Just a Family Affair

by Veronica Henry

  ‘Hello, Mr Sherwyn.’ She smiled again, and Keith marvelled at how young she looked, with her blunt-cut bob and her pale freckled skin, her generous breasts under a turquoise cheesecloth blouse which she probably didn’t realize showed the outline of her bra. There was an agonizing few moments as she scanned the letter. Was the frown that appeared on her forehead a result of concentration, or concern at the result, or her inability to comprehend what was written there?

  ‘Bad news?’ Keith managed to croak, desperate to prompt some sort of response. Anything was better than not knowing.

  ‘We spoke about PSA levels when we took your blood, if you remember. PSA levels under four are usually considered normal; anything over ten is high. Your level is nine.’ Keith swallowed nervously as she paused. ‘As I explained, a high level can indicate the presence of prostate cancer. Or it could have another cause, such as prostatisis. Nine isn’t alarming, but I wouldn’t be happy letting you walk out of here without some sort of further investigation.’

  He felt his heart plummet. Not a death sentence, but not a reprieve either.

  ‘I think what we need to organize is a biopsy. It’s a question of removing some cells from the prostate and sending them off to the lab. It’s an outpatient’s appointment - you’ll just need a local anaesthetic. It shouldn’t hurt any more than my initial examination.’>

  The only thing that had been hurt then was his pride.

  ‘How soon can I have it done?’

  ‘I’ll write a letter straight away. You’ll hear from the hospital.’

  Clickety click went the keys on her keyboard.

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘The biopsy will tell if there is any cancer present, and if so what grade it is. Whether it’s confined to the prostate, or if it’s spread.’

  Keith put his face in his hands for a moment. ‘You mean you won’t know . . . I won’t know . . . exactly what’s what . . . for a while yet?’

  ‘I’m afraid it takes time. I’m sorry. I know it’s frustrating.’

  ‘And if . . . ?’

  Keith couldn’t bring himself to say the actual words. Any of the words relating to his fear. Cancer. Or tumour. Or malignant.

  Dr Keller swung round in her chair, moving away from the computer screen to face him, her eyes flickering momentarily towards the clock, clearly inwardly assessing how much time she could afford to give him. Keith suspected she had decided to forfeit her eleven o’clock coffee break in order to allow him a few more precious minutes. Either that, or gallop through a couple of her other appointments, perhaps not give the conjunctivitis or tennis elbow quite as much consideration as she otherwise would have.

  She spoke gently. ‘Have you spoken to your wife about this at all? I know it’s sensitive, but it is much better to have someone to talk things over with, especially in this period of uncertainty.’>

  Reconcile your differences, Keith felt sure she was saying. Make the most of your time together while you can.

  ‘My wife and I are divorced.’

  Dr Keller’s face clouded over with confusion. Keith remembered he had revealed his more intimate secrets to her when he had initially come in. She must have assumed he was married. But he didn’t want to mention Ginny.

  He didn’t want to bring Ginny into this scenario at all.

  ‘I see. Well, there are a number of excellent support groups who can put you in touch with other people who’ve been through the same experience.’

  ‘We don’t know I’ve got anything yet, though, do we?’ Keith spoke as heartily as he could manage.

  ‘Don’t be afraid to discuss it. That’s all I’m saying.’

  She turned back to her screen. Dr Keller had clearly decided to claw back the extra time she had allocated. There might be someone else out there who needed it more than Keith.

  He got to his feet. ‘I’ll wait to hear from the hospital, then.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s no way of speeding things up?’

  ‘I’m afraid these things take as long as they take.’

  Her smile was polite, but dismissive. Keith took the hint. He didn’t need her time today. There was no point in wasting it when they didn’t have a definite diagnosis.

  He walked out into the car park, the bright spring light hitting him. He climbed into his Jaguar, breathing in the smell of leather, a smell that had once reminded him of his success, but which now taunted him. All you were ever interested in was money, it seemed to say, but now you realize how unimportant that is.

  He felt disinclined to go back to the brewery just yet. They were meeting at three, he and Patrick and Mickey. It wasn’t quite a crisis meeting, but they had some serious issues to discuss, and decisions to make. He decided to go home and take stock for an hour or two.

