“That’s something you like, isn’t it?”
He scraped the plate. “I like history generally. I don’t like what we’ve been doing the last couple of years. Unbelievably boring.”
“Please, Jasper, no more.”
“You’ve hardly eaten anything.”
“I’ll have that tub of yogurt. Protein and vitamins. Have you thought any more about your A-level subjects?”
“Yes,” Jasper said, peeling the lid off the yogurt. “Dad and I had a long chat about it last night. He said if I still had no idea what I wanted to do I should choose subjects I liked, and if I ended up stacking shelves in the supermarket at least I’d be an educated shelf-stacker.”
“He said that? I haven’t seen much evidence of his sense of humour.”
Jasper looked up in surprise. “Oh, he definitely has one! I guess,” he added, sobering, “what happened to you isn’t something he’d find funny. So he’d hardly be visiting you and cracking jokes. Open up, please.”
I obeyed, and the yogurt was dispatched with merciful speed. “So, what have you decided?”
“History, psychology, biology, statistics. I can ditch statistics next year.”
“Not the most obvious combination.”
He grinned. “I keep telling you: I’m not the most obvious person!” He took the tray and put it on the windowsill. “Now,” he said, planting himself back in the chair and folding his arms, “enough of all that boring stuff – what about you? I want to hear everything.”
“What, the grisly details of my trip to the shower this morning?”
“OK – no, not that,” Jasper said, and I was amused to see him blush. “What I mean is, I want to know how you really are.”
I sighed. “Well, my face you can see for yourself. Your father tells me it will be very thin and discreet, with time. I’ve been put under the care of a fearsome physiotherapist called Josie, and at some point she’s bringing me some orthoses. Know what those are?”
“Yes, I’ve heard of them.” He hesitated. “But Dad’s told me how the operation went, and how you seem to be healing up OK. I guess he’ll take a look at your hands tomorrow, won’t he, when the splints and bandages come off. I’m sure he’s done a brilliant job, because he always does. People say that, so it’s not just me being a loyal son!” He bit his lip. “I meant more, how are you doing, like, in your head? I’m worried you might be getting post-traumatic shock, or depression, or something.”
I was surprised, not for the first time, and touched by his concern. I hadn’t thought anyone might be worried about me. Nevertheless I frowned. “So you and your dad have been discussing my mental state?”
“Oh no; not at all,” Jasper said. “I’ve just been thinking about it. Dad doesn’t actually discuss his patients with me, but you’re a friend, and he knows I’m worried.”
“Well…” I took a deep breath. “I don’t know what to say, Jasper.” I thought, and he watched me. “Yesterday I had a really unexpected visit, from a priest. One of his congregation is my attacker, Eve Rawlins. He wanted me to forgive her.”
Jasper’s eyes widened. “Really? What did you say?”
“What do you think?”
He blew out his breath. “I don’t know, Rachel. Maybe one day? That’s hard.”
“And then,” I said, “I had another visitor. Someone you might have described as my boyfriend. But he isn’t any more.”
“What?” Jasper said, his dark eyebrows shooting into his hairline. “He dumped you yesterday?”
I shook my head. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. He had very good reason. And I don’t think we’d have made much of a couple, not for long.”
“But Rachel,” Jasper’s voice rose, “how can you be philosophical? That’s awful! How could he do that, I mean, now of all times? I feel like I want to go find him and whack him.”
“Just as well you don’t know where he lives then, isn’t it?” I said, smiling. “Anyway, I don’t think whacking is really your style. Look, Jasper, please don’t worry. I’ll be OK, especially when I get out of here and don’t feel like a helpless, useless invalid. Put me out of your mind – I don’t want you to be at all distracted from your exams because of me.”
“I can’t believe someone could do that to you, Rachel. It’s terrible.”
I heard a light rapping on the frame of the door, which Jasper had left ajar, and Michael appeared in the doorway. He smiled. “Hello, Rachel.” He turned to his son. “JB, sorry, but we have to go. Otherwise the traffic will pile up.”
