Francesca stood there, holding her baby when she came back from the X-ray department, holding the small body that was not getting all the blood it needed when it needed it, that was so often cold, that didn’t gain weight, that clearly endured discomfort and perhaps endured pain, and that would have to endure more, would have to be cut into and probed and clipped and stitched, the tiny white chest mutilated with a great red gash, and she gripped Bard’s hand and looked at Mr Lauder in an agony of fear and said (while thinking how mundane the words were, how foolishly inadequate), ‘What happens now?’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘well, what happens now is that I should refer her to a cardio-thoracic surgeon. Who will decide exactly when and if she should have surgery. I cannot stress enough that this is not a serious case, and neither is it urgent. It may well be that Kitty would be better served if we waited a while, until she is a little older and stronger.’
‘But suppose – ’ said Francesca, and it took all her courage even to ask, and there was agony in her voice as she said it, ‘suppose it gets worse, suppose she – she doesn’t get the chance to be older and stronger.’
‘That will be for the surgeon to decide.’ Mr Lauder smiled his blandest, most reassuring smile. ‘I have to tell you I think it is extremely unlikely that he won’t agree with me. However, of course we don’t want to risk anything, nor waste any time at all. Now if you can just bear with me, I will – ’
And he was off on his medical routine, the one they all went into so swiftly and easily, lifting phones, making notes, raising eyebrows, smiling, nodding, running through the script, the well-rehearsed lines about nothing to worry about and excellent people and superb units and best possible care and earliest possible dates and that he would send her tracings and notes over to Mr Moreton-Smith, a consultant cardiovascular surgeon at St Andrew’s, immediately, and if he thought she should be seen sooner, then that could be arranged too.
‘That’s almost a week,’ said Francesca. ‘Why not before?’
‘Mrs Channing, as I have said, there is really no great urgency with this. She is not a severe case and most surgeons prefer to wait until the child is older. I don’t want to raise your hopes, but in some, many cases even, the hearts repair themselves and surgery is not actually necessary. This is a very tiny hole, your baby is not seriously ill. You told me, I think, that she had gained almost a pound since I first saw her; that is excellent, most encouraging – you must try not to worry, Mrs Channing, Mr Channing. Of course it’s upsetting, but – ’
On and on the voice went, the detached voice, talking sense, talking knowledge, and of course it would, Francesca thought, it had no connection, that voice, with the owner of the heart that had been brought to him, the hurting, inefficient heart, she was just a patient to him, a small patient, not a part of him, that had been nourished and cherished by him, not something so dear, so important that he would feel his own heart hurting beyond endurance. She looked down at the baby, unusually peaceful, uncharacteristically asleep, and she cradled her close, shutting the world out from her, the hard world that had bestowed such injustice, such outrage on her, rested her cheek on the tiny, silky head, and tried to be calm.
‘And what’s the prognosis?’ said Bard suddenly.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘How much danger is she actually in? What are her chances of a total recovery, with or without surgery? What are the risks of the surgery itself?’
Mr Lauder smiled at him and paused before he spoke, making it clear he had given the questions proper and careful consideration. ‘She is not, so far as it is possible to make such a statement, and in my opinion, in any immediate danger. The chances of a total recovery are obviously dependent on a great many factors, which I would prefer you to discuss with Mr Moreton-Smith. The risks inherent in any surgery are of course there, and it would be wrong of me to dismiss them, and again would be affected by the length of the operation, the degree of anaesthesia required, the child’s general health, but again, Mr Moreton-Smith would be better able to tell you – ’
‘Well, this is all pretty bloody useless, isn’t it?’ said Bard.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘All these ifs and buts and maybes. What I want are some facts, and I want to know how we get them, get something more satisfactory than all this nonsense.’
‘Mr Channing,’ said Mr Lauder, all reasonable calm, indicating most clearly that he understood Bard’s distress, even as he must, as a man of medicine, dismiss it, and speaking as if to a moderately intelligent child, ‘I do assure you this is as definite a diagnosis as you will get at this stage. Medicine is not an exact science, as of course you know, especially in a situation like this one. Your daughter is very young, very tiny; one is inevitably dealing in ifs and buts, as you put it, in uncertainties – ’
‘Well, I’d like to check that out for myself, I’m afraid,’ said Bard, ‘I cannot believe it’s impossible to get a more definite diagnosis, as you put it, than the one we’ve had this morning.’
