Hens Reunited

by Lucy Diamond

  The baby. She hadn’t even known she was pregnant.

  Alice – lovely Alice – had listened while Georgia sobbed her way through the whole sorry tale. She’d insisted on sleeping on Georgia’s floor that night, just in case Georgia couldn’t sleep and wanted to talk some more, and then, the very next morning, she’d got on the phone to her parents and arranged for Georgia to spend the whole Christmas break with them. That was what you called a good friend. And how had Georgia repaid her again?

  Georgia shivered despite the warm night, not wanting to think about that. She punched her pillow into a more comfortable position and tried to sleep, but her mind wouldn’t shut down. What a day. Gob of the North and Michelle Jones, plus the terrible sight of her nan lying like that in the hospital bed. And it wasn’t just seeing her that had been upsetting. Hearing her talk had been absolutely heartbreaking. Nan’s strident no-nonsense tone had been replaced by a quavering stream of gibberish. Georgia had had to lean closer to try to make out the strangulated vowel sounds and muffled consonants, but it was as if the old lady was speaking in a foreign language – one that she couldn’t understand.

  While her nan spoke with such difficulty Georgia’s glance had flicked across to her mum. She was close to tears, Georgia could tell. Horrible for her, Georgia thought, with a stab of sympathy. Horrible for them all, seeing this beloved woman reduced to such a state.

  Still, it had comforted Georgia to be able to say to her nan ‘See you tomorrow’ when she’d left. Nan seemed to understand, and had seized Georgia’s hands again, her eyes brighter than they’d been all afternoon. Her mum had clutched at Georgia too, eagerness lighting her face. ‘You’re staying, then? You’re not dashing back off to London?’

  ‘I’ll stay tonight,’ Georgia had replied. It wasn’t as if she had anything pressing to do back home, after all. Once she’d filed her copy for Monday’s edition of the newspaper (a cut-and-paste job, generally – she saved things up for it during the rest of the week), she tended to catch up on her sleep and telly on Sunday, give herself a breather after the hectic schedule of her week. ‘If that’s all right, of course.’

  ‘Oh, Georgie! We’d love you to stay, wouldn’t we, Bob?’

  Mr Knight patted her on the back. ‘Smashing,’ he said. ‘We can have a proper chat over tea, can’t we?’

  A proper chat no doubt meant goal-by-goal analysis of the football season, plus the rumours he’d heard about the manager’s forthcoming sacking. Or maybe an in-depth discussion on the current Corrie storylines from her mum, or a wallet full of new photos of the gurning grandchildren that Georgia was supposed to admire.

  Oh well. So be it. It was only one night, after all. She could see it through; she’d survived worse evenings in her time.

  As it turned out though, they’d actually had quite a laugh, Georgia and her parents, sitting round the old table in the kitchen with their bangers, mash and beans, reminiscing about camping holidays in North Wales, and what-have-you. Georgia had forgotten just how much she loved her mum’s mashed potato; she tended not to do potato full stop, she knew what it did to the waistline – but tonight it had seemed like the comfort she needed. She’d forgotten just how infectious her dad’s roars of laughter were, too. It had felt cosy, just the three of them, without Carol sticking her disapproving oar in every few minutes. And Georgia had drunk enough of her dad’s whisky to send her spark out tonight – or so she’d hoped.

  She sat up in bed and switched on the old bottle-green anglepoise lamp, the one by which she’d slaved over her homework in the evenings all those years ago. Despite the Scotch, she still felt too wired to drop off yet. She pulled her phone out and started checking her emails and texts. Got to keep in the loop. Got to stay in touch with her world.

  She chuckled as she read an email from one of the reporters from the Sunday Herald – their sister paper – about the incriminating footage they’d been sent of a supermodel getting lairy after too much coke. Fantastic – she couldn’t wait to see that. Then she raised her eyebrows as she read the goss about one of the Man United WAGs, Layla Gallagher, who was rumoured to be pregnant. Interesting.

  Layla made regular star appearances in Georgia’s column due to her wild antics – she was a party girl through and through, always in the clubs, dancing on tables, showing her arse. She had a background similar to Georgia’s – working-class girl made good – and was blinging it up with her boyfriend’s wages in hilarious style now. And boy, was she value if you ever got her on tape. Great quotes and one-liners tumbled from her lips with reliable frequency. She was especially accomplished at embarrassing her man, Carlos Ramirez, Man United’s current star.

