I shrugged. “T-shirts and jeans, I guess. I suppose I won’t be needing the sequinned dress for a while. Or the tiara. But I’d like my phone.”
“Right. I’ll see what I can do.” He paused in the doorway, noting my expression. “Something else on your mind?”
“Hm. I suppose the rehab team are a lot like Josie, aren’t they? Fiendishly bossy.”
“Of course. It’s part of their training to deal with awkward patients like you. They probably have to practise martial arts as well. Just grit your teeth – it’s only two weeks.”
“Will you come and see me? I might get very, very bored.”
He shook his head. “You won’t have time to be bored. When they’re not making you work you’ll be only too glad to sleep. And it wouldn’t be a good idea for me to visit, even if I had time. You know what hospitals are like – hotbeds of gossip. It’s different now, when you’re still in the hospital, when I have every reason to check how things are going. But if I were to visit you there, when I don’t do it for other patients, there’ll be whispering and gossips will put two and two together and make fifty.”
“I guess so.”
He heard my gloom and relented. “I’ll ring you from time to time, if you like.”
“That would be nice. I want to know how Jasper’s exams are going.” He nodded and made as if to go. “Michael –” He raised his eyebrows enquiringly. “Thank you for being so kind. I don’t know why you are when I am so feeble and difficult, but thanks anyway.”
“You’re welcome. I particularly like feeble and difficult people.”
“Go away! If I could I’d throw a pillow at you!”
Those two weeks – a bit less, as it turned out – were among the most gruelling I could remember. Michael was wrong – I was horribly bored – but not because I had too little to do; on the contrary, I was kept at it without mercy. The rehab team were not bullies at all: they were patient, professional, unruffled. But they were also determined. I spent many hours squeezing a tennis ball, pounding dough, rolling out pastry. As time went on and my strength and flexibility improved, the orthoses came off for longer and longer each day, until I was wearing them only at night. Finally I was allowed in the shower by myself – such a small thing, so taken for granted by the able-bodied, but such a relief. I knew that by their standards I was doing well. They told me, go on like this and you’ll soon be home. But it was never enough: I didn’t just want to be independent in ordinary life, though that was of course hugely desirable – I wanted to be back where I was, in the operating theatre, and I knew that was still far out of reach.
“I am bored,” I said to Michael one evening when he phoned. “I don’t care for idiot television. I don’t need things to do – I have plenty of that all day – I need things to think about. Can you get someone to bring me some of my books? My laptop? I need to keep up with what’s going on.”
He sighed. “Send me a list.”
I was relatively young, and in good health; I worked hard at the prescribed exercises; I tried to keep fit, using the gym next door as far as I was permitted with my injuries. Physically I healed. Mentally, emotionally, though I hid it well, I was a mess. I could feel the fear, the doubt, the anguish, welling up inside me, threatening to engulf my rational self, and it took all my willpower to thrust it down. No one must notice, no one must feel concern, interfere, suggest counselling – make me feel even weaker. All I wanted was to go home, lock the door, and fall apart unseen.
They sent me home, full of praise for my attitude and my progress, apparently not noticing the weak and sickly smile with which I greeted these effusions. If they had seen what was really going on inside my head, what would they have done? Flapped about like elderly chickens trying to escape the fox? Reported me to the psychiatric wing?
I came back to my flat, which I found clean and gleaming – no doubt the work of Angela Axton, that kind and efficient woman. I shut the door, and did nothing, because it seemed there was nothing to do. It was June, and warm, but I closed every window except one, which I left open just a crack. I didn’t want to hear the sound of revellers on the river, or the thwack of cricket balls, or the song of the birds. I wanted to be in the dark: to embrace a sense of nowhere and nothing. Such thoughts as I had were chaotic and senseless. I didn’t even have the energy or determination to wash down a bunch of pills with a bottle of vodka. The Rachel of rehab, false construct that she was, quickly turned into Rachel the nonentity, who was at best a sopping dishrag of self-pity, wallowing in a glutinous emotional soup. I went to bed and pulled the quilt over my head. I thought I would find a safe, grey place in sleep, but sleep was populated by hideous images: staring eyes and bloody knives and open-chested corpses that crawled off operating tables and danced around, exposed organs spattering the walls with sticky red. I had no tears, but screams welled up, and I covered my face with my pillow to stifle them lest anyone should hear.
