Guilt Edged

by Judith Cutler

  ‘You deal with her,’ I managed at last. ‘I’ll deal with Tim.’

  My poor dear friend. My poor, much loved, increasingly battered friend. The friend who Griff had given me to deliver love and comfort at levels even he couldn’t manage. He’d been wet before, but never covered in pink and yellow vomit. I carried him tenderly – if gingerly – to the kitchen and started work on him. When I thought he was ready, I bunged him in a pillowcase – didn’t want his eyes scratched – and popped him in the machine for a short spin.

  Only then did I return to the mess upstairs – suddenly and blessedly quiet, incidentally – where Morris was demanding more bedclothes.

  ‘Airing cupboard,’ I said, eyeing afresh the pile in Griff’s room.

  ‘I’ve used those.’

  How many sets of bedclothes had they got through?

  ‘And a couple of towels. Er – seems she’s not dry through the night after all.’

  ‘Whose bed did she wet?’

  ‘I thought if I put her in Griff’s bed, you and I—’

  ‘You thought! You didn’t think, seeing all those nice clean sheets, that I’d achieved the next best thing to a sterile bed for a man who’s coming home after major surgery? Thanks a bunch. Now he’ll have to go and stay at Aidan’s,’ I added bitterly.

  ‘Well, it’s the obvious thing. Can’t imagine why you thought he might come back here.’ He dug an even deeper pit for himself. ‘Anyway, I’m sure you can turn the mattress. When it’s dry.’

  ‘You’d better get the bedclothes downstairs,’ I said. I couldn’t think of anything else polite or constructive. ‘No! Wait! Tim’s in the machine!’

  By the time I got there, Morris was already yanking him out.

  He applied a nose to Tim’s fur, just as I’ve seen parents do to suspect nappies. ‘Still stinks.’

  ‘Hey, what are you doing?’ I’d never moved so fast in my life.

  ‘Binning it, of course. You don’t need it – look over there,’ he said, a silly, stupid, complacent grin all over his face.

  In Griff’s own favourite armchair, without even the benefit of a Steiff button in its ear, sat the ugliest teddy bear I’d ever seen in my life.

  SEVEN

  Speaking quietly, so as not to wake Leda, Morris informed me that I was self-centred and immature, unfeeling and unloving. Equally quietly, I responded that he was at best irresponsible, putting at risk the health of his daughter by dragging her all the way from Paris. Not to mention Griff’s – a stomach bug would do a man in his state no good at all.

  ‘Why on earth did you even think of coming over?’ I asked bluntly.

  He didn’t seem to have a clear answer to that. There was something about a birthday party in London Leda wanted to go to (was someone not yet two even capable of making such a decision?), no alternative babysitting at home and – though he never actually spelt it out – a desire to have sex with me. It was clear he was on to a loser there, since my bed was occupied by a feverish child and Griff’s was still wet, though the smell of urine was less detectable than the smell of vomit in my room and, of course, on Tim. There was also a problem with bedlinen, since Griff considered tumble-dryers unenvironmental. Some wet sheets were draped hopefully over radiators giving out the last of their evening’s heat; others lurked in the laundry basket. Casting green considerations to the winds, I turned on the heating again.

  On the grounds that he had to sleep somewhere, and ought to be near poor Leda if she was ill again, I dispatched him upstairs. Tim had another bath, this time with a tiny drop of lavender oil in the water, another rinse and then, declaring that enough was enough, he retired to the airing cupboard.

  I slept, fitfully, on the sofa.

  Next day Leda was a nice sunny toddler and reassuringly hungry. I had to nip down to the village Londis to find croissants that were clearly vastly inferior to the genuine French article. I rather hoped that by the time I’d got back Morris would have discovered the washing whirligig and the pegs to deal with the laundry basket’s contents. He hadn’t. I don’t think he really expected me to accept his invitation to spend the weekend in London with them, so he wasn’t disappointed.

  As long as we kept the conversation neutral we maintained a polite front. I mentioned I was interested in the possibility of a scam involving Beswick horses. It was clear such lowly fraud – if fraud it was – was beneath him.

  It was time for them to go.

