Dumped, she thought; it was a teenage word but it seemed horribly appropriate. He’d broken her routine as well as his own, and she’d found nothing with which to replace it.
‘And because I was… jealous’ – she still couldn’t quite believe the word – ‘I didn’t let him talk about it, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of telling me. I avoided the whole topic, and because he’s not very good at real conversation he never found a way to bring it up.’ He had tried a couple of times, she winced to remember – had edged round the subject on tiptoe, and then given up when she’d failed to respond. ‘I should have been happy,’ she said. ‘For me as well as for him.’
‘You can’t be happy to order,’ said Spencer. ‘It doesn’t work that way.’
‘I know. So anyway, here I am, still in exactly the same place. And there he is…’
‘He had a bit of help, you know,’ said Spencer.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You were trying to do it from scratch. There’s a huge difference between starting something from scratch when you’re trying to do a million other things at the same time, and being swept along by someone else. Your father didn’t instigate this change. He didn’t make the first move, did he?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Iris.
‘Can’t you ask him?’
She paused. ‘No,’ she said, honestly, and he laughed. ‘We’ve only ever been able to talk about certain subjects – work, or study. Or the garden. Or the twins… There’s lots of things we’ve never talked about at all.’
‘What you need,’ said Spencer, ‘is someone who talks the entire time, to act as a go-between. Someone Scottish, maybe.’ He raised an eyebrow.
‘Maybe,’ she said, smiling a little.
Spencer leaned forward suddenly. ‘What’s going on in there?’
On the yellow screen the picture had jumped. Tom was reeling round the kitchen, frantically waving his hand.
‘Oh,’ said Iris, with a flash of insight, ‘he was using the biscuit cutter.’
‘Should I go and see if he’s all right?’
‘Gosh, he’d love that – an in-house doctor rushing to his aid. No, I’d leave it.’ Tom had doubled over, and was cradling his hand to his chest, face contorted with pain. The next stage, she knew, would be a wobbly legged stagger to the nearest chair and a whispered request for a glass of water.
‘Are you sure?’ She could feel Spencer tensed for action beside her.
‘Honestly. If it were anything remotely serious he’d be on the floor. Anyway, look – Ayesha’s coping.’ Ayesha had found the first-aid box on the windowsill and was searching through it.
‘It’s a bit like being at the cinema, this,’ said Spencer, relaxing back. ‘Drama, suspense, pretty girl, two quite staggeringly good-looking boys –’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Oh please. As I was saying… two heroes – both an absolute credit to you, may I say – one mortally injured, the other – his doppelgänger – brutally unconcerned, a heroine trying to administer succour but being held back by the unbelievable length of her fingernails, the heroes’ mother off boozing somewhere, the –’ Leslie walked into the kitchen holding an empty plate ‘– the arrival of the comic relief.’
Iris’s snort of laughter was interrupted by a liquid cough, just feet away.
‘Hello,’ said Callum, leaning over the wall that separated the garden from the street. The logo on his hat – ‘Hello Lamazol, Goodbye Insomnia’ – was a luminous hot-pink squiggle in the twilight.
‘Oh no,’ muttered Spencer.
‘Jus’ passing.’ He rested his can of cider on the wall as if it were a bar, and looked at them interestedly. ‘I’ve got a hat,’ he said to Iris.
‘I can see.’ It was actually a huge improvement, turning him from a freak into an averagely dishevelled wino. ‘It’s very nice.’
‘It’s fucking fantastic,’ corrected Callum. ‘Are you two married, then?’
‘Not yet,’ said Spencer.
‘Engaged?’
‘Hey, Dr Carroll. Is that blokey your dad?’
‘Which blokey?’ said Iris, startled.
‘Hiding behind the bush.’ Callum gestured towards the bottom of the garden, and an arc of cider shot across the grass. ‘With the spade.’
‘What’s he talking about?’ asked Spencer, sotto voce.
‘It’s probably just Mr Hickey,’ whispered Iris. ‘Let’s go.’
‘That’s Mr Hickey’s house?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bloody hell. So your father’s the legendary hedge mover?’
‘It’s not my father who’s responsible,’ hissed Iris, instantly partisan. ‘It’s Mr Hickey who keeps moving the hedge.’
‘Hey!’ shouted Callum, wavering along the wall towards the end of the garden. ‘Are you Dr Carroll’s dad?’
