Patsy only drank decaffeinated coffee. I mean what’s the point in that? And thinking about it from my personally caffeine-rich environment, when they take the caffeine out where does it go? Do they shove it in other things? Add it to petrol? Sell it on the black market to shady-looking blokes in raincoats?
Anyway, bang on the dot of six, Patsy Poole – a statuesque redhead – arrived, parking her it’s got everything Range Rover in my drive. She was only going to stay with me until Monday morning but had brought enough luggage for a transatlantic crossing and had what can only be described as a ghetto blaster under one arm. I didn’t know they still made such things.
She settled in very quickly, ate the broccoli and tomato quiche (gluten free) she had requested, and told me lots of wonderful gossip about well-known authors, none of which I can repeat as I can’t afford the legal fees. I mean who knew a much-married, surgically enhanced writer of a certain age was actually a bigamist? Or a famous historian had been cautioned for shop lifting dog outfits?
Patsy declined more than one glass of wine and went up to her room to write ‘in peace’. I decided that I too would have another go at being a vegetarian. After all Patsy looked ten years younger than her actual age. Her skin was as smooth and rosy as a child’s. Perhaps she’d had cosmetic surgery – I didn’t think of this until later.
Still, she had a wonderfully slim figure that often seems to go with people who don’t eat pies and mechanically recovered meat products. Perhaps I would google vegetarian recipes when I got a moment and give it another go.
A few minutes later I was washing up and enjoying a cheeky Merlot when suddenly Whitesnake started blasting out from upstairs at such a volume that it shook the windows. It’s a good job I have thick walls and no near neighbours who could hear ‘Come An’ Get It’ in all its glory. This continued until nine-thirty when there was a merciful silence, and something called ‘Slide It In’ was stopped mid-riff. Thank God. So much for absolute peace and quiet.
Patsy came downstairs with a bottle of Sailor Jerry in one hand.
‘God, that’s better, I’ve been writing up a storm in the last hours. There must be something in the air here. You’re awfully good at this.’ She shook the bottle at me. ‘Care to join me?’
I declined and poured another glass of Merlot. She joined me at the kitchen table and took off her shoes (Pink Converse trainers).
‘I meant to say, I saw Ollie a few weeks back. He was the one who said I should come here. He said you were the best person at this by a mile. The food always good, always plenty of booze. I rather think he likes you.’
‘Really?’ I blushed as convincingly as one of Patsy’s dimity-clad heroines. ‘What did he say?’
‘Just that. He was coming here. Has he been?’
‘Last week. He left a bit suddenly though,’ I said trying not to sound too pathetic.
‘Oh yes the thing.’
‘What thing.’
‘The thing with the next book. I heard he was going back to the States. Wasn’t due to come back here until the New Year.’
That was about four months away and I felt a sudden plunge of disappointment. Why? He meant nothing to me and I obviously meant nothing to him.
Bloody hell, was I really that crap in bed that a man not only went home early but went to a different continent too?
‘He’s OK though?’ I said trying to gee the conversation up.
Patsy knocked back her drink and refilled her glass. Golly a lot of these writerly types seemed real piss artists. So why wasn’t I more successful? I could do alcohol just as well as the next woman.
‘Ollie? Yeah he’s fine. Well he was when I saw him.’
‘And still single?’
Cringe.
‘Yeah, I thought he was gay but apparently not. Perhaps he’s asexual,’ Patsy said airily.
I don’t think so!
‘Or one of those people that deliberately don’t do sex because it stops their creative urges.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Which is a shame isn’t it? A man as sexy as that? I would wouldn’t you?’
I made some vague noises and slewed back my wine.
‘Anyway, I’m going out for a fag. You don’t do you?’
I shook my head.
‘Very wise.’
So she was gluten intolerant and a vegetarian but she drank neat rum out of tumblers and smoked. How did that work then?
She went up to bed soon after that and I didn’t hear anything from her until the morning.
My phone rang just after Patsy had finished her (gluten free) breakfast toast and Nutella, and had gone back upstairs to write accompanied by Iron Maiden.
She’d told me a bit about book twenty-six and it was indeed a Georgian romance between a delicate heiress and a pirate. Evidently she was revving up the romance to the strains of ‘Charlotte the Harlot’ and I went out into the garden so I could hear who was trying to talk to me.
‘Billie? It’s Elaine. Elaine Weston. Remember me? I came to the retreat …’
‘Of course I remember! How are you? How is the arthritis?’
‘Oh much the same. Listen I rang you to tell you some good news.’
‘Oh that sounds exciting – go on!’
‘I’ve won a writing competition!’
‘Oh wow, that fantastic news!’