‘Bard – ’ said Francesca. ‘Bard, I don’t – ’
‘Mr Channing, of course you may get a second opinion. That is your absolute right. But I would be very – ’ He hesitated, then smiled again, the smile yet more gracious, more chillingly confident, ‘ – very surprised if you were told anything more definite. However, if it is your wish, then I suggest you see another paediatrician and perhaps you would then feel you would like to come back to me and discuss your daughter’s case more fully.’
‘Fine,’ said Bard. ‘That’s what we will do. Because – ’
‘Mr Lauder,’ said Francesca, taking a deep breath, not looking at Bard, ‘I’m not quite sure about this. Would it delay matters if we did that? Would it mean you wouldn’t send the tracings to Mr Moreton-Smith immediately – ’
‘No, no, I should still do that, of course. And report back to you. But I would not ask him then to see her, as the matter would be in abeyance while you sought a second opinion – ’
‘Well, we will discuss this between ourselves,’ said Francesca, still not looking at Bard, her voice very clear, ‘and then phone you. If we may.’
‘Of course. And, as I say, this is not a serious case, and I would urge you again to try not to worry too much.’ He stood up, smiling, holding out his hand to Francesca and then to Bard, tickled Kitty gently under her small chin. ‘Beautiful,’ he said, ‘quite beautiful. I’m sure she’ll be fine.’
‘How could you do that?’ said Francesca, as soon as they were outside in the street. ‘How could you be so rude, so arrogant?’
‘He was rude and arrogant,’ said Bard, ‘not to mention incompetent, talking to us as if we were halfwits, not giving us any proper answers – ’
‘Bard, there aren’t any proper answers, as you put it. Well, we’ve had quite a lot already. He can’t say any more yet, he can’t do a prognosis about whether or not surgery will be required, how much danger she might or might not be in. I’m not in the least surprised he talked to you as if you were a halfwit, you were behaving like one.’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ he said. ‘I’ve had enough to put up with this morning without listening to this.’
‘Oh really?’ said Francesca. Rage swept over her, so strong, so blinding it was almost pleasurable. ‘You’ve had a lot to put up with? Bard, how can you talk like that, while Kitty is ill, really ill and possibly in pain, certainly suffering, we don’t know how much, while I feel like just picking her up and running away with her, while Mr Lauder, having put his considerable expertise at our disposal, has to listen to your insults. I feel sick, Bard, sick to the bottom of my heart, and that performance of yours has certainly contributed to it. I’m going to take Kitty home, and I am not going to seek any second opinions until we’ve seen Mr Moreton-Smith. Then if we’re not happy, we can think again.’
‘Francesca, we will do what I think best.’
‘No, we won’t. Because it isn’t best for Kitty. Not at this stage. We’re only talking a few day
s. She’s been ill all her little life.’ She held Kitty closer to her suddenly, as if to protect her. ‘And I might say, if I hadn’t taken matters into my own hands, seen Mr Lauder in the first place, she would have gone on being ill, possibly until it was too late. So don’t start telling me what’s best for her, please. Anyway, I’m going home now. I don’t know what you’re going to do.’
‘Obviously I’m going to the office. I’ve got a lot on.’
‘Obviously.’
‘I’ll call you. Later. When I’ve had time to think about this.’
She shrugged. ‘Fine.’ She turned away from him, unlocked her car door, started buckling Kitty into the complex straps of her little seat.
‘Francesca – ’
‘Yes, Bard?’ She could hear her own voice, ice cold.
‘Francesca, I – I’m only concerned with what’s best for Kitty. That’s all I want.’
‘Is it? Is it really?’
‘Yes, of course it bloody well is.’
‘Good,’ she said coolly and got into the car.
He didn’t phone, not all afternoon; but he arrived home, most extraordinarily, at six, his arms full of flowers, his dark eyes full of remorse.
‘I love you,’ he said, kissing her, ‘and we have to get through this thing somehow. We’ll see this Moreton-Smith man and then we’ll see someone else.’
It was the nearest he was going to get to apologising; knowing what it had cost him, she smiled, took the flowers, kissed him back. ‘Thank you. I love you too. And yes, we will get through it. And we can see Mr Moreton-Smith next Tuesday. Quite soon really.’