Jasper stood up and put the chair back. For a moment he just looked at me, his eyes searching my face. I said nothing, but looked back at him enquiringly. Then he said, in a jumbled rush, “Look, Rachel – I have to get back to London. But I’ll pray for you.”
“You’ll –?”
“Sorry, got to go.” He leaned over me and brushed my cheek with his lips. “Bye. Get well.”
I had a few lonely hours to ponder Jasper’s surprising offer. He was a decent boy, I knew that, and in his own words “not typical”. But I hadn’t seen him as someone who might pray, and that gave me a lot to think about. Was it just him, a maverick convert, or were one or both of his parents Christians – or someone else in his circle? It was a puzzle.
But surprises weren’t over for me that strange Sunday. I had just managed to drink a cup of tea – a drink I normally avoid, but that’s all that was on offer that afternoon, and I was parched. Not only was the weather outside warm, but the hospital was kept at what I felt was a wholly unhealthy temperature. Tea makes me bilious, and today was no exception. I’m sure I looked as bad as I felt.
At about five thirty a knock came at my door. “I suppose you can come in,” I said ungraciously. I couldn’t think of anyone I really wanted to see – except perhaps my brother Martin, and he was on the other side of the world. Michael appeared in the doorway. “Permission to visit?” he said. “I’m just back from taking Jasper to London.”
“Seems to me you already are visiting,” I said. I couldn’t be bothered to crank out the charm, but he obviously didn’t mind, because I saw him smother a wry smile.
He pulled up the chair and sat down. “Am I allowed to ask how you are, or is that too tedious?”
“It’s very tedious. Most people who ask that question want to hear some gallant little lie, like, ‘Oh, not so bad, getting there; many people worse off, etc.’”
“Perhaps I am not ‘most people’, though,” he said.
“That’s almost what Jasper says about himself.”
“With reason.”
“So,” I eyed him suspiciously, “are you here in a professional capacity, or just as a friendly visitor?”
“Just a visitor,” he said. “I’m not on duty. I will be tomorrow, when I come by and observe the removal of your splints and dressings, and see what your hands are looking like – despite the fact that it’s a national holiday. But for now, I would like to know how you are, and I don’t need defending from the truth.”
I heaved a deep sigh. “Then you’re braver than most.” I turned my head, avoiding his steady gaze. “I feel rubbish. Sore, useless, humiliated, angry. I would scream, but it would upset the other patients, and I’m sure many of them are in a worse state than me.”
“Yes, some of them are.” He fell silent for a moment. “Rachel, I need to ask you something.” His tone had altered, and I felt compelled to turn back and look at him, but I said nothing. The silence lengthened. “Tell me to get lost if I am overstepping any boundaries,” he said, “but I’ve been talking to a psychiatrist friend, and I feel bound to ask. Do you feel, have you felt, at any point…”
“Suicidal?” I said bluntly. “Sure I have. Not at this moment, perhaps. If you were in my shoes, wouldn’t it occur to you?”
“Of course not,” he said, and I blinked at the sharpness of his tone. “Life is precious. And people would be hurt.”
“Maybe in your case they would,” I countered. “I would soon be forg
otten; nothing but a vaguely uncomfortable memory.” To my horror, despite my every effort and my proud look, I felt my eyes well up. “Bother, damn, and many stronger words,” I muttered.
His voice softened. “Look, I empathize with your situation. To lose the use of my hands would be a disaster. But I’m hopeful that you won’t lose the use of yours, provided you do as you’re told by the physiotherapy team – and me.” He smiled. “That’s going to be tough, I know.”
“Even if what you say is true,” I said, “can you guarantee I’ll be able to work at the same level?”
“No, I can’t. Obviously. There are too many factors, too many unknowns.” He pursed his lips, thinking. “Let me ask you something else. Before it ever occurred to you to be a surgeon, what were you good at? What did you like to do?”
“Whoa! You’re talking a long time ago. I was just a kid.”
“So what did the child Rachel like doing?”