  So a baby for Carlos and Layla was big news. Despite a temporary curbing of Layla’s partying, there’d be plenty of mileage to be gained from belly shots, and speculations about Baby … The public always seemed to lap up such snippets.

  Polly Nash, a junior hack, had been doing some research for Georgia, and had emailed some copy over for her to check (on Saturday! That was a bit keen), so Georgia spent a while tweaking it and rewriting, before replying to her other emails. It was only when she’d done that, reestablished her connection with her London life, that she was able to lie back down on the bed and close her eyes.

  Just as she was about to sink into sleep, an image of Owen McIntosh floated into her mind and she smiled. Yes. Owen. She’d quite forgotten about him. She was rather looking forward to meeting him again tomorrow.

  It was ridiculous how jittery Georgia felt the next day about returning to the hospital. Nervous about another near-collision with Michelle and that Nan might have taken a turn for the worse, but also intrigued about meeting Owen again. Had he been coming on to her when he’d said he’d see her today? Or was it some kind of pastoral-care thing, where he wanted to check she hadn’t had another panic attack?

  Either way, she was looking forward to it. And thank heavens she’d had the foresight to stuff a change of clothes in her bag yesterday; you could never tell with Carol’s kids if they were going to puke on you, or scribble on you with felt-tip or something equally vile. And there was no way she would risk travelling back to London in that sort of a state.

  It was a good choice, too, the dress she’d brought with her: a red summery one which actually made her look as if she had something resembling a cleavage. She considered her reflection in her mum’s full-length mirror. It was rather a look-at-me dress, the sort she’d wear to summer parties or receptions, with red stilettos and a sparkly bag. Was it too much for a visit to a Stockport hospital?

  She shrugged. Oh, sod it. She didn’t have anything else with her, and Nan did like bright colours. And Owen … well, bless him, he was only a bloke after all. Either he wouldn’t notice (in which case he wasn’t a real man in the first place) or he’d assume the effort was all for him and get above himself (in which case, she’d have to take him down a peg or two). She found she was actually quite curious to see his reaction.

  Nan was awake when they arrived at the hospital this time. Her eyes sparkled at the sight of Georgia and she stretched a withered arm in her direction.

  ‘Hello Nan,’ Georgia said, leaning over to kiss her face. It felt as dry as parchment. Poor thing. Georgia knew her grandmother had sunk countless pots of Pond’s cold cream into that face over the years to keep her skin soft, and now it was like kissing a piece of bark. She delved into her handbag and brought out her own jar of Crème de la Mer – a freebie she’d snitched from the beauty editor’s desk at work – and dabbed some onto the old lady’s cheeks. Four or five dabs – probably twenty quid’s worth. If it had been anyone else, Georgia might have made reference to the sum. She might even have joked about charging them. ‘There,’ was all she said, though. ‘That feel better?’

  Nan nodded and made a noise that might have been yes. She took Georgia’s hand and pressed it to her face, then kissed it. Definitely a yes, loud and clear.

  ‘Thanks Georgie, that was lovely of you,’ her mum said now, si
tting down and stroking the old lady’s hair. ‘Shall we give this mop a brush, then, eh, Mam?’

  Georgia felt choked as her mum did her nan’s hair for her, gently and tenderly. With her nan’s incoherent speech and inability to do these things for herself now, it was as if she had slipped back into a toddler existence, dependent on her descendants. And there were still so many conversations Georgia wanted to have with her, so many things she wanted to ask – about her nan and granddad falling in love, her nan’s experiences in the war, her hopes and aspirations as a young woman, her take on the feminist revolution …

  Tears stung her eyes. Already it was too late. Short of a minor miracle where her nan’s powers of speech came back, Georgia had missed her chance.

  Her nan was patting her skirt, trying to say something. ‘Ni-i-i eh,’ it sounded like.

  ‘Nice dress?’ Georgia guessed.

  Her nan nodded, her mouth curving at one side to form a saggy smile.