‘I know, I can hardly believe it. All these years and I’ve not made a single penny out of my writing, and now I’ve won two hundred pounds!’
‘I couldn’t be more pleased, Elaine,’ I said.
‘And it’s all thanks to Oliver Forest. Do you remember? No, you wouldn’t remember. He said I should enter some writing competitions and I did. Well the first few nothing and then I entered one called Weird Words and I won! I had the email this morning and I wanted to tell you straight away. I don’t suppose you have a contact number for him do you?’
‘I can dig one out,’ I said. ‘I have his PA’s details somewhere.’
‘Oh yes, poor Pippa!’
‘Well it’s not actually her anymore …’
We chatted for a few minutes and I brought her up to speed with the business and she told me about her kittens before she rang off to ring someone else and tell them the good news.
So, another nice thing Oliver had done. First Helena and now this. He really was having a change of heart or character or something.
Back in the house Iron Maiden had given way to Black Sabbath and ‘Fairies Wear Boots’. How the hell could she manage to write with that row going on? And what about her urgent need for absolute peace and quiet?
Other than being a vegetarian, Patsy ate just about anything and was – apart from the noise – no trouble at all. She left on Monday morning with double air kisses and promises to recommend me to all her friends.
After she’d gone I sat drinking coffee letting my eardrums settle before I went to clear her room and change the beds.
My phone rang.
‘Hello, petal, can you come round? I’ve got something that might interest you.’
‘Hello, Uncle Peter, what would that be then?’
He wouldn’t be drawn, just chuckled a bit, so I found some shoes and went off to the bookshop. There I found a veritable scrum of customers. Very unusual. Godfrey was behind the till and Uncle Peter was trying to organize people into an orderly line while they queued up with their purchases.
I looked over at him. ‘What on earth is going on?’
Uncle Peter laughed and beckoned me over.
‘You couldn’t make it up really. The most amazing thing happened. Just after I opened up the shop a van pulled up and delivered these boxes.’
He waved at some stout cardboard cartons.
‘Take a look,’ he said.
Naturally enough it was books, hardbacks straight from the publisher by the look of things. I peered in. The Girl from Damascus, loads of copies and all of them signed by the author; not Oliver Forest or Ross Black but what was apparently his new incarnati
on – Sam Steel.
‘Wow,’ I said.
‘I know, it’s not due out until Friday. I thought there must have been a mistake but there was a note with it – look.’
He handed over a piece of paper with dark, strong writing on it.
‘I believe I owe you these? You’re getting them a few days early and I’m going to announce as much on Twitter. Let me know if you need more. Hope it helps, Oliver Forest.’
I gasped and pulled one of the books out, inhaling that gorgeous smell that is so distinctive. I pressed it between my palms and then opened it at the title page. There’s something about a brand-new book, isn’t there? That exciting moment when you know you are the first person to look inside it, the funny little crackling noises as the spine opens.
The Girl From Damascus
By Sam Steel.
Dedicated to the Cheese Airer.
‘Strange dedication isn’t it?’ Uncle Peter said. ‘I wonder what it means?’
I took the book and went to the back of the shop, hardly able to breathe.
It was me surely? I was the cheese airer. How could it be anyone else?
The stream of people continued all morning until the last volume was snapped up. Godfrey said they had sold a hundred and taken orders for as many again.
‘I really didn’t expect this,’ he said. ‘I must write and thank him. He left your house early I understand? What a pity, I would love to have met him.’
What was I going to do next? What was the right thing to do?
*
That evening I sat looking at the emails I had received from Pippa and then from Fee. I could imagine where they worked, from glossy offices in Central London with views over the Thames I expect. But Oliver? Where was he? He was going back to America; he wasn’t coming back until the New Year.
I couldn’t bear it. I wanted to see him again. Whether I was too noisy or said stupid things at the wrong moment or even if I was so bad at lovemaking that it drove men away, I needed to see him one last time.
*
Astonishingly at nine o’clock the following morning, just as I was about to ring her, Fee Gillespie rang me.
‘Mr Forest has asked me to contact you. He has a parcel he wishes to pass on and needs to get it to you.’
‘OK, what do you need me to do?’ I said rather enthusiastically.
‘Fine, no need to shout,’ Fee said rather tetchily. ‘There should be a car arriving outside.’
‘Outside where?’
‘Outside your house,’ Fee said with a definite ‘duh’ in her voice.
‘Now?’
‘Soon.’
‘But I might not have been in. I might have been on holiday. I might have gone shopping.’
‘And where are you?’ Fee said.
‘At my house.’
‘Well there we are then, no harm done,’ she said and rang off.
Ten seconds later my phone rang again. Had she forgotten some vital information?
