by Linda Huber
He crept up to the visitors’ room, pretending to fiddle with his phone.
Vicky was speaking. ‘…thing to do is speak to Mr Paterson about it. He’s the head administrator and he deals with complaints of all kinds. Are you sure it’s not a bank mistake?’
‘They said it was all okay. How can I get hold of Mr Paterson?’
‘I’ll call and make you an appointment, shall I?’
He stepped smartly from the doorway as Vicky emerged and hurried towards the nurses’ station. She had what looked like an animated conversation on the phone, but he didn’t dare go near enough to listen in, and all this manipulating his phone was making him conspicuous. He thrust it into his pocket and hurried along the corridor, an idea forming in his head.
Half an hour later he ducked into a deserted storeroom and called the admin secretary.
‘This is… um, Evan in rehab Ward Five,’ he said, making sure he sounded apologetic. ‘Mrs Walker can’t remember what time tomorrow her meeting with Mr Paterson is. She’s a bit stressed at the moment.’
‘Hang on,’ said the secretary. ‘Okay… He’s not in tomorrow. Her meeting’s on Thursday at three.’
‘Thanks.’ He rang off.
Sometime between now and Thursday at three, he was going to have to do something about Petra Walker. His stomach cramped.
The cafeteria was mobbed. Sarah collected coffee and digestives, and looked round for a table, her gaze stopping at a woman sitting by herself at the back of the room. She was wearing a low-cut black top under a short denim jacket, and was hunched over her coffee cup, looking cold as well as worried. That was… yes, that’s right – that woman’s daughter had been in foster care at Mim’s two or three years ago.
Sarah hesitated, but the woman had seen her and stared back before giving a thin little smile and a nod.
Sarah went across. ‘Do you mind if I sit here? You’re Frankie’s mum, aren’t you? Mim Dunbar was my foster mother too.’
The woman pushed a hand through short hair dyed a vivid red, displaying four earrings studded in her ear. ‘Help yourself. Sorry, I can’t remember your name.’
Sarah sat down, trying not to touch the table top, which was unappetisingly sticky. ‘Sarah Martin.’
The woman leaned back, her face dreary. ‘Petra Walker. You visiting someone?’
‘Mim. She had a knee replacement but I’m hoping to get her home soon. How’s Frankie?’
The little girl’s face slid into Sarah’s head. Frankie had spent all summer with Mim the year she was eight, after Petra split up with her partner and then disappeared into a bottle. It had been a hard few weeks for them all.
The woman shrugged. ‘Frankie’s fine, but my gran isn’t. She’s in Ward Five, neuro rehab, and she’s gone right down the tubes this past week. I’ve spent all bloody afternoon trying to find out where her money’s disappeared off to. The silly old bat seems to have withdrawn most of her life savings last week and I can’t think what she’s done with all that cash. I mean in a hospital, for God’s sake. And she’s all but unconscious today so I can’t even ask her about it.’
Sarah stared. She remembered Mim saying Petra’s grandmother was a force to be reckoned with. ‘You mean she went to the bank?’
Petra pulled out a packet of cigarettes, scowled at them and stuffed them back into her bag. ‘No, she phoned them. There’s a sub-branch in the hospital and apparently they’ll come to you, for a fee. She could organise stuff like that last week, but she had another stroke on Saturday and they’re talking about care homes now. It’s a real bugger.’
Sarah was silent. Beside problems like these, her own worries seemed trivial. ‘How old’s your gran?’
Petra drained her cup. ‘Eighty-seven. Three weeks ago she was doing her own housework, making jam and everything… I guess that’s all finished. And what can I do? It’s hard enough working and bringing up a kid alone – I never get a minute’s break but someone comes along wanting something.’
‘Maybe it’s best to let other people take care of your gran now,’ said Sarah gently. ‘You can’t do everything yourself.’
Petra scowled again. ‘You’re right there. But if she’s lost all that money there’ll be nothing left to pay for the care home, will there? She’ll end up stuck in a geriatric ward. I’d better get back. They were going to try and wake her for me. See you around.’
Sarah tried to sound positive. ‘Good luck. Say hi to Frankie from me.’