  Keeper’s Cottage looked idyllic as he swung into the drive. Keith tended the grounds himself at the weekend. He didn’t find it a chore, but a means of relaxation, taking pleasure in the results - the fresh paintwork, the hedges neatly clipped, the gravel evenly raked. The house wouldn’t be hard to sell if he died, he found himself thinking. He suddenly saw it through the eyes of its next inhabitant. How long before it was on the market? What if he had a galloping tumour that had spread through his lymphatic system? He could be dead by the end of the year.

  Don’t be stupid, he told himself. Your result was borderline. Dr Keller is just being cautious. He went into the house, and went through the motions of making himself a cup of coffee, wondering if perhaps he should be avoiding caffeine. A lot of the websites he’d visited had stressed the benefits of a healthy diet in the battle against cancer - fresh fruit, whole-grains, super foods, whatever they were. And tomatoes - they were particularly good for you, apparently. They contained lycopene . . . or was that good for testicular cancer, and not prostate? Oh God, he should never have gone on the internet. It was all too confusing. His brain felt like mush. He hesitated before spooning the coarsely ground Columbian grains into the cafetiere, then went ahead. One more cup wasn’t going to make any difference, just while he got his head around things.

  His overwhelming feeling was one of disappointment. He had expected to go into the surgery this morning and be given a definite diagnosis. Instead he was setting himself up for another agonizing wait. How long was this biopsy going to take? He knew the system was slow. You always heard horror stories about referrals being lost in the post, records being mixed up, people waiting weeks for an appointment until they realized they’d been lost in the system. And in the meantime, if it was cancer, it would be given a chance to spread, to creep from localized to terminal all because of someone’s inefficiency. Not that he thought Dr Keller inefficient - she was charming, but she couldn’t be expected to track his medical journey every step of the way. It was up to him to take charge, Keith realized. Time was of the essence. After all, he had more important things to focus on.

  Mandy, for a start. He wanted all this done and dusted as quickly as possible, so it didn’t overshadow his daughter’s big day. Not that he had any intention of telling anyone what was going on, because no one could do anything about his plight until he had the full picture, and so there was no point. Ginny had enough on her plate, what with running the business and keeping on top of the twins, who were delightful but high-maintenance emotionally, and took up a lot of time. He’d become very fond of Kitty and Sasha, and did his best to treat them if not exactly the same as Mandy then certainly not to make them feel second best. When Mandy had moved out, he’d had no hesitation in letting Sasha move into her room. Ginny had been touched by the gesture, but Keith didn’t see the point in letting the room sit empty when Kitty and Sasha were squashed in together, and they could always re-think if Mandy decided to come home for any reason. He secretly loved the energy they brought to the household, even if it did remind him how dull and restrained Mandy’s upbringing had been, largely because he had always been working and his wife Sandra had been - well, Keith didn’t like to dwell on it too much, becau
se it left a sour taste in his mouth. But luckily Mandy didn’t seem to have been scarred by the lack of attention she’d had during her childhood. Besides, he had made up for it since they’d moved to the Cotswolds; he and Mandy were closer than ever. Which was why Keith was determined that nothing should overshadow her wedding day. He was going to deal with this on his own.

  The coffee brewed, Keith poured himself a cup carefully and sat down at the kitchen table. It was strange being in the house when it was quiet. He was rarely on his own, and it was unusual not to hear music blaring, or hairdryers going, or the telly on. But he found the silence disconcerting. He couldn’t think straight, couldn’t focus at all, and he had so much to think about. He had to put his life in order and make some decisions. But how could he, when he didn’t have a definite prognosis? He was still no clearer as to whether he was absolutely fine or destined for months of gruelling operations and chemotherapy.

  It was no good. He wasn’t going to be able to bear this waiting and uncertainty. He put down his coffee, went out to his car and headed back to the surgery. He managed to persuade the receptionist to let him back in to see Dr Keller just as morning surgery came to an end.

  ‘Dr Keller?’

  She looked up as he walked in, her smile polite but puzzled.