I’d been home less than two days when a hammering came at my door. I ignored it, but it became more and more insistent, and then someone was shouting, and this alarmed me so much I dragged myself off the bed and up the hall, and pulled the door open just to shut it up. I stumbled back and half-hid behind the door.
“Rachel, what in heaven’s name is going on? Why is it so dark in here?” Michael stood in the doorway, in his hand a dog’s leash, with Dulcie on the end of it, straining to be free. “Can we come in?”
I said nothing. He came in and shut the door, then bent and unclipped Dulcie’s leash. Free, she leapt up on me, almost knocking me over, then proceeded to race around the flat like a missile.
Michael snapped on the light. He looked suntanned, and in need of a haircut. He stared at me, his eyes wide. “How long have you been home?” he asked softly.
My voice came out in a croak. “Two days, maybe. Two months. I don’t know. What day is it, anyway?”
“Saturday. I’ve been away. I didn’t know they were discharging you, or I’d have come back sooner.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I mumbled.
“Clearly it does,” he said, his tone harsh. “Has anyone been in to see you since you got back?” I shook my head. “Good heavens, Rachel – what a mess. It smells stale in here.” He shook his head, looking around at the flat. “Have you eaten today?”
“No. I don’t want anything.”
“Come with me.” He took my hand, led me into the sitting room, and sat me down on the sofa. He sat down beside me. “Look at me, Rachel.” Reluctantly I faced him. “This can’t go on.” He spoke softly, but there was steel in his tone, and I felt myself shudder. He still had hold of my hand. “If you are feeling this bad, you will have to see my friend the shrink.” I shook my head violently. “All right. But you said you’d speak to me, and I’m going to insist you do. Agreed?” I just stared at him. “Agreed, Rachel?” I made myself nod. “OK. First you go and take a shower, and put on some clean clothes. I’m going to open the windows. Even Dulcie can’t stand it, and she loves things that stink. Then I’m going to make you some strong coffee and something to eat. If I know Angela there’ll be ingredients in the fridge. After that you’re going to talk to me. I won’t go away until you have.”
I didn’t move. “Why?” I muttered.
“Because I’m not going to let you fall apart. Not when you have come this far. Now please, do us all a kindness: go and wash.”
I did as he said, and it took me a long time. I used to go for a run, shower, and be back at my books in an hour. Now I seemed to go into a brainless dream, waking to find that I was still standing under the pounding water, soaking, soap in hand, motionless. At last I managed to step out, dripping everywhere, towel myself down, and rub my hair into damp clumps. Despite everything it felt better to be clean. I wrapped the towel round myself and scuttled into the bedroom, pulled on jeans and a T-shirt at random, brushed my hair into a semblance of order, then doubled back to the bathroom to clean my teeth. As I emerged Dulcie was sitting outside the door, head on one
side, a canine smile on her knowing face.
I bent and ran my hand over her flanks. “Hello, girl.”
Michael came out of the kitchen. “Come and sit down.” The harshness was gone from his voice; he spoke so gently I felt unwelcome tears well up. No! No crying, I told myself savagely. But it was no use. From somewhere a tap had been opened, a fountain switched on, and I felt my chest heave and tears brim over. Michael took me by the elbow, guided me into the kitchen, and pulled out a stool. “It’s perfectly all right to cry,” he said. “Tears are not a sign of weakness; they’re an outlet for something that can’t be held back any more – grief, shock, depression, trauma, loss, whatever. And you’re suffering from all of those, Rachel. If you won’t be kind to yourself you’ll have to let others do it.” He tore off a sheet of kitchen paper and handed it to me. Then he poured a mug of coffee from a steaming cafetière and put it in front of me. “Drink.” I picked it up with a shaky hand and sipped. It was scalding and strong. “I just made you some toast. For now. Proper food later, when you feel like it. But I’m not moving from here till I see you’ve eaten something.” Surprising myself, I found I had no wish that he should leave. I took a bite and chewed. Butter ran down my chin. It tasted amazing. How had I forgotten the taste of food and the restorative effects of caffeine? Michael leaned up against the kitchen counter, arms folded, nodding his approval. He said nothing till he saw me finish the toast and take several gulps of coffee. “Right. Let’s go and sit somewhere comfortable and you can tell me what the heck’s been going on.”
