The Goodbye Gift

by Amanda Brooke

  ‘Are you sure you’re ready?’

  Phoebe laughed softly. ‘What other choice do I have?’

  Paul’s features deepened with worry. ‘Don’t give up,’ he said and then bit his lip before adding, ‘Look, I’ll see what I can do about the driving lessons. I could always forgo the odd session at the gym.’

  ‘You mean go behind Julia’s back again?’ Despite herself, the idea gave Phoebe a certain thrill and lifted her spirits ever so slightly.

  ‘She would want me to help you if she was thinking straight and we can tell her after the fact. After you’ve passed your test.’

  ‘Thank you, Paul,’ Phoebe replied and leaned over to kiss his cheek. She kept her body close to his a fraction longer than she needed but Paul didn’t object. Even so, neither made eye contact as she turned away and got out of the car.

  When Paul drove off, Phoebe was reminded of all those other times he had taken her home. She kept looking over her shoulder until the car disappeared around a corner, which summed up Phoebe’s problems in general. She spent half her life looking back.

  17

  The Accident

  When Anya returned to the ward to collect her things, she saw a man loitering behind a laundry cage and recognized him immediately. She had already told Paul Richardson on numerous occasions that his wife was refusing to see him. ‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ she said. ‘If Sister catches you, you’ll be in so much trouble, and now that I’ve found you, so will I.’

  ‘I need to see my wife,’ Paul said, his voice shaking almost as much as the rest of his body.

  Anya had seen a lot of people in her time emerging from shock only to be consumed by varying degrees of pain, grief, or guilt, but this man appeared to be carrying more than his fair share. Helen Butler’s ex-husband had described him perfectly. He was a mess.

  ‘She’s resting now,’ Anya said. She took his arm and guided him gently towards a nearby chair. ‘Please, just give her body time to recover from the traumas of the day and her mind will catch up. Tomorrow.’

  ‘I phoned her mum,’ he said. ‘She lives in Spain and was ready to camp out at the airport until she could get a flight home. I told her to wait until tomorrow too. I did the right thing, didn’t I?

  Anya’s answer wasn’t as quick as it could have been. Her experience of working in A & E in particular had taught her that there were no guarantees. ‘She’s still on IV meds because we can’t get her to tolerate food or liquids but we’ll try again tomorrow,’ she explained in spite of his wife’s instructions not to give him any information on the state of her health. ‘There’s nothing more to be done tonight, but we’ll let you know if anything changes.’

  Paul pressed his fingers hard against his lips to stifle a sob. His hand trembled and it took a couple of painful gulps before he could speak. ‘It’s all my fault!’ he cried, his voice so weak it was a whisper. ‘And I don’t blame her for not wanting to see me. But I do need to explain. I have to tell her how sorry I am.’

  Anya had no idea what could have happened between the couple that would make Julia reject him so completely, but she could hazard a guess. Anya had been married for eight years and had had her fair share of marital challenges. She still hadn’t completely forgiven her husband for what he had done to her, and although Julia was barely conscious, Anya thought she recognized that same depth of pain that only came from betrayal. She knew she shouldn’t jump to conclusions and it wasn’t her place to judge the man sitting next to her based on so little evidence, but as she opened her mouth to speak, the words wouldn’t come. There was nothing she could say to ease Paul Richardson’s conscience and she doubted anyone could, except his wife. The only comfort she could offer was to place a hand on his back and begin to rub.

  ‘What about the others?’ he asked, and when Anya’s hand paused, his body immediately tensed. ‘Are Phoebe and Helen all right?’

  ‘I’ve just been to see Helen and she’s critical but stable.’

  Paul was looking at her intently. ‘Phoebe?’

  ‘She had some post-operative issues,’ Anya said carefully. The repair to the tear in her spleen had taken two attempts and there was still a chance it would have to be removed. ‘But I should think she’ll be transferred to the ward at some point this evening, all being well.’