I managed a faint smile. “For a start, only my mother and my teachers ever called me Rachel. I spent most of my spare time with my dad and my brother, and they always called me Lizzie. Martin still does.”
“So what do you think of when you remember being Lizzie?” he said softly.
I raised my eyebrows. I thought I knew where this was going. “Oh, you know,” I said with patently false lightness, “nice things: innocence, safety, acceptance, fun. Love – yes, that too. All in the past.” He was looking at me gravely. “Your psychiatrist friend would be digging away by now, wouldn’t he? Unearthing all my secrets.”
“Maybe he would, but since you refuse to talk to him it’s academic. And you haven’t answered my question.”
“What, the things I liked doing?” He nodded. “I liked doing things with my dad. He taught me and my brother a lot of things – useful, practical things, as well as the stuff parents normally teach their kids.”
“Such as?”
“How to swim. Ride a bike. Make a pie. Rattle off our multiplication tables.” I paused, summoning up a time long buried. “He made us do our piano practice. Martin resisted; I never did. But less obvious things too. By the time I went to secondary school I knew how to wire a plug, change a wheel, grow simple vegetables. I could tell a flower from a weed. He taught us how to cook. Catch a fish. Pitch a tent in the rain.” I glanced Michael’s way. “Not bored yet with my reminiscences?”
“They’re hardly that,” he murmured. “Anything else?”
“Plenty. He taught us to love music. Even Bach and opera, not things ten-year-olds normally appreciate. And he shared his love of nature, animals, birds, forests, mountains, as well as human achievements – artistic endeavours, scientific discoveries. Museums, castles, churches, history.”
“Tell me something you remember.”
“Hm… camping out, lying on our backs in the grass at night, naming the stars.” Suddenly I felt this had all gone far enough. “And,” I said with some asperity, “I learned how to train a dog. I practised on the amiable Bertie, who was none too bright. Compared to him your Dulcie is a canine genius. She could definitely do with training.”
Michael chuckled. “I don’t dispute that. Feel free, any time.”
I gave him what I hoped was a stern look. “Why do you have a dog like Dulcie, when you can’t spare the time to train her properly? It’s a terrible waste, letting a collie run wild. Aren’t they one of the cleverest breeds?”
“I agree,” Michael said. “I am a failure as a dog owner. But as to why I have her, she was a present – one I couldn’t refuse, in the circumstances.” I raised an eyebrow. Michael cleared his throat. “Jasper gave her to me, the Christmas after he and Alison left Brant for London. Jasper had just turned twelve. He was worried I’d be lonely.”
“It was his idea? He didn’t consult?”
Michael smiled. “Not that I know of. I’m pretty sure his mother would have put a damper on it – sensibly, of course.”
“How did a twelve-year-old boy, in London, acquire a collie puppy?”
“Ah, well, he organized it even before they left. The family of a friend of his from his primary school here had a pregnant bitch. Jasper earmarked one for me, and because the family knew us they didn’t object. But he said nothing to anyone. Came down here one weekend, went ‘for a walk’ and came back with a black and white bundle of fluff in his arms. She was nine weeks old. Absolutely irresistible: tiny and defenceless, but brave and sturdy with that knowing look collies often have, that dash of sheer delightful wickedness.”
I was silent for a moment, thinking about a lonely boy worrying about his father. “Resourceful Jasper,” I murmured. “Perhaps a little misguided, but very kind.”
“So,” Michael said, “in your opinion, have I done better as a parent?” I had challenged him, and he was amused.
“Yes,” I said, “of course. Jasper is both clever and good, from what I have seen of him. But for all I know that could be his mother’s influence.” Michael raised his eyebrows and did not comment. But there was something I wanted to know, and if he thought it was OK to grill me, then I felt I could ask him personal questions too. “You know, I was intrigued by what he said when he left.”
“What was that?”
“He said he would pray for me. You must have heard him.”
“Oh. Well, that’s not a surprise, except that he actually said it. He is bolder than his father.” He paused. “We have both prayed for you.”