  ‘I know it’s not right, just because I’ve got the cash,’ Keith said firmly, ‘but I want to go private. There’s a clinic up near Birmingham. I’ve seen it on the internet. I want the best man, and I want him tomorrow.’

  Dr Keller nodded wearily. ‘I’ll do you a referral,’ she said, without protest. Private clinics existed for people to whom time meant money, and who had money to buy time. She could see his Jag in the car park. She wasn’t going to get an attack of the guilts or show him any disapproval. Besides, if Keith Sherwyn went private it freed up space for someone else.

  Mayday looked over at the last couple in the dining room, and estimated that as they were on their second pot of coffee, it wouldn’t be rude to present them with the bill before they asked for it. Once they’d settled up, she would be able to go. She never liked to leave the hotel until she was happy that all her lunchtime customers were satisfied. They had been unexpectedly busy for a Monday, which was great, except that she wanted to get away early to go and see her grandmother.

  She always liked to take Monday afternoons off, after the chaos of the weekend. The Horse and Groom now did a roaring trade for Sunday lunch, since Mayday had introduced a magnificent carvery boasting ten different vegetables, all you can eat and children free. It was always packed to the gills, and by the time the lunchtime crowd had faded away, people began to trickle into the bar for the Sunday evening pub quiz. Mayday compiled, compered and judged the quiz each week, brooked no arguments as her decision was final, and presented the winning team with a much-coveted trophy. Competition was cut-throat and alcohol-fuelled, the competitors sustained by plates of free sandwiches and bowls of crisps. As a result, Mayday was always exhausted by Monday and longing for an afternoon away from the hotel.

  The bill paid, Mayday went into the kitchen and plated up three portions of leftovers that Elsie could pop in the microwave. Then she ransacked the fridge for the remains of the puddings from Sunday lunch, which the chef always kept for her.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with any of it,’ he said, ‘but I can’t serve it up again, so you might as well make use of it.’

  She appropriated half a bowl of sherry trifle, sticking it in the cool box she had bought specially to transport her Red Cross parcels. It was the best way she knew to help Elsie, for Mayday couldn’t cook to save her life. And she knew her grandmother loved traditional food - roast dinners and proper puddings. There was no point in stocking up on ready meals from the supermarket. Elsie was suspicious of anything pre-prepared. Mayday looked upon it as one of the perks of being the manager. It wasn’t pilfering, because it would all go in the bin if she didn’t have it.

  She lugged the box out to her old 2CV. Bright green with a striped roof, it scraped through its MOT year after year, but she adored it. Today was cold but bright, and she needed no encouragement to fling the roof back and let the sky in. She drove off, singing along to the B-52s at the top of her voice, earning herself bemused glances as she bowled along Eldenbury high street out of the town and onto the road to Honeycote.

  She loved going to her grandmother’s house. When she wanted comfort, or reassurance or advice - which wasn’t very often, for if Mayday knew anything it was her own mind, but she was only human - then she slipped into the kitchen by the side door and hugged the little figure who would usually be sitting by the old range. The kettle would be lifted off its hotplate, and the stout brown teapot filled. Mayday’s special cup - pink flowers with a gold rim - would be plucked down from its shelf on the dresser, and two custard creams placed ceremoniously on the saucer.

  Her grandmother’s face was incredibly lined now, her bones frail, her hair thin and white. Mayday knew this deterioration had come about because of the pain. Elsie had aged ten years in two, and seemed to become smaller and more wizened each time she came to visit. But in defiance of her suffering shone a pair of sparkling eyes that held within them such love and wisdom that Mayday felt sure her gran would be there for ever.

  She parked on the road outside and walked up the path, noticing with pleasure the joyous ranks of daffodils. She’d have to see about a gardener soon. Elsie had kept on Bill’s legacy as best she could, but there was no way she would be able to maintain a full-to-bursting cottage garden in her condition. Mayday was sure there would be someone at the brewery who would be glad of some extra cash, either one of the young lads or one of the old codgers who’d been at Honeycote Ales since the dawn of time. She’d get Patrick to ask around, maybe stick a notice up in the staff room.