He followed me into the sitting room. Dulcie, who until now had been lurking under the kitchen table in case I dropped a morsel of food, came with him, looking up at him in hopeful enquiry. “Lie down, girl,” he said, stroking her ears. “I’ll take you for a walk later.” I curled up in the corner of the sofa, put the coffee on a small table beside it, and wrapped my arms around my body. He planted himself in a chair opposite and sat silent, just looking at me, waiting for me to say something.
“Nothing’s been going on.” My voice was a croak from lack of use. “I’ve been here. That’s all.”
He drew a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “OK. What’s been going on inside your head?”
I closed my eyes. “Why would you want to see that crazy stuff when I don’t want to see it myself?”
He shook his head. “I don’t want to know your secrets, Rachel. I’m not trying to be nosy. Maybe I should come clean – you said you wouldn’t talk to my friend John Sutcliffe, the psychiatrist. So I asked him about you, what I should do, because I’m all at sea.”
My eyes flew open. “You’ve been talking about me?”
He shrugged. “What else could I do? I told you before – I’m a plastic surgeon, not a trained psychiatrist. John just gave me a few general suggestions, because he agreed with me that you need to open up the closet and let your skeletons out – for the sake of your mental health.”
“Huh. My skeletons are probably the sort that’d dance round the room, out of the door and down the High Street, playing the bagpipes. Are you telling me I’m crazy?”
“You admitted to suicidal feelings.”
“OK, OK. What do you want to talk about?”
“Your mother, maybe?”
I sat up. “My mother?”
“All right, here’s something more specific. Did your parents divorce?”
“No.” I unfolded my arms, picked at a loose thread in the sofa fabric, staring at it till the weave went out of focus. “They stayed married, more or less, until the end.”
“Were they happy?”
I pulled a face. “Maybe once. I don’t know. Their relationship was a mystery to me, still is when I think about it – which is hardly ever.” I looked up at him and scowled. Why was he asking all these questions? Though of course I thought I knew.
“How did they meet?”
I sighed. “All right. I’ll tell you the sad story of the dysfunctional Keytes, if that’s what you’re after.” I looked at him sideways. “Maybe I’ll ask you some questions, seeing as you’re not my psychiatrist.”
He smiled, his eyes crinkling. “Feel free.”
A thought struck me. “Where have you been? You said you’d been away.”
“Oh, just down to Roqueville, our little place in France. It’s a while since I went, and it’s June, so the garden needed attention. I only went for a few days – it’s all I could spare.”
“What did you do with Dulcie?”
“Normally she’d have come with me, but it wasn’t worth it for such a short time. The Axtons had her for me.”
“And what about Jasper? Are his exams over?”
“Not quite. But even when they are, he’ll be starting on his A-level courses. The school likes to keep its students busy.” He paused. “So… your parents. John tells me it all starts with them. What was so mysterious?”
“What they saw in each other,” I said. I felt the past creeping up behind me, like a cold draught, and I squirmed deeper into the sofa. “Apart from a pretty intense sexual attraction, which children don’t normally want to contemplate, even if they have any notion of what it’s all about.” I saw him frown. “My mother was very beautiful in her day – you can still see traces of it, even though she’s in her seventies now. And very vain, too – nothing’s changed there. She’s always perfectly made-up and immaculately turned out. Her shoes always match her outfit. She’s very disparaging about women who let themselves go, don’t take the trouble – I’m a complete failure in her eyes.” I tried to smile, but it was more of a sneer. “Anyway, there she was, in her twenties, an up-and-coming actress, stage and screen, considered to be talented. You might even have heard of her – Frances Chester. It’s been a while, of course.”