There was a rustling in the Leylandii and Mr Hickey stood up, spade in hand, his face a pale coin that rotated slowly towards Spencer.
‘Oh God,’ said Iris, with foreboding. Spencer raised a hand.
‘Hello there.’
Mr Hickey stared at him, wordlessly.
‘I think we should go in,’ said Iris.
‘No, I’d better have a word with him, he’ll think I’ve swapped sides. It’d ruin our relationship.’ He set off down the garden with Iris reluctantly following. Mr Hickey had been busy; the quiet sawing, the rhythmic thump of the spade that she had heard earlier was translated into the absence of a small cherry tree that had definitely been there that morning, and the new, nearer positioning of the much-travelled Leylandii. Along their bases, humped with fresh earth, a thin wire gleamed. As they approached him Mr Hickey stepped over it, into his own garden.
‘Hello,’ said Spencer, with the puppyish air of a Blue Peter presenter.
Mr Hickey looked at him, his lips trembling slightly as if on the verge of invective.
‘Dr Carroll’s just here for a party,’ said Iris, quickly, ‘he doesn’t know my father at all, and he didn’t even know you lived here.’
‘No,’ said Spencer. ‘I had no idea. Truly. Your own garden looks lovely – may I have a look?’
Mr Hickey moved his head very slightly, in a plane that was marginally more vertical than horizontal.
Spencer stepped over the wire and there was sudden clunk and he fell down.
There was a spade lying on the ground in front of him, and it was ballooning and receding in perfect synchrony with the pain in his head.
There was a lot of shouting and someone stood on his foot and then said, ‘Sorry, Dr Carroll.’
There was a bubble of nausea rising up his oesophagus and he half sat up and suddenly Ayesha was running across the garden towards him holding a white box with a red cross on it. Then he vomited and Ayesha suddenly seemed to be running away from him again.
Someone said, ‘Lie down, Spencer,’ and put something cold on his head.
Someone said, ‘If he’s fucking killed him I’ll fucking kill him the fucker.’
Someone said, ‘Hello, sir, you’ve had a bit of a knock.’
Someone said, ‘Look, Callum, if I give you another hat will you go away?’
He opened his eyes and there was a pot of pink antiseptic on a tray just by his head; the smell seemed to seep right into his nostrils, up through the nasal turbines and straight across the olfactory plate so that it soaked directly into his brain. He sneezed and the pain bounced off the inside of his skull like a squash ball. He lifted his hand to his head and encountered another hand.
‘You’ll knock off the dressing,’ said Iris.
‘Oh hello.’ She was standing beside him, holding a paper cup the size of a thimble.
‘Hello, again.’
‘Have I said hello before?’
She smiled rather tensely. ‘A couple of times.’
‘Can I have some water?’
She gave him the thimble and he downed it in one. There was a moment’s hiatus and then he threw it back up again.
‘Oh dear,’ said Iris, and wiped his chin.
He opened his eyes and the darkened room was filled with Mrs Spelko. ‘Keep them open,’ she ordered, looming over him with an opthalmoscope. There was a dazzle of white light as her breath roared on his face and her bosom pressed him into the couch, the name badge indenting his chest like a library stamp.
‘Fine,’ she said, straightening up. His ribs creaked back into place and a pink puddle drifted across the ceiling, dancing when he blinked as if attached to his eyelids. ‘Now watch my finger. Watch it. Watch it. Up, down…’ She traced the sign of the cross over him. ‘Can you remember what happened to you?’
He thought for a while. ‘Did I fall over?’
Mrs Spelko seemed already to have left the room; Marsha, the night sister, was there instead.
‘Someone hit you with a spade.’
‘Oh.’ Now that she said it, it rang a distant bell. ‘Am I all right?’
‘We’re just waiting for your films,’ she said.
‘Films.’ He could only think of pools of oily water, the colours revolving slowly. His right foot started hurting.
For a while he was sure it was the sound of the sea, the soft slushing of waves on Brighton beach, and he thought he might be drowsing on a sun lounger next to Mark, but then he heard the words ‘Mrs Spelko’ and realized he was listening to a whispered conversation.
‘Of course, just to add to the general picture she has the bedside manner of a water buffalo. I can only imagine she was trained in communication skills by the SAS, with General Patton as a special advisor. Would you like one of these biscuits?’