“That answers my question.” I didn’t really know what to say, and Michael wasn’t helping. Memories were intruding; I wasn’t certain that they were welcome, but they were insistent. “Actually, my dad was a believer. He wasn’t much of a churchgoer, but he delighted in creation, as he put it. It filled him with gratitude, he said.”
“Did he communicate that to his children as well?”
Suddenly I felt I was stepping out onto quicksand, and I shivered. “Yes. As a child I took it all on board. But I’m not a child any more, and the things he taught us are all very much in the past.” I pulled a face. “I’d probably struggle with tent-pitching these days.”
He was silent for several moments. “Is your mother still alive? You barely mention her.”
I smiled sourly. “Very much so. But she wasn’t much of a parent. Never wanted to be one.”
“Should we have informed her what has happened to you?”
“Please, don’t bother. It will make no difference.”
A wave of weariness washed over me, and Michael saw it. “I’m sorry. You’re looking tired. I’ll leave you in peace.” He stood up, looking down at me. “I’ll see you in the morning. In my professional role, white coat and all.” I nodded. “Hope you get some sleep. But I’d like to carry on talking about this, if you feel up to it.”
I closed my eyes. “Whatever.”
He paused at the door. “Bye for now.”
I lifted one splinted hand off the bed. Then he was gone.
“Rehab? What am I, a drunk, a drug addict?” I knew I was being cantankerous and obtuse.
“No,” Michael said. “Just someone who needs rehabilitating, as you are well aware.”
“I thought I was going home. Or what serves as home these days – my little granny flat.”
“And how are you going to look after yourself?” he reasoned. “Wash, cook, dress, and so on? With those on?” He waved a hand at my hands, wrapped in webbing orthoses, just the top joints of my fingers showing. “You want Angela Axton popping in every time you need the toilet?”
I shuddered. “I don’t want anyone.”
“Two weeks,” he said. “That’s all. Then if things are going well you can go home. You’ll have to do as you’re told and work hard.” Did I see a gleam in his eye? Was he enjoying the thought of my having to learn meek obedience? I said nothing, my lips in a tight line. “Rachel,” he said, “it’s only two weeks, but they may be the most important weeks of your life to date. Think of it as the first step to getting back to where you want to be. You can do that much, I
know.”
“Really?” My eyes narrowed.
“Think about all the years of graft you’ve put in. All the pompous fools you’ve suffered. All the old goats who’ve leered at you at the same time as putting you down for being young and female in a male-dominated specialism.”
I was startled. “How do you know about them?”
He shrugged. “It’s part of the culture.”
“It’s true,” I said. “Years ago an eminent senior surgeon had huge fun rubbing up against me when I was actually operating. If I had slipped and severed something vital it would have been my fault, wouldn’t it?”
“How did you handle that?”
“What could I do? I ignored him.”
“You got on with the job in hand. And that’s what you have to do now –the job is to recover what you’ve lost, by whatever means are on offer. Two weeks with the rehab team, physiotherapy till you’re sick of it. With any luck, when it’s over you’ll be able to attend to your own physical needs and keep your dignity intact.”
I sighed. “OK. When do I start?”
He smiled. “Just as soon as we can get it organized – probably in the next few days. From what I saw of your hands when we took the splints and bandages off they’re healing well.”
I turned to look at him. I was lounging on the bed in my pyjamas; he was sitting in the chair, leaning back. I thought he looked tired. “I must have had a pretty decent surgeon, then,” I said. “Wouldn’t you say?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Might have been that butcher they employ in this hospital. Just a fluke he didn’t carve you up well and truly.”
“Very funny. Honestly, Michael, I know I owe you one.”
“Nonsense. It’s my job.” He stood up suddenly. “This won’t do. I’m going to set the wheels in motion, get you discharged and a room ready for you in rehab. Better pack a bag.”
“Even with these on my hands,” I lifted them up, “I can pack two pairs of PJs and a toothbrush.”
He shook his head. “You’ll need more than that. You’ll be in your own clothes. I’ll call round at the Axtons’ and ask Angela to gather a few of your things. Is there anything you specially want?”
The Healing Knife Page 13