  ‘Will you tell me when that happens?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m about to go home and get some sleep. There’s nothing more you can do tonight, other than grab some sleep yourself.’

  ‘No, I can’t. I won’t rest until I know everyone’s going to be OK. It’s all my fault,’ he said and then, in case Anya still wasn’t getting the point he was making, he added, ‘It’s all my stupid, stupid fault.’

  18

  Phoebe opened the front door without a sound and just as silently, slipped into the house. The thick pile carpet cushioned her socked footfalls, her boots already left on a rack in the enclosed porch, and the only sound came from a radio deep inside the house. The background noise should have disguised the creak of the first step on the stairs, but her grandmother’s hearing was not one of her failings.

  ‘Is that you?’

  Phoebe tried to analyse the intonation of those three words. She had become expert at judging her grandmother’s mood by the tone of voice and it presently suggested that she was feeling uncharacte‌ristically vulnerable. This only happened after one of her episodes and even then, rarely so.

  ‘I was about to get changed,’ Phoebe said when she poked her head into the drawing room. Her nan was in an armchair, a blanket covering her legs, and a book open on her lap. One of Phoebe’s duties was to go to the library every week and select half a dozen titles. The choice these days was irrelevant because her nan’s imperfect memory meant that she struggled to follow the plot, but so far that hadn’t deterred Theresa from the practice of reading and, with dogged determination, she always kept a book to hand.

  ‘Why am I still here?’ she asked as if Phoebe were to blame for the afternoon’s debacle.

  ‘You didn’t want to go, Nan.’

  ‘Rubbish!’

  ‘No, Nan, honestly. You outright refused.’

  The creases on Theresa’s already furrowed brow deepened and then she released a frustrated sigh. ‘I don’t remember. Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, Nan.’

  ‘You should have made me go, Phoebe. I’ve told you before, you need to be more assertive. How can I leave you to take care of things if you let a frail old lady ride roughshod over you?’

  Theresa’s eyes had narrowed as she searched her granddaughter’s face for answers that her own memory refused to provide and Phoebe withered under her gaze. If there was one person she would never be able to stand up to, it was her nan. When she had been in the peak of mental health, there had been few people who could win an argument with Mrs Dodd, and her illness had only served to strengthen her stubborn streak. What the seemingly frail old lady was blissfully unaware of was that when she wasn’t being her usual supercilious self, she was someone far worse. Someone Phoebe feared.

  Failing to receive an answer from her granddaughter, Theresa reached her own conclusions. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? You didn’t want me to go,’ she said, her voice a mixture of resignation and condemnation.

  ‘If you want, we can try again tomorrow.’

  ‘Is that what you want?’

  Phoebe could feel her answer choking her and when she failed to answer again, Theresa shook her head. ‘Oh, Phoebe, you really are a lost cause. Just like your mother.’ She placed her book on the side table and then pulled the blanket from her lap. She began to fold it, struggling to find the corners but determined not to let her confusion get the better of her. ‘It looks like I’ll have to stay around a bit longer, doesn’t it?’ she said. ‘Come on, it’s six o’clock and you haven’t even started making dinner yet.’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you to be here, Nan so there’s nothing prepared. There’s some stew in the freezer I could defrost.’


  ‘We’ll be living on ready meals next,’ the old lady muttered as she reached for her walking stick. She stood up but it was some time before she could straighten and when she placed her full weight on her bad knee, she winced in pain.

  ‘Sit back down, Nan. I won’t be long.’

  As she left the room, Phoebe heard the thump and shuffle as her grandmother ignored her suggestion and followed her into the kitchen. By the time she arrived, the stew was in the microwave, which was humming noisily.

  There was a dining chair in the corner of the room, placed there specifically so Theresa could supervise Phoebe’s every move. She sat down and said, ‘Make sure it’s defrosted properly.’

  ‘I will. Do you want a cup of tea while we wait?’

  ‘I’ll only have to go to the little girl’s room in ten minutes and right now I haven’t the energy. You’ve exhausted me.’