  Various social hugs and kisses were exchanged; Leda snuggled up to me asking for Tim; Tim declined to emerge from the airing cupboard; the big new bear stared impassively at the proceedings.

  If Leda had shown a desperate desire for him, I’d have handed him over with pleasure, and any or all of the other collector’s bears. All she wanted was Tim, however, but she accepted with surprisingly good grace my story that he was poorly and mustn’t be woken up – it was Morris who glowered at my continued selfishness. At last we all waved each other goodbye. Not adieu, but farewell, I was sure.

  If I was to make the cottage habitable again, I didn’t have time to worry about my feelings. I’d better start with ordering new mattresses for both beds, hadn’t I?

  I hadn’t meant to tell anyone about Morris’s departure from my life, but Mary Walker was no fool and was clearly dying to ask about all the sheets everywhere. Actually, I was glad to confide in her – after all, I knew her views on Morris second-hand, as it were, and might as well get them fresh. It was all very therapeutic. As for Tim, he had to have yet another bath, but not until she’d sent me down to Londis again, this time for some fabric treatment she told me was guaranteed to get rid of pongs.

  My mates at the takeaway knew a man plus van who didn’t mind working at weekends, so he turned up about noon to take away the old mattresses. Actually, I didn’t think they’d get as far as the tip. The stains apart, they were still usable – it was just that I wanted perfection for Griff and there was something symbolic about getting rid of mine, which I’d only ever shared with Morris. The bad news was that the earliest replacements I could get from anywhere wouldn’t arrive till Tuesday. I could have got cheaper ones within twenty-four hours, but Griff didn’t do cheap. Not when it came to supporting his back. But I didn’t worry unduly. After all, Wednesday or Thursday seemed likely release days.

  How about some lunch? I was just about to raise the idea with Mary and Paul when my phone rang. It was the guy who organized the Sunday antiques fairs down in Folkestone: he wanted to check that Tripp and Townend were coming tomorrow. Our usual stand awaited us.

  I never thought I’d say it, but thank God Aidan was back. Just to make sure, I called him: yes, he fully intended to honour his commitment to see Griff this afternoon, and would indeed be prepared to exchange tomorrow’s slots with me so I could visit after the fair. Not much enthusiasm there, but who needed enthusiasm?

  Fortunately, Griff and I had perfected a routine for fairs, so all I did was put it into operation: boxes, lights, display stands. Stock – mid-range for Folkestone, with some pretty lower-end items just in case. Some of the things I’d had in mind weren’t where I expected. Mary insisted she’d told me she’d sold them earlier in the week, and I believed her. She could have told me she’d done a decent deal on the Crown Jewels and I’d not have registered it.

  Just as I was standing back congratulating myself on being pretty well ready, I got a text. Morris. He was sorry about last night. Sorry about the mess. Sorry about the harsh words. Why didn’t I catch the next train and we could sort things out?

  I texted back that I was on my way in the opposite direction – to see Griff. Then I switched off the phone.

  I only just made it to Ashford for the evening visiting hour. But Griff was happily reading – one of the electronic books Pa had suggested I buy for him. Sod Aidan. But I smiled and made Griff show me how it worked, and made one or two inspired guesses when he forgot the purpose of some function or other. I didn’t think it was necessary to talk about Morris, not yet, and he seemed
happy to accept that I’d spent the day making preparations for the fair tomorrow. Happy-ish – I caught him looking at me appraisingly once or twice.

  ‘All this dashing backwards and forwards, my love – it can’t be good for you.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I insisted. And I would be, soon. From time to time what I’d done made me sick with horror. What was I doing, breaking up with a good, decent man, who was doing the right thing and putting his daughter first? Perhaps he was right – perhaps I should have gone to London and patched things up. After all, I should have been grateful that a handsome, well-educated man with a responsible job should have deigned to love me. Me! A child off the streets, whatever Griff had managed to transform me into. No one else would ever want me, even on the part-time basis that was all Morris and I managed.

  ‘Of course you’re fine,’ Griff agreed doubtfully. ‘But you’ve got so many plates spinning, my angel.’