  ‘Thanks, Nan,’ she said. ‘It’s a great colour, isn’t it? I’ll look out for some flowers that shade of red to bring you next time, if you want?’

  Next time? Why had she just said that?

  But her nan was nodding again and mangling another word through her slack, sloping lips. ‘Ow-er.’

  ‘Flowers, yes. I’ll do that. I’ll bring them in tomorrow, yeah? Brighten this place up a bit.’ What was she saying? She was meant to be back at work tomorrow, she’d said as much in her email to Polly last night. But another glance at the happy light in her nan’s eyes told her she had done the right thing.

  Oh well. It was only a day. She’d phone Isabella, the editor, later and spin her a story about having to stay up north in an attempt to nab a big interview with the new Corrie starlet. Or she’d ring in sick; Isabella would never need to know.

  There was a movement behind them then and Georgia turned to see Owen approaching. Ahhh. Yep. That was definitely a once-over he’d given her, eyes flicking over her dress, a small smile on his lips. He gave her a meaningful nod, then assumed a professionally brisk air and turned his gaze to his patient. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Hatherley! You’re looking cheerful. I’m just here to do your obs, if that’s all right. Won’t take a minute.’

  Georgia watched him as he chatted away to her. She was intrigued as to what – if anything – Owen would say to her. Surely it would be naff of him to ask her to have coffee with him while she was sitting at her grandmother’s bedside? In front of her parents, too! Would he have the bottle?

  Owen finished his observations and jotted them down in the folder that was kept at the end of the bed. Then he smiled at them all and tucked his pen back in his jacket pocket. ‘Everything’s stable,’ he announced. ‘Is there anything anyone wants to ask me while I’m here?’

  Cheeky bugger. Was that for her benefit? Was he passing the buck, expecting her to put her hand up and ask, Please, Doctor, may I buy you a drink at the coffee bar?

  He could dream on, if so. She wished she hadn’t worn this dress now, if he thought she was an easy target! It was almost laughable, how wrong a man could be.

  She raised her eyebrows but said nothing. Her mum, meanwhile, launched into a series of probing questions about her nan’s mental health which Owen was now obliged to answer. Ha! Served him right.

  Finally the lengthy Q-and-A session came to a close. ‘Right then,’ Owen said, trying to catch Georgia’s eye. ‘I’ll be off.’ He hesitated for a moment, but Georgia deliberately ignored him. Let him sweat, she decided. She wasn’t going to have any bloke thinking they could have her, just like that.

  ‘Thanks very much, love,’ Georgia’s mum said to Owen, bestowing a bright smile on him.

  With one last, puzzled look at Georgia, he walked away.

  Georgia rose to her feet with an unhurried air after a few moments. ‘I’m just going to stretch my legs,’ she said. ‘Anyone want anything from the café?’

  With orders for two teas and some biscuits, Georgia sauntered down the ward. Now then. Where was Mr McIntosh? Was he loitering, or had he given up?

  She smiled to herself as she went through the swing doors and saw him studying a noticeboard nearby. Pretending to study it, more like, she thought, for he turned almost immediately and smiled at her. ‘Hello again,’ he said. ‘How are you doing today?’

  Oh, like that, was it? Doctor and patient? She’d always liked a game of doctors and nurses as a kid, but this was a new one on her.

  She took pity on him, gave him a bit of encouragement. ‘Fine, thanks,’ she said. ‘I’m going for a coffee. I don’t suppose you fancy one, do you?’

  She half-expected him to say, What, a coffee?, like she’d been offering anything else, but he merely winked. ‘Love one,’ he said. They started walking along the corridor and he laughed. ‘Well, I say “love” one, but the coffee in this place … There’s not much about it to love, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Georgia said. ‘Where I work, the canteen is so dire, we’re forced to leave the building and get our coffees from the Italian place down the road.’

  ‘Where do you work, then?’ he asked. ‘In Stockport?’

  She nearly scoffed contemptuously – as if! – but remembered at the last second that he worked in Stockport. ‘London,’ she said airily. ‘I’m a journalist.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ He didn’t seem as impressed as she thought he might. ‘Muckraking and gossip-spreading, that kind of thing?’

  She arched an eyebrow at him. ‘No, I’m the current affairs editor, actually. Hardline politics and Westminster diaries, if you must know.’

