The New Leaf

by Hugh Canham

  ‘It’ll heal,’ the doctor reassured me. ‘Have you got someone at home to look after you? Will you be all right?’

  ‘Of course,’ I lied.

  ‘We’ll give you three packets of painkillers as it’s the holiday period.’

  They slung my jacket over my shoulders and my overcoat on top of that, and I left following the exit signs for the Fulham Road. I felt very cold. I suppose it was the shock.

  This time, there was a black taxi waiting and thankfully I was soon back in my flat.

  It was two o’clock and I hadn’t had anything to eat. So, after I had shrugged off my overcoat and jacket, I tried to open a tin of soup. This proved impossible with my left hand only. I’m very ‘right-handed’. Eventually, I found an open packet of ham and managed to make a sandwich, with some sliced bread. As making tea seemed far too complicated, I opened some whisky by holding the bottle between my legs and unscrewing the top with my left hand. No sooner had I got the top off than I thought about how terrible the whisky had made me feel earlier, but I didn’t care. I half filled a tumbler with neat whisky and slurped it down. Strangely this time it made me feel much better, even happy! But the happiness didn’t last. I had great difficulty in getting my trousers off. I couldn’t even undo the front buttons of my shirt with my left hand. I collapsed on my bed and lay there worrying how I was going to be able to manage. I’d have to get a nurse to help me. But how? The flat wasn’t wired up for Wi-Fi so I couldn’t look up nursing agencies on my computer. There weren’t any telephone directories. I supposed I could phone Directory Enquiries – but it was now Christmas Day. Nobody would be working.

  Maybe it was the combination of the anti-anxiety pills, the painkillers and the whisky but I started to believe that my present situation must be some retribution for my past. I never believed in a God who looked down from the sky, pointing a finger at wrongdoers and punishing them. But here I was feeling terrible, helpless and depressed with a broken wrist and unable to cope. I’d led a selfish existence, just wanting to make more and more money and spend it on expensive cars and racehorses. I’d drunk too much and eaten too much. I’d screwed a succession of women and I’d let them screw me for everything they could get out of me: holidays, meals at smart restaurants, trips to the casino, expensive jewels – I’d even bought a specially favoured one a sports car. I would have probably avoided my recent financial difficulties if I hadn’t spent so much money on them. But I had got tired of them all one by one, then suddenly Zoë had ditched me; that was the beginning of my troubles. The recent experiences with Cristabel, Jane and Elizabeth seemed even more bitter as I lay in bed with an aching wrist at two-thirty on Christmas morning in an anonymous flat. I didn’t think there was anyone in any of the other flats in the building. They’d probably all gone away for Christmas – not that I’d ever seen anyone going in or out.

  What was I going to do? My wrist was really hurting like hell again. I must get up and take two more painkillers. Well, I thought, as I swallowed the second of the painkillers, I can’t phone Jane now, not for a few hours yet.

  Then I realised that I had unconsciously made a decision; I choked and spat out the tablet.

  Oh God, was that the only way out! I went and lay down again shivering and pulled the bedclothes round my neck. Eventually, I saw Christmas Day dawn through the chink in the curtains. I thought of the time when I’d been very small and believed in Father Christmas. There’d be my stocking filled by my mother at the end of my bed. It had been so nice when my mother had still been at home. It might have been okay for her to leave Dad, but did she have to leave me as well? Oh God! What I longed for was someone kind to look after me.

  Eventually, at 9 o’clock I couldn’t wait any longer and I phoned Jane. I had a speech beautifully rehearsed, but all I got was her answering service. I couldn’t possibly say my prepared speech to a recording so I rang off.

  She’d probably gone away for Christmas.

  But no – I presumed that was unlikely with her father still ill. Maybe she’d gone to visit him in hospital. But why didn’t one of the staff answer the phone? There’d been four of them when I visited. Perhaps they were all given leave over Christmas?

  But after a time, I couldn’t just bear to lie there and do nothing and I had no mobile number for her. I tried again.

  Still the answering service! What was I going to do if she never answered? I decided to try her number every fifteen minutes. That seemed the only thing to do. By ten-thirty I was almost desperate but at ten forty-five – ‘Hello,’ she said.

  ‘Jane, it’s Gregory.’

  ‘Oh, Happy Christmas!’

  I think I was so overcome I could hardly speak, but eventually I managed to say, ‘Well, I’m afraid it’s not very happy for me. I’ve been trying to get you since nine o’clock.’

  ‘I’ve been out riding. It’s a tradition with me for Christmas morning. But what’s the matter?’

  I told her how I’d broken my right wrist and was all alone in a flat in Chelsea and simply couldn’t manage. There was quite a pause after I’d finished. Eventually she said, ‘I see. Well, I’m very sorry and I’m very glad to hear from you. Can I be of practical if not financial help?’

  A few hours later, I was sitting in front of a blazing log fire in what Jane calls the drawing room of Netwyn Hall.

  And I have been sitting in front of the fire most of the time over the Christmas period, thinking about all that’s happened to me over the past year. I have, of course, told Jane about selling my office and flat and how I’ve finally sorted out my financial affairs. She seems to have forgiven me.

  Her father is at home and he has a resident nurse who has been also looking after me, although I’m sure from the way she’s behaving, Jane would prefer to look after me herself.

  I’ve had a few gentle walks round the grounds, always accompanied by Jane who seems to have an irrational fear that I might fall over again.

  I have now also visited Lord Jennings in his bedroom.

  ‘Please call me Bob, old chap,’ were his first words to me.

  He must be nearing eighty, or at least he looks it. By one of those strange coincidences he knew my father very well, apparently, when they were both young – he even did a couple of developments with him.

  ‘I hear from Jane that you’ve had a run of very, very bad luck and had to sell your office and flat all because of a mistake by your accountants, but you’re over it now. What are you planning to do in the future?’

  I said I really didn’t know. I’d been ill but was beginning to feel better.

  ‘Yes, Jane’s told me all about it. Quite a story. Look, how would you like to come and help run Jennings Homes? I’ve always controlled the thing myself but I know I’m not going to be able to do the day-to-day running of it in the future. Jane’s simply not interested, although I think she has quite a good business brain.’

  It was a very tempting offer. Rather like Jane’s offer of the loan.

  ‘Well, think about it Gregory and let me know how you feel about it say on New Year’s Day. That’s a good day for making decisions!’

  I went and sat by the fire again and thought about it. I realised that the real reason I had turned down Jane’s offer of a loan was the feeling that it would somehow tie me to her and this offer from her father had the same sort of string attached, although nothing was explicit.

  I still have a few days to think about it. It would be awful in some ways to lose my independence but maybe I am tired of it. Jane bustles in now as she does frequently to see if I’m ‘all right’.

  I look at her and I think of my trainer Jim’s remark at Sandown as we stood saddling Sir Will: ‘Struth, where d’you get ’er from? Not yer usual!’

 

 

 
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