It was a relief to be on her own again. Poor Petra. It must be awful, having to watch someone you love go downhill like that.
The lukewarm coffee turned bitter in Sarah’s mouth. Would she and Rita be in a similar situation with Mim in twenty, thirty years’ time? And what about when she was old? Rita had little Jamie and the coming baby to look out for her, but… Sarah put the cup down, her fingers shaking. What if she never had kids of her own? Oh, not as insurance for her old age, but – she did want her own family one day. And there was no sign of anybody even approaching Mr Right in her life at the moment – and her next birthday was the big three-oh.
A glance at the clock had her hurrying towards the lift. Stop being morbid, Sarah. Concentrate on Mim for now.
The expression on her foster mother’s face was enough to banish all gloomy thoughts.
‘I can come home on Thursday, if I can get up and down five stairs tomorrow!’
Sarah perched on the window ledge beside Mim’s bed. ‘You’d better do your exercises then, and get fit for whoever’s going to test you!’
Mim immediately began to bend and straighten her knee. ‘Sarah, it won’t be a problem. This time on Thursday we’ll be sitting in the garden sipping white wine – or Prosecco, we can have a little party, and oh, hallelujah, I’ll sleep so much better in my own home.’
It was after six when Sarah left the hospital. She’d watched Mim eat ham salad for her evening meal – ‘The cold food’s not bad, Sarah love, but anything that’s supposed to be hot is so institutional it’s inedible. I’m looking forward to a nice curry when I get home’ – and walked up and down the corridor with her before leaving. Mim was pretty good on her crutches. It was going to be all right.
Driving along the main hospital thoroughfare, Sarah began to plan. She would turn the study into a downstairs bedroom for Mim for the first few weeks. And she’d better get some Prosecco in, too. A red-headed girl walking towards the main gate reminded Sarah of Petra Walker – poor soul, she wouldn’t be planning her grandmother’s homecoming any time soon.
Allington Road was a five-minute drive away, and the usual twin feelings of peace and pleasure settled into Sarah’s head as she pulled up on the gravel in front of the red brick semi. Her time with Mim and Pop had been the making of her.
She’d arrived here late that terrible afternoon when Gran died, seven years almost to the day after her parents were killed in a car crash. A much-too-cheerful social worker had collected her at the hospital and taken her to Mim, and a vivid little scene was imprinted in Sarah’s memory – Mim, opening the front door, taking one look at Sarah and pulling her into the longest bear hug ever. Sarah had emerged with a wet face and a warmed heart, knowing she’d be safe here.
The front door opened with its usual creak and she stepped into the hallway. The house fell silent around her, but it was a comfortable silence. You could tell children had lived here, little ghost children now, memories the old house carried in its core. Nostalgia brought tears to Sarah’s eyes before common sense took over. Mim should sell this place and buy something smaller. There hadn’t been many foster children in the two years since Pop’s death – some cases were a two-person job.
She opened all the windows and raided the freezer. With a lasagne safely in the oven, Sarah sat in the kitchen scribbling a to-do list.
Food shopping. And she should go to the bank too, get her Swiss account organised for a longer stay here. Petra’s disconsolate face flitted into Sarah’s head and she frowned. She should have warned Mim to be
careful about her cash in the hospital… Next, the cat. Caitlyn Mackie next door would have taken him in. And Mim’s bed – but tomorrow would do for that, for everything, actually, except the cat. It would be good to have his company. Satisfied, Sarah poured a glass of Chianti and took it out to the back garden. Pop’s bench was still in its place against the wall, catching the evening sunshine. Sarah sank down.
Sipping her wine, she relaxed tense limbs. Thank heavens today was nearly over. And help, she hadn’t even had lunch, unless you counted hospital coffee and biscuits. This wine would go straight to her head.
‘Sarah! Good to see you home!’
The voice came from the garden next door, and Sarah opened her eyes to see a suntanned face under dark blonde curls beaming over the wall. ‘Hi, Caitlyn. It’s great to be back, though I wish it hadn’t happened quite like this.’
Caitlyn nodded, her face sober again. ‘How’s Mim? I’m doing research for an article on hospitals at the moment. I must compare notes with her when she’s home.’