  ‘I’ve had to put the restoration work on hold,’ I admitted. ‘I’ve emailed everyone on the waiting list to warn them. And Mary and Paul have been heroic in the shop. Do you remember that hideous epergne we got landed with in the Cotswolds?’

  ‘That Victorian silver-gilt confection? They never sold that!’

  ‘They did – and the chair Mary had put the teasel on!’

  But, upbeat as I tried to be, I was fairly sure I hadn’t taken him in. Not my Griff.

  At least I had plenty of news to tell him the following evening, after the Folkestone fair.

  ‘Two white Beswick horses, my love? Never!’

  ‘Absolutely. Squaring up to each other – or whatever horses do – across the main hall. You should have seen the expression on Davina and Mike’s faces when they clocked each other’s displays. And then they both moved the horses.’

  ‘And did either tell you where they’d acquired their version?’

  ‘Davina wouldn’t tell her own mother where she’d been born, would she? But Mike muttered something about a private sale. Just some bloke, he said – fancied he’d got some sort of West Country accent. Not like the woman who tried to sell me the white horse.’ At this point it dawned on me that throughout the conversation Griff had no idea why on earth I should be interested in white horses. I remembered telling him all about them – hadn’t he told me off for cleaning Rob Sampson’s shop window? – but clearly the original attempt to sell us a horse simply hadn’t registered. And why should it? While I was worrying about white glaze, he was technically dead, his breathing and circulation done for him by complex machinery.

  I explained, then continued: ‘Apart from the duplicate Beswick horses, there was something altogether more up my street. A high-fired Ruskin ginger jar. Sang de boeuf.’

  ‘Ruskin ware? So far south? In Birmingham, my love, it’s not unknown, of course, but here? None of the local dealers seem to know anything about it, alas.’

  Early on in my career with Griff, I’d fallen in love with some pottery made in the early twentieth century, much of it specially for the export market, with a lot finding its way to the USA. Typically of that period, some of it was so ugly that you wondered why on earth anyone should have bothered designing it in the first place; other pieces, especially high-fired sang de boeuf, were so lovely that I couldn’t understand why the world didn’t fight over them. It was these that fetched high prices: in the thousands as opposed to the hundreds.

  ‘Quite. But just as I was about to negotiate for it, I realized it had a twin. On a different stall.’

  He frowned. ‘Quite a coincidence. Did you get close enough to handle either of them?’

  ‘One was already being wrapped up when I approached.’

  ‘Didn’t the punter buy the second? What a missed opportunity!’ Griff narrowed his eyes. ‘But it was unlike you not to snap up the poor relict yourself, my love. Wasn’t it? Or are you trying to tell me something? You think there’s something wrong with the horses: are you now suspecting something’s amiss with the Ruskins?’

  I nodded. ‘I only got to handle the one, Griff, and there was nothing wrong with it. Perfect. A real gem. The impressed Ruskin mark bang on. Everything about it was right.’

  ‘But something about it was wrong?’

  ‘Only in my head, maybe.’

  ‘My darling child, I trust that head implicitly. Think of the brilliant work it did in Paris – is it really only ten days ago? So much has happened since then. Are you over your injuries? You suffered so much – and yet it had gone clean out of my mind. Oh, Lina. Forgetting important things …’

  ‘It’s the anaesthetic, I should imagine,’ I said bracingly. ‘In any case, I don’t think a few bruises and a bit of a rash caused by petrol are in the same league as what you’ve been through. I’m fine. Promise. But the police want to see me again tomorrow – to clarify a few points in my statement, they say. So I hope Aidan will be able to see you in the afternoon, and I’ll tell you all about it in the evening.’

  ‘An all day affair? That sounds pretty stressful. And will Morris be able to hold your hand?’

  I looked him in the eye. ‘You’ve guessed, haven’t you?’

  ‘I knew there was something amiss, and that you didn’t want to worry me by telling me all about it.’ He held open his arms ready for me to cry all over his shoulder. The wince gave him away. ‘Nothing to worry about, Lina. They might have unzipped my chest, but they’ve zipped it up again. And stapled it, just to make sure it doesn’t unzip. But there are a lot of bruises,’ he conceded.