  ‘I could always help you to the toilet,’ Phoebe said quite deliberately to remind her grandmother of what lay ahead if she did stay at home.

  ‘I manage well enough while you’re at work, Phoebe. I’m not decrepit just yet. I can’t allow myself to be. I need to stay here and look after you, remember?’ she asked before adding under her breath, ‘And I thought I was the one with the bad memory.’

  ‘I can manage, Nan.’

  ‘So now you’re trying to get rid of me? Make your mind up, girl!’

  Phoebe had been slicing bread and put down the knife before turning to face her grandmother although it was Theresa’s reminder board on the wall that caught her attention first. It was a simple wipe board that Phoebe had used for the last couple of years to write down important daily prompts for her grandmother such as medical appointments, where Phoebe was, and when she would be home. There were only two words on it now, and they mocked her: ‘Moving Day.’

  ‘I’m not trying to sway you one way or the other, the decision is yours,’ she said patiently. ‘I’m only repeating the arguments you’ve already made yourself. When was the last time you had a proper wash? How long will it be before you can’t get to the toilet in time and pee your pants?’

  Her prim grandmother’s face contorted in disgust. She felt uncomfortable even talking about bodily functions and hated the idea of needing someone to assist her. She had made it clear she didn’t want that person to be Phoebe. ‘Do not use that kind of language in my house, Phoebe.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to the home,’ Phoebe continued slowly, ‘and as long as you’re willing to let them keep the first month’s fees then your room can remain available, for a few weeks at least. It’s your choice, Nan. If you want to go ahead with the original plan then let me know and I’ll phone them. If you don’t, then can we at least think about what help you might need?’

  ‘I won’t have you as my nursemaid.’

  Phoebe was tempted to tell her she already was but chose instead to put forward another proposition. ‘We could always arrange some home help again.’

  ‘What? Have strangers waltzing around the house and helping themselves to goodness knows what while I’m …’ She paused, trying to find the right word. ‘Distracted.’

  ‘I know you didn’t like it last time,’ Phoebe said, referring to the carers Theresa had allowed to attend her when she was recovering from her knee operation, ‘but if you want to stay here, then you have no choice. I’m going on holiday next month so we’ll definitely need to arrange something for then.’

  ‘Holiday? What holiday?’

  ‘I’m going to London with Julia and Helen for ten days,’ Phoebe said without elaboration. She had already told her nan about her plans and she would forget them again in an hour.

  While Theresa started grumbling, as much to herself as her granddaughter, Phoebe continued to prepare their meal. She heard the clatter of the cat flap followed by a gentle thud. A moment later, a warm feline body pressed against her leg and even above the hum of the microwave she could hear Leonard purring.

  ‘Hello, my little man,’ crooned the old lady, her voice softening to a tone that matched the cat’s purr. ‘Come to Mummy.’

  Phoebe looked down at the ginger cat winding itself around her legs, oblivious to his mistress’s calls. He looked up at Phoebe and meowed. She both loved and resented the various cats her grandmother had doted on over the years. Without fail, they had received her grandmother’s unconditional love and none of the judgement she reserved for the people in her life. Phoebe had a clear recollection of pretending to be a cat when she was possibly no more than three years old, only to receive the sharp point of her grandmother’s shoe in her side.

  It was Phoebe who gave the cat a gentle shove now, knowing how irritable her grandmother would become if Leonard paid her too much attention. The cat thumped his shoulder against her calf one last time and then padded over to his mistress.

  ‘You’re another one who’d miss me, aren’t you? Oh, yes you are,’ her grandmother told him. ‘You’re such a good boy.’

  And Phoebe, by comparison was such a bad girl and for once she didn’t need her grandmother’s help picking out her failings. After serving dinner, which Theresa ate with only the cat for company, Phoebe allowed herself a half portion of stew in the kitchen before escaping upstairs.