Sarah lurched across the garden. The wine had gone straight to her head... Caitlyn was looking at her glass with raised eyebrows, and Sarah grinned back cheerfully.
‘Mim’s doing well. She’ll be home on Thursday so I’ll need to get the place organised. Want some wine? Oh – is Thomas with you?’
‘Thanks, but I’m about to take the car to the garage to leave it for its service tomorrow. I’ll get Thomas.’
Caitlyn trotted off and returned clutching Mim’s overweight orange and white tomcat. Sarah accepted the furry bundle and fussed over him. There was nothing like cuddling a cat to make you feel better.
Caitlyn brushed cat hairs from her front. ‘Let’s catch up properly over a pizza soon. There’s a brilliant new restaurant on Causey Street.’
Sarah dropped the cat, who stalked off and lay down in the sunshine by the back door. ‘Great idea. Let me see what’s happening with Mim first, then we’ll make plans.’
Caitlyn turned back to the house. ‘I’ll come over and see Mim anyway, when she’s home. Let me know if you need any help, Sarah.’
‘Will do,’ said Sarah. A catch-up with Caitlyn sounded good; she didn’t have many friends left in the area. Jack Morrison’s face swam into her head, and she grinned. And a catch-up with Jack would be – extremely interesting.
She returned to the kitchen to rescue the lasagne, Thomas running after her. Food, the news on telly and an early night seemed the best plan.
Three hours later she lay in bed, peace descending as she relaxed into the mattress. It was good to be back, even if things hadn’t worked out as she’d expected. Thank heavens Mim was doing so well. It could easily have been so much worse.
But what a strange story that was about Petra Walker’s grandmother and the money… Sarah shivered under the warm duvet. How she hated hospitals. But never mind – this time on Thursday, Mim would be safe back home.
Chapter Two
Wednesday, 5th July
Caitlyn set the coffee machine to make her first espresso of the day, then flipped the radio on. She wasn’t used to silence in the mornings, but Tina and Mark were spending the summer on the Isle of Man with their father and his new wife, so she had the place to herself. A mixed blessing… but lots of me-time to make the most of.
She sipped her coffee, feeling her brain sharpen. Thank goodness for caffeine – investigative journalists needed their wits about them. Consumer Critique had commissioned her for a feature on wastage in hospitals and medical practices, and some of the information she’d turned up was hair-raising. In hospitals, for instance, up to half the food intended for the patients landed in the bin. Money makes the world go round, but no-one appeared to care when public money was poured down the drain – or into the bin – in health institutions.
The landline rang while she was loading her cup into the dishwasher, and she trotted down the hallway to the phone.
‘Hi, Caitlyn, it’s Sarah. Can I ask a favour? I want to shift Mim’s bed downstairs until she’s fully operational, but it’s a two-woman job.’
‘Sure. See you in a sec.’
Caitlyn slid her feet into trainers and clambered over the low wall separating the two front gardens. The family next door had been a huge help to her during her divorce – especially Mim. It was nice to be able to do something in return. She banged on the front door and put her head round.
Sarah was in the hallway, a large cardboard box in her arms and a smudge of dust across her left cheek. She grinned at Caitlyn and jerked her head towards the back of the house. ‘If we shift the bookcase, we can bring a single bed down to the study.’
Between them, they manhandled the bookcase up and the bed downstairs, then Caitlyn fetched the mattress while Sarah brought a little table from the living room for Mim’s bedside lamp. In half an hour they had turned the study into a not unattractive bedroom.
‘Sorted,’ said Sarah, fluffing up the pillow. ‘Come and have some blackcurrant cordial and tell me what the kids are doing nowadays.’
Caitlyn followed her through to the kitchen. ‘Tina’ll be off to secondary school after the hols, can you believe it? And Mark’s his usual lazy self, but that’s David’s problem for the next couple of weeks.’
‘So why aren’t you taking the opportunity to spend three weeks sunning yourself in Greece?’
Caitlyn swirled her cordial round the glass. She’d asked herself the same question. ‘I know. I should be. But – first summer away from me, you know. I wanted to be reachable.’