  Now he was impressed. ‘Really?’

  She smiled. ‘No. Not quite. Maybe next year.’ And maybe never, if she was being strictly truthful. She wasn’t going to have her job dissed though, so said no more. People were quick to turn their nose up at what Georgia did. She didn’t want to give Owen the opportunity.

  They’d reached the coffee bar now. Georgia had a precautionary flick round for Michelle, but the place was practically empty. Behind the counter there were two elderly ladies, a huge silver urn of tea and a nasty-looking coffee machine. ‘Hmmmm,’ Georgia said, considering the choice. ‘Maybe I’ll just have a sparkling water.’

  ‘Spoken like a true Londoner,’ Owen teased. ‘I can’t stand that stuff.’

  ‘What are you having then, a mug of Bovril?’ she flashed back. ‘Or perhaps a can of Irn-Bru?’

  He grinned. ‘Touché,’ he conceded. ‘The tea’s not bad, here. If you like it well-brewed, that is.’

  ‘Well, you know what us soft southerners are like with our delicate palates,’ she replied tartly. ‘I think I’ll give it a miss, thanks, and stick with my water.’

  He held his hands up. ‘All right, all right!’

  ‘I’ll inflict the tea on my parents instead,’ she said. ‘Hi,’ she went on to one of the silver-haired ladies. ‘Two teas to take away please and a sparkling water. Oh, and some of these biscuits, please.’ She dumped a handful of miniature packets on the tray, then a thought occurred to her and she turned to Owen. ‘Oh, and do you want me to get your disgusting tea, too?’

  He grinned again, and the dimple deepened in his cheek. ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ he said.

  They sat down at one of the Formica-topped tables and she poured her water into a dishwasher-battered glass. She hadn’t meant to stay long – she had her parents’ drinks cooling, after all – but somehow or other, the conversation flowed from one topic to another – his job, her job, his flatmate, her ex-flatmate horror stories, their favourite TV shows, their favourite books …

  He was just so easy to talk to. So nice. For the first time since she’d met Harry, she found she was actually hanging on his words, really listening, really wanting to hear about him. It was a strange sensation. Not one she was used to.

  ‘So what brought you to Stockport, then?’ she asked. He’d already mentioned he’d grown up in Manchester. ‘Don’t tell me … the football. No, the nightlife. No –
I know. It’s got to be the shopping and culture?’

  He laughed. ‘The job,’ he answered simply. ‘It’s a really good hospital, this. Best one I’ve worked in yet. Manchester is great – but it started to feel too in-my-face. I fancied somewhere a bit smaller and quieter.’

  Georgia shook her head. ‘And that’s where we differ,’ she told him. ‘That’s exactly why I left. I love London precisely because it’s so in-your-face.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Damn, I’d better go. I’m going to have to get new teas for my mum and dad now – these are stone cold.’

  ‘I’ll walk you back to the ward,’ he said. ‘Just in case you get lost.’

  She giggled, feeling like a little girl suddenly. ‘Owen, it’s only down the corridor,’ she said.

  ‘Ahh, good point,’ he said. ‘In that case, I’ll walk you the long way round. Then we’ll have more time to chat.’

  He was flirting with her, he definitely was. She turned to go up to the counter, trying to hide her smile.

  ‘Right, off we go, then,’ he said, once she’d bought two new scalding hot cups of tea. ‘The magical mystery tour. This way!’

  He led her in the opposite direction from the stroke unit, and through a warren of clinics. She had a brief palpitation at the thought of seeing Michelle somewhere en route, but did her best to block out her former tormentor from her head. No. Don’t let that cow spoil things.

  It wasn’t long before Georgia was completely lost. ‘I feel as if I should be dropping a trail of crumbs so that I can find my way back,’ she said. ‘I might have to start crumbling these biscuits up, you know.’

  He smiled. ‘Here – we can go outside for a bit,’ he said as they came to a door. ‘It’s a gorgeous day.’

  ‘Don’t you have work to do?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘It’s my tea break,’ he said. ‘And if you’re going back to London tonight, I’m going to spin it out for as long as possible.’ He paused. ‘You are going back to London tonight, aren’t you?’ he asked.