‘You’ve fixed it, then?’
She met his eyes steadily. ‘Yes. Yes, I spoke to Mr Lauder this afternoon.’
She thought he might lose his temper then, tell her she had no right to go ahead until he had agreed; but there was a pause and then he said, clearly with great difficulty, ‘Fine. I’ll come with you.’
Of all humiliations, Liam thought this must surely be the worst. To sit in some crummy office, opposite some little nerd in a shiny suit and a flashy tie with slicked-back hair and a framed photograph of some bimbo with streaked blonde hair and huge boobs bursting out of her bikini, and beg. It was even worse than begging from his father. At least he had some sort of respect for his father.
‘Right, Mr Channing,’ said Des Carter (that was the name painted proudly on the small plaque that stood on his desk), ‘let’s just go over this once more. Now you bought Forty-seven Marquis for – what was it – four hundred and twenty thousand in 1988. It’s now worth – what shall we say, on the open market? Three-fifty? Terrible, isn’t it? Really terrible. I said to my wife only last night, thank God we didn’t get into that. We could have done, only too easily, believe me. But her father’s a builder, he saw it coming of course, and we waited to buy. Saw the prices tumbling down. We were lucky. Anyway, you don’t want to hear my story, do you?’
‘Oh – I don’t know,’ said Liam carefully. ‘Be nice to the buggers,’ had been the last advice his solicitor had given him, ‘let them throw the book at you, don’t argue. They’re all little Hitlers, love the sense of power. Just stay humble. You’ll do better that way.’
‘So now you can’t keep up your payments. Dear oh dear. You have my sympathy, Mr Channing, you really do. We see so much of this and really it doesn’t get any easier for us.’
For us neither, thought Liam gritting his teeth.
‘Now your monthly repayments are – let’s see – three thousand seven hundred. Quite a lot, isn’t it? I can see it could represent quite a drain. Now what is the combined family income?’
‘About – about a hundred and fifty thousand.’
‘That doesn’t sound too bad. Still, a big hunk out of it though. What do you do, Mr Channing? Ah yes, barrister I see. Well, you guys make loads of dosh don’t you? Coining it in?’
‘Not all of us, no. Unfortunately. It’s quite tough actually.’
‘Really?’ He looked blankly surprised. ‘And your wife, she’s a banker?’
‘Yes.’
‘So hers is the primary income?’
‘Yes. That is, it was.’ He felt himself beginning to sweat. ‘But she’s been made redundant. Usual story, you know, takeover. The Americans. Of course I’m sure it’s only a temporary hitch. She has a very good track record. But in the meantime – ’
‘Yes, of course. The meantime. Which is what we’re looking at, isn’t it? What about your own income, are you able to increase or even supplement that, Mr Channing? In the meantime?’
Slimy little shit, thought Liam. ‘I’m not – sure. Naturally I’m trying.’
‘Well, good for you, Mr Channing. Lots of people aren’t prepared to try even. So full marks to you.’
A quarter of an hour later, Liam left, with a reprieve of sorts: six months without making any further mortgage repayments (‘Of course you realise these would be added on to the capital sum at the end?’). At least they would continue to have a roof over their heads. A roof probably not worth the best quality slates it was made of, but at least the bed and breakfast didn’t beckon. On the other hand there wasn’t going to be much more breakfast if he didn’t get anything out of the bank. The overdraft still stood at £9,000, and the charges on it were hideous. Naomi’s redundancy money had simply taken the top off it; the manager had told them if it did not at least stop rising, he would simply start returning cheques.
‘This is not a charity, Mr Channing. I can’t go on supporting you indefinitely.’
The problem was, anything at all he did manage to earn simply got lost in the overdraft; Naomi had suggested they open a Post Office Giro account for anything they could salvage, and that had helped a bit; they had sold a few of their beloved pieces of Staffordshire and some silver and put the money in there, but it was almost run through now, and he was terrified of overdrawing on it, with the inevitable checks on his credit rating, and the antagonism of their own manager. Something had to be done; he had to get something out of the buggers.
Naomi had told him he should go straight on to the bank from the building society that morning, but that seemed to Liam the equivalent of washing down bitter pills with gall: he decided to go home, call the bank and speak to the manager, and maybe he would have something positive to tell him, maybe there would be a reply to one of the innumerable letters he had written applying for jobs as in-house barrister. It was a favourite route for those for whom private practice had not proved sufficiently profitable: less glamorous, less prestigious, but more secure. So far he had not had a great deal of luck.