  ‘The funny thing is, I don’t need a shoulder to cry on. I feel bad about not wanting to put Leda first all the time, especially given my own childhood. I don’t think anyone even thought about my needs and wishes till you did,’ I said, with a rueful grin. ‘So I feel ashamed of myself for getting cross when she threw up all over Tim the Bear. Not cross with her – cross with Morris for putting her in my bed and giving her something that wasn’t his to give. And that was after she wet your bed …’

  He pulled a face. ‘I think, sweet one, that you’d better begin at the beginning.’

  The sight of my tear-messed face caught the eye of one of the nurses at the busy desk, a woman not much younger than Mary Walker.

  ‘Aren’t you Griff’s granddaughter?’ she asked, stowing a biro in her top pocket and grabbing a fistful of tissue, which she pushed in my direction.

  I nodded. Best to continue with the lie, after all.

  ‘You should be on top of the world, the way he’s progressing.’

  ‘Boyfriend trouble,’ I muttered, taking a tissue, and then remembering to smile. ‘Thanks. But what’s this about progress?’

  ‘We’ll be getting rid of him any day now, I wouldn’t wonder. Will you be his primary carer? That’s government speak for the one who loves him to bits and looks after him,’ she added with a grin.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, dismissing Aidan’s claims with a last dab of the tissue. ‘And actually I’m scared stiff. Tablets and food and dressing the wounds and … Oh, should we employ a nurse? We could just afford it.’

  She shook her head firmly. ‘Waste of money. All you need is common sense – and Griff tells me you’ve got plenty of that. Wounds don’t need dressing, these days – and the stitches just disappear without any interference from anyone. Just keep an eye on things – and don’t leave him on his own for a week or so just in case … well, in case. Obviously, if any of the sites looks hot and red, talk to your local health centre straightaway.’

  For health centre read one-man surgery, but never mind.

  ‘The most important thing, oddly enough, is exercise.’

  ‘Exercise? But I thought … an invalid … bed rest …’

  ‘The heart’s just a muscle, Lina. And muscles need to be used or they stop working. So you must make sure that right from the start he moves. When he sits, no leg-crossing – and by the way, he needs to wear compression stockings all the time. They’re a bugger to get on and off, but they’re a lifeline. Make him walk a little every quarter of an h
our, just a turn around the room, then a little further. If he’s downstairs, he must use the upstairs loo and vice versa. If he feels sleepy, send him on a route march upstairs. Twice. Make him walk, a real, outside walk, twice or three times a day – and make the distance he walks double each day.’ She raised a hand to silence my squeak of protest. ‘Harden your own heart. Make him walk if it rains, if it snows, even. We’ll give him a schedule of other things to do – and not do. But it’s up to you. If you want him better, then you have to be a slave-driver. He drops his hanky – he picks it up. He leaves a book upstairs – he’s the one that fetches it.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ I said doubtfully.

  ‘You’ll succeed,’ she said sharply. ‘That way we won’t see him on this ward again. Tell you what, though, Lina, when he treads the boards again I wouldn’t mind some tickets.’ Another grin. ‘Notice I said when, not if! Feeling better now?’ She patted my arm kindly, adding, as she sent me on my way, ‘By the way, in my experience boyfriends who make you cry are best ditched. Right?’

  ‘Right,’ I agreed, hoping I meant it. But then, still taking in the marvellous news about Griff, I said it as though I did: ‘Right!’

  EIGHT

  The police, who interviewed me over in Maidstone, hadn’t actually confiscated my phone but it was clear that they didn’t want me to take any notice of the volley of texts hurtling at me. I could quite see why – it would have taken even longer to talk them through, in minute detail, all the action of the previous weekend, which seemed light years ago. As it was it all went on so long that I was afraid I might be late for evening visiting in Ashford, particularly as there’d been a pile-up on the M20 and I’d have to take to the back roads.

  However, I checked my phone before I set out. Thank goodness I did. The early ones had come from Griff, telling me he’d walked twice the distance and climbed twice the minimum number of stairs the physios demanded of pre-release patients. Then another: his blood and other test results had come through spot on. Then there came the biggie: he was going to be allowed to leave hospital if the medics agreed.