  In the kitchen, her grandmother was sitting at the table, looking rather dazed, and there was a strong smell of burning. Mayday rushed over to the Aga, where the kettle had boiled itself dry. She stuck her hand in an oven glove and pulled it off.

  ‘Gran! What happened?’

  ‘I must have fallen asleep.’ Elsie blinked. Her eyes were unnaturally pink. Mayday peered at her.

  ‘Have you been crying?’

  ‘No, no. It’s . . .’ Elsie cast round for an excuse, but was still too groggy to think of one. Mayday pressed her lips together.

  ‘Mum’s been here, hasn’t she?’ Her mother was the only person on the planet who could upset Elsie. And who chose to upset her. ‘What did she say?’

  For a moment, Elsie considered saying nothing. She didn’t like stirring up trouble between her daughter and granddaughter. But she wanted reassurance that Angela’s suggestion was outrageous, because the more she thought about it the more sense it seemed to make. After all, how could she carry on the way she was? At Coppice House, she would be fed and waited on, there would be somebody on hand to help if she couldn’t reach something, or open something. Even now, she had to resort to shapeless tops and elasticated skirts to avoid fiddly zips and buttons. Elsie was no fashion plate, but she liked a nice crisp cotton blouse. And shoelaces - who would have thought that shoe laces would become a luxury? She suddenly loathed the cushioned slip-on shoes she’d bought from Marks and Spencer.

  She decided she would retain as neutral a tone as possible when mooting Angela’s idea to Mayday.

  ‘Your mother thinks I should move into Coppice House.’

  Mayday’s response was immediate, as she dumped the cool box on the table and put her hands on her hips, tossing back her black hair in a gesture of indignation.

  ‘What? Is she mad?’

  Elsie immediately felt mollified. The idea was preposterous.

  ‘That dump?’ Mayday went on. ‘You’d be better off in one of Mum’s dog kennels, which is really saying something. Joyce Hardiment is only interested in one thing and that’s profit. Not the welfare of her patients. If it was up to her they would lie on a plastic mattress wallowing in their own wee all day, being fed
on a drip so she didn’t have to pay any staff. They’ve had E-coli there three times, it’s so filthy.’ Mayday pulled off the lid of the cool box and took out a plate of chicken casserole, going over to the range and sliding it into the top oven to reheat. ‘No, Gran. If you want to go into a home, we’ll find you somewhere nice. Not somewhere run by a money-grabbing old cow.’

  Elsie looked down at her hands folded in her lap. So it was Coppice House that Mayday objected to, not the idea of a home. She blinked hard to stop the tears of self-pity betraying her. For the first time since he died she thought perhaps Bill had had a lucky, if premature, escape. At least he hadn’t undergone the indignity of being a crippled nuisance, packed off to an institution for the elderly and infirm. That’s what she was: elderly and infirm.

  ‘I expect Joyce is short of takers or something.’ Mayday was busying herself round the kitchen, refilling the kettle. ‘I hope you told Mum where to shove it.’

  She picked up the teabag box, and Elsie watched in envy as she peeled away the cellophane in one easy movement, then lifted down the brown teapot from its place on the shelf.

  ‘Tell you what.’ Mayday lifted the kettle, which had by now reboiled, and poured the hot water in a steady stream. ‘Why don’t I do your hair? You deserve a bit of pampering. Have your tea, then we’ll give you a shampoo and set. You won’t know yourself.’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Elsie, and obediently ate her chicken.

  She couldn’t quite pluck up the courage to ask Mayday to help her with her bed. Mayday had only changed the sheets on Friday. But last night Elsie had woken in the early hours desperate for a wee. The pain in her knees had been so excruciating, she couldn’t face getting up. She’d tried to ignore the persistence in her bladder, and had eventually succeeded, falling back to sleep. But when she woke that morning she realized that she hadn’t conquered her need at all. She’d wet the bed. If she admitted that, even to Mayday, then the search for a home would definitely be on. She’d have a go at changing the bed herself, she decided, later on tonight. Even if she just got the bottom sheet off, and slept on the bare mattress . . . she’d just have to pray there wasn’t a repeat performance. Or perhaps she should try not drinking so much during the day.