He walked down Marquis Terrace towards their house; once it had seemed to him Arcadia, a beautiful street, the finest example of Islington Georgian, shutters all intact, fireplaces all present, furniture all stylish, every single one filled with successful, moneyed, ambitious people – Type A Terrace it ought to be called, Naomi had once said; he hadn’t known what she’d meant and she had said, ‘Really Liam, surely even you must know about Type A personalities, they’re the pushy, driven lot. The ones who are statistically most prone to heart attacks,’ she added briskly.
A couple of the Terrace nannies were pushing small, trendily clothed children along it in large gleaming pushchairs; they both smiled at him slightly awkwardly, began talking rather too busily (knowing his own nanny had been told to leave, knowing full well why). He looked blankly back at them, not really caring; he had more important things to worry about than the nanny mafia.
Liam pushed open the door, looked at the hall table; the usual pile of bills and envelopes telling him their contents were not circulars, mostly chase-up letters on credit and charge cards, and two officious-looking white envelopes. Replies, thought Liam, feeling sick, and walked into the kitchen, sat down heavily.
‘Dear Mr Channing (they both said, uncompromisingly), Thank you for your letter. Although we were impressed by …’
He didn’t read on; stood up again, plugged in the kettle. The kitchen was a mess, he
thought, looking round it distastefully – Naomi certainly had no talent for the domestic life. Crumbs and tea stains all over the white tiled surface, a milk bottle and a margarine tub on the black marble table, and two unfinished cups of tea on the draining board. Surely she could at least tidy up after herself. Where was she anyway, the children were both at school, she should be here, working on job applications. That was the pact. They would both make a job of getting a job.
She had been very good when he had first got back that day, supportive and cool; had cursed and reviled his father for some time, and then said quite cheerfully (pre-empting his own speech, somewhat to his surprise) that actually it would have been terrible to be under any kind of obligation to him, far better make their own way: they had even gone to bed and had some rather amazing sex. Liam had lain (slightly detachedly) as her body tensed and throbbed and eased, and wondered how long her positive mood would last.
A very short time it turned out: as the days had gone by, they were patently failing to make their own way. All Naomi’s contacts had said of course, normally they would be thrilled to have her on board, but with things still being, if not bad not good – well, they would get back to her the minute they had anything for her; and he had spent long miserable days applying for jobs far below his capabilities, as he had ventured outside the legal framework, had applied for (and failed to get) consultancies, jobs in marketing, in sales (sales, for God’s sake!), and their spirits had been sucked inevitably into a downward spiral, and they had become first loudly quarrelsome and then silently hostile.
Everything, thought Liam, staring out at the small walled garden (and even that looked neglected now and there really was no excuse for that, except that when the nanny had looked after the children and Mrs Barker had done the housework there had been more time and energy for trimming and pruning and going off to the Garden Centre for shrubs and tubs and terracottas), everything conspired to remind him how unsatisfactory their life had become. All the things that had once seemed unremarkable – the pile of clean sheets and duvet covers in the airing cupboard, the great heaps of thick fluffy towels, the rows of perfectly ironed shirts in his wardrobe, the immaculately filled fridge, the cosy hour before the children’s bedtime when he and they sat and cuddled on the sofa, they in their clean pyjamas, their hair washed and shining, and he read them stories, the fresh flowers in the hall and the drawing room, the fun of shopping together on Saturday morning, all of them, hurling things into the trolley in Waitrose, anything anyone fancied, going for a walk with one or two other families in the Terrace and then having tea together, which invariably became drinks and then sometimes supper – all those things had assumed huge importance by their absence. Especially to Liam. He craved, he required, domestic order. Without it he felt a kind of outrage, a sense of neglect, of being unattended to. Naomi never ironed anything, certainly not his shirts; the hour before bedtime was now the one where he had to bath and feed the children, and story time had become a lot shorter. Flowers were expensive, shopping a worrying chore (was their payment card going to be accepted, had they overspent?), and the other families best avoided, as hospitality could no longer be returned, drinks no longer offered, and tactful questions had become increasingly difficult to answer cheerfully.
The Dilemma Page 17