‘No thank you.’
‘You’re probably wise, they’ve been in this tin for at least six months. You know, lately I’ve been wondering whether my obsession with Mrs Spelko might be a touch sexist.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, would I be as critical of a man who behaved with the same ostentation? Do I subconsciously prefer women to work quietly – to add to the growing good with unhistoric acts, so to speak.’
‘Oh. That’s Middlemarch. That’s Dorothea Brooke!’
‘That’s right! My God, well spotted. Of course Dorothea would have made a superb doctor. Very calm, very able, but without the corrosive ambition that blighted –’
Spencer opened his eyes and the whispering stopped; there was an X-ray of a skull on the lightbox opposite him, the cranium a flawless dome, the teeth a constellation of fillings.
‘Hello, Spencer,’ said Iris.
‘Hello, Spencer,’ said Vincent. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Um…’ He reached a cautious hand to his head, and found it to be roughly the same size as usual; it felt enormous. ‘A bit fuzzy,’ he said, at last.
Vincent nodded at the X-ray. ‘Did you know you had a deviated nasal septum?’
‘Playing rugby. When I was fourteen.’
‘It’s a brutal game. There’s no skull fracture, incidentally.’
‘Good.’
‘They’re keeping you in, though,’ said Iris. ‘We’re just waiting for a bed on the ward.’
‘Oh. What time is it, then?’
‘Nearly midnight.’
‘Is it?’
‘I’d better go,’ said Vincent. ‘I have to write a report on your assailant.’ He stood and formally held out a hand to Iris. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you. You know,’ he said, turning, ‘Iris is the person I told you about – the one who took the message? I recognized her voice immediately.’
‘Oh,’ said Spencer, following none of this explanation. His foot had started hurting again.
‘And I’ve discovered that she knows first aid as well. So many skills. Anyway…’ He leaned over and gently squeezed Spencer’s shoulder. ‘Look after yourself,’ he said, ‘and try to avoid socializing with patients. It’s never a good idea.’
Iris had gone rather pink.
‘What did he mean?’
asked Spencer. ‘About patients?’
‘Oh.’ She seemed to collect herself. ‘You might not remember, but Mr Hickey hit you with a spade and then Callum Strang climbed over the wall and started a fight with him and accidentally trod on your foot. That’s not broken either but it’s a bit bruised.’
‘Did –’ he struggled to remember something about the evening ‘– did your father ever turn up?’
‘Yes.’ She looked at him, her expression unreadable. ‘He arrived at the same time as the two police cars and the ambulance.’
‘Hey,’ said Spencer, closing his eyes again. ‘Great party.’
19
‘He’s fine, honestly. He’s been eating like a horse.’
‘Has he been sick at all? He had a bit of sicky-tummy just before we left.’
‘He’s been sick once. In the garden.’ It would have been in the kitchen if she hadn’t yelled at him, just as he began the preliminary heaves.
‘Oh poor Mr Tibbs.’
‘Really, Sylvie, he’s fine. I’ve been combing him and… stroking him and…’
‘Loving him?’
Fran looked across at where the cat lay against the door of the refrigerator, his new favourite place since Barry had trodden on him. Yesterday, when she’d needed to get some milk out, Tibbs had lashed at her ankles and drawn blood. ‘I’ve done my very best,’ she said, honestly. ‘Are you having a nice time?’
‘A beautiful time,’ said Sylvie, gravely.
‘Well… good. I’ll see you on Friday then.’
‘Oh – Peter wants to talk to you. He’s got a little bit of news.’
There was a pause; Mr Tibbs stretched lavishly and started to sharpen his claws on the polished wood floor.
‘Hello, Fran. Everything all right?’
‘Yes fine.’ She had decided to postpone passing on the long list of things that currently weren’t in any way all right, until their return.
‘I thought I’d better tell you,’ said Peter, ‘I gave Norwich a ring today. I’ve got the job.’
‘Oh. Well done.’
‘So, er… I’ll have to give in my notice. Six weeks.’
‘Six weeks.’
‘Yes.’ There was a flurry of whispers. ‘Oh – Sylvie wants another word.’
‘Fran, there was just one more thing. I know it’s a lot to ask but I wondered if you could clean the piano keys.’