‘Well, if you’re ever fed up with your own company, pop over here. Mim’ll be glad to see a fresh face now and then.’
‘I will. Thanks, Sarah. So what’s happening in your life?’
‘Not a lot. I’m between jobs, and Andreas is history now. It was the old story – he traded me in for a younger model last Easter.’
‘Scumbag.’ They exchanged grins, and Caitlyn stood up to go. Time to get on with the research for her hospital article.
Sarah watched as Alexis the physio settled Mim back into a chair by her bed.
‘Right, Miriam. The movement’s pretty good. Have a rest for five and then we’ll go on the stairs. That’s the real test.’ She handed Mim a glass of water and left.
‘Think you’ll manage five stairs?’ said Sarah.
Mim glared at her. ‘I will if it kills me. I want out of here.’
Sarah held back a smile. If Mim failed the stair test, fur would fly.
‘I wonder how Frankie is,’ said Mim suddenly.
Sarah had described the previous day’s meeting with Petra, and to her dismay Mim was concerned. ‘Frankie isn’t the problem. It’s the missing money.’ She took the empty glass from Mim and set it on the locker.
‘I know. But eleven’s a tricky age, and if there’s bad stuff going on… Petra might not cope, without her gran there for support.’ Mim’s voice was dejected, and Sarah patted her good knee.
‘Frankie’ll be fine. And here’s Alexis, so you make sure you’re fine too, on those stairs.’
To Sarah’s relief Mim went up the five stairs with scarcely a wobble, muttering ‘Old leg, new-leg-and-crutches,’ as she mounted each step.
‘Good,’ said Alexis. ‘Turn round slowly. Okay, ready to go down?’
Sarah held her breath. Going down was apparently more difficult than going up. Her expression tense, Mim negotiated her way back to ground level.
‘Super!’ said Alexis. ‘As far as I’m concerned you can go home tomorrow after therapy. I’ll set you up a course of outpatient physio three times a week. Are you going back to the ward now?’
Mim shook her head. ‘I reckon I deserve a coffee. Come on, Sarah. We can have a peek into the TV room to see who gets through to the semi-finals at Wimbledon.’
Sarah followed as Mim crutched her way to the lifts. Downstairs, they found chairs in the TV room, where two athletic-looking young women with Russian names were thumping the ball around on the big wall screen.
�
��It’ll be a while before I’m back at the tennis club,’ said Mim, her voice gloomy.
Sarah gave her a little poke. ‘No instant miracles, but hey – five stairs today, home tomorrow. It’s all good.’
‘I suppose so. I’ll be glad to get out of here.’
Sarah followed her gaze to the old woman dozing in a wheelchair on Mim’s other side. Her feet were swollen in hospital issue slippers, and a thin dribble of spit was working its way down her chin. She certainly wouldn’t be going home this week.
Sarah stood up. ‘I’ll bring the coffee in here, shall I?’
She was reaching for her purse when Mim jerked upright in her chair. ‘Frankie!’
Petra and Frankie were standing in the doorway, looking round the room. The small girl Sarah remembered had given way to a lanky child with mousy shoulder-length hair shrouding a glum expression, which brightened when she saw Mim.
Petra gripped Frankie’s arm and pulled her across the room towards them.
‘How are you, Petra?’ said Mim. ‘Sarah told me about your gran. Frankie darling, come and let me look at you properly.’
The girl reached down to return Mim’s hug. ‘I hoped we’d see you.’
Petra flashed them her thin smile. ‘She’s talked about nothing else since I told her I’d met Sarah.’ She reached down to shake the shoulder of the old woman beside Mim. ‘And this is my gran. Wilma! Heck, she’s out for the count again. Why on earth did they leave her here? She should be upstairs.’
Sarah exchanged a glance with Mim. So this poor soul was the grandmother whose money was missing.
Petra plumped down in a nearby chair. ‘I’m glad you’re doing well, Mim. But it’s a sad day when Gran sleeps through Wimbledon. Wilma! Wake up! Oh, what’s the use?’ Petra sounded close to tears, and Frankie’s lips began to tremble.