“Mm. You know, I think I might have seen something she was in,” Michael said, surprised. “The name’s familiar.”
“She was best known in her twenties and early thirties, but she went on working for quite some years till the parts dwindled and finally ran out. Then she did some radio work. She had – still has – a very striking voice.”
“Were you proud of her achievements when you were young?”
“No. All I knew was she was never there. She never wanted us, especially me. All she cared about was her career. And there were some nasty rows.” I shivered.
Michael frowned. “Are you cold?”
“No. But I’m not really having a lot of fun.”
“It’s therapy, not pleasure.”
“Oh. I thought we were having a conversation.” I knew I sounded like a sulky child.
“Rachel, don’t be difficult.”
“Ha. That’s like saying, ‘don’t breathe’. I know you’re trying to help, but did I ask for it?”
“You agreed: me or the psychiatrist. OK, what about your father?”
I gathered up my thoughts, let the memories coalesce. “Henry Keyte, always known as Harry – or even Hal, sometimes. He was a carpenter, got involved in making stage sets. That’s how they met.” I hesitated, thinking. “I think my mother would have been quite happy to have had a torrid affair with my father and then moved on when she was bored. But she never did get bored, not with him – just with the tedium of family life. Anyway, he wouldn’t hear of it. It was marriage or nothing. So she gave in. She told me once it was a big mistake, that she was blinded by lust.” I saw Michael blink. “It was an odd thing to say to a nine-year-old. I asked my dad what it meant. He was not amused. Sparked one of their rows. But that was later.”
“What was he like?” Michael said softly.
“Six foot three. Blond and bearded, bright blue eyes, always laughing. He looked like a Viking. All he needed was the horned helmet and the longboat. For me the mystery’s not what she saw in him but what he wanted from her. They were a pretty ill-matched pair.”
“He wouldn’t have been content with a fling, then?”
I looked up. “No, I told you,” I said sharply, “he was a believer in hi
s way, a man of stern principle. He wanted a family, and a proper base for his children, as he saw it. How he thought he’d have what he wanted with her beats me. He wasn’t at all stupid. Maybe he was ‘blinded by lust’ too.” I heaved a sigh. “Anyway, he wanted children, she resisted, but eventually she gave in and said she’d have just one. That was Martin, and she was affectionate to him when she remembered. Then the crunch came – Dad wanted another child; she refused quite fiercely, said it would wreck her career which was doing well at that point, and her career was her focus, what she cared about most. Even today remembering her past glories is what keeps her going. Martin was looked after mostly by my father and paid carers, and when he went to school she thought she’d be free – not that she really ever let being a mother get in her way. Still, accidents happen. I was that accident: an unwanted, unlovable, puking little accident. She wanted to abort me, but my father went crazy and wouldn’t hear of it.”
Michael’s eyes widened. “How do you know that?”
“She told me herself. She was in a rage; she’d lost the chance of some audition because I was ill with some childish ailment and my dad was working away.”
“Maybe she didn’t mean it.”
I shook my head. “No, she meant it.” I picked up my coffee cup. “Ugh, this has gone cold.”
“I can make some more if you like.”
“Haven’t you got anything more important to do, Michael? You must be bored witless.”
“On the contrary. And I have no particular plans, except that later I’d like to make you something to eat and stand over you till it’s all gone.”
“I thought you were a nice man, not a bully.”
“Just shows how wrong you can be, doesn’t it?” He smiled that crinkly smile. “Right – coffee. Don’t run away.”
Five minutes later he returned with a fresh cup. “What a blessing you had one kind parent,” he said thoughtfully. “All the worse to have lost him. How old were you?”
I grimaced. “Not quite fifteen. But I don’t think I’m strong enough to talk about him dying. It wasn’t just that he died; it was the way it happened. Let’s leave that for another day.”
The Healing Knife Page 14