  In her bedroom, Phoebe picked up a discarded piece of chiffon from a design she had been working on and draped it over the mirror so she didn’t have to look at herself. The sewing project was for a jumpsuit, which would accentuate her narrowing waist, but she wondered now if she would finish it. The world she thought was opening up to her had been closed over again. Who cared how she looked? Who was she trying to impress?

  Curling up on her bed, Phoebe’s thoughts turned to the secret driving lessons Paul had offered and she allowed her mind to wander. Her furtive imagination blocked out the rhythmic thump of a walking stick downstairs that became more and more persistent. It was the first time Phoebe had ignored her grandmother’s demands for attention, and the longer she left it, the less inclined she was to face her grandmother’s mounting fury. It was only the sound of her mobile ringing that forced her back to reality.

  ‘Hi, how’s it going?’ asked Helen.

  ‘I suppose I’ve had worse days,’ Phoebe said, her voice calm and almost detached.

  ‘What’s going on, Phoebe?’

  ‘Nan refused to leave the house. She had one of her episodes and now she thinks staying here is for the best.’

  ‘So have you been home with her all day?’

  A little surprised by a question rather than the sympathy she had been expecting, Phoebe asked, ‘Mostly. Why?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ Helen said in a way that suggested it was something. ‘I thought I saw you in Allerton at teatime, that’s all. I was on the bus.’

  ‘No, it couldn’t have been me,’ Phoebe said quickly, hoping that the uncertainty in her friend’s voice meant she hadn’t been sure.

  ‘Oh.’

  In the silence that followed a thought suddenly occurred. What if she had been in Paul’s car when Helen had spotted them? She briefly considered telling Helen the truth. Paul was right, they weren’t doing anything wrong – other than the small matter of meeting without Julia’s knowledge or approval, and of course there were her secret fantasies about an alternate life where Paul had persevered with the young woman who had opened up her heart to him rather than marrying her best friend.

  Helen would surely understand, at least up to a point. She had known how Phoebe had felt about Paul at the time.

  ‘You’re still seeing him?’ Helen had asked when Phoebe had called around to ask her advice. Milly was asleep on her mother’s shoulder and jerked at the sound of her sharp tone. Lowering her voice, Helen had added, ‘The weirdo who followed you home from class?’

  ‘He walked me home and he’s not a weirdo,’ Phoebe had said before making another correction. ‘And we’re not seeing each other, Helen. We’ve had drinks in the pub and he’s given me a lift home a few times, that’s all.’

  �
��Stalked you, you mean.’

  ‘It isn’t like that. The first couple of times he followed me on foot just to make sure I was safe. He had to go back for his car.’

  ‘No, that doesn’t sound like stalking at all,’ Helen had scoffed. ‘I can’t believe you got in his car. He could have kidnapped you and locked you away in his basement for years.’

  ‘Seriously, Helen, you’re watching way too many day-time soaps.’

  ‘What else have I got to do? Going out has to be perfectly synchronized between feeds and nappy changes. I might as well be in prison!’

  Phoebe had been watching the way Helen was absent-mindedly rocking Milly; she really didn’t have a clue what she had. The young mum complained constantly about her sorry circumstances and Phoebe had used her friend’s unhappiness to dampen her own maternal feelings, but was it so wrong to want something of her own – someone of her own? According to her nan it certainly was.

  ‘Stop it!’ Helen had snapped.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Staring at the baby like you want one. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter now anyway. Last night Paul made the mistake of pulling up too close to the house and Nan spotted me in his car. I’m under strict instructions not to see him again.’

  ‘You’re eighteen, for God’s sake. She can’t boss you around like that,’ Helen had said, forgetting her previous reservations about Paul which were undeserved anyway. She had never liked Theresa and would disagree with anything she said.

  Phoebe had been standing at a crossroads in her life. She had needed Helen to tell her to go behind her grandmother’s back and carry on seeing Paul, to take a chance and follow her heart. But even at eighteen, Phoebe had had enough failed relationships to know that her heart wasn’t a reliable organ to judge the character of a man.