‘Billie? Is that you?’
‘Godfrey?’
‘Oh thank heavens; I’ve been trying to ring you. You always seem to be engaged or not available. Why don’t you answer the house phone? I’m in a bit of a state. I’m afraid it’s Peter.’
I went cold. ‘What’s happened?’
‘He’s really not well. That tummy upset never did clear up but he wouldn’t go to the doctor. You know what he’s like. I don’t know what to do. You know we don’t drive, and I’ve called an ambulance but apparently there’s been a pile-up somewhere the other side of Cheltenham and they can’t get to me for thirty minutes at the earliest.’
I went back into the house, grabbed my car keys and ran. I got into my Land Rover and floored the pedal. This sounds dramatic but it only meant I did about forty miles an hour. But very loudly so it was quite impressive.
When I got to their flat I found Uncle Peter sitting on the side of his bed, looking very grey and ill. He bent over with a groan of pain as I cannoned in.
‘What is it? Have you called the doctor?’ I said.
Godfrey grasped his hands together and paced around.
‘I don’t know what to do. I did try the surgery but they weren’t much help. They suggested I ring for an ambulance, and I did but …’
I looked at my uncle’s face. He was beginning to sweat and he looked awful. I took a decision.
‘Come on, Uncle Peter, we need to get you to hospital. Godfrey, go and get a quilt or something. Help me get him into the car.’
‘God, I think I’m going to be sick,’ Uncle Peter said in a weak voice. ‘Sorry and all that.’
He made it to the bathroom where he was violently ill and sank to his knees, white and trembling. Behind him Godfrey started whimpering and biting his fist.
After a few minutes Uncle Peter managed to get to his feet. He put out an arm towards me, his eyes wide with fear.
‘I’m awfully sorry, Billie, I think this is it. I think I might be dying.’
‘No you’re bloody not. I’m not going to let you. Now come on, let’s get you to hospital,’ I said.
I don’t know how we did, it but between us Godfrey and I got him into the back seat and set off for the hospital, praying that the car wouldn’t start playing up. The Land Rover had already shown me it realized that its MOT was up in two days’ time. It always had a slightly spiteful streak, failing to start at inopportune moments and occasionally leaving its lights on so the battery went flat. Only last week it ran out of petrol despite the gauge claiming to be half full.
We roared through the narrow streets, causing a large silver car to swerve into the kerb as I wrestled with the gears and cursed in language that would have caused Uncle Peter to blush if he had been in the mood to listen. Gunning the car through the main gates and ignoring the one-way system, I skidded to a halt outside the main doors, much to the fury of a woman in a tight dressing gown who was standing by a litterbin smoking.
‘You can’t park here, hospital policy. My husband has to park miles away. Over there,’ she said waving with her cigarette towards the car park.
‘Really?’ I said.
I ran past her to find a wheelchair and when I returned she was standing berating poor Godfrey as he tried to help Uncle Peter out of the car. I carefully ran the wheelchair wheels over the back of her feet, making her yelp and scuttle out of the way.
‘If you’ve got mud on my new slippers …’
‘… then my living will not be in vain. Can’t you see he’s seriously ill? Get out of the way, woman, if you can’t be helpful,’ I shouted. ‘And stop smoking! It’s a frigging hospital!’
She shambled off sulking and muttering about human rights and we got my uncle into the wheelchair and into A&E.
Half an hour later Uncle Peter was in the operating theatre. Godfrey was sitting looking shaken with a cup of something that might have been tea, or possibly oxtail soup – he might have hit the wrong buttons – and I had a parking ticket.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Uncle Peter was back in the ward by midday by which time I’d moved my car three miles away to the hospital car park and parted with the gross national product of Belgium for the privilege. I found Godfrey and we went to have two dramatically awful sandwiches in the hospital canteen. I have no idea what they were. By a process of elimination we decided the only thing worth drinking from the machines was the hot chocolate. Or more accurately the scalding brown beverage that appeared when button C9 was pressed.
We sat beside Peter’s bed, watching as he lay log-like under the thin blue counterpane that had been tucked tightly round him. A stout nurse wandered up and put a paper plate with a banana and a cheese and pickle roll on the locker next to him.
‘Dead men’s dinner for you,’ she said lugubriously. ‘Tea or coffee?’
‘Tea for me please, two sugars. It’s been a bit of a day,’ Godfrey said, looking up at her with a weak smile.
‘I meant for him,’ the nurse said, curling her lip.
&n
bsp; ‘Well I’m sure that’s what he would like,’ I said cunningly.
She wasn’t fooled. ‘There are machines you can use on the ground floor. You’ll need the right money and don’t ask for change at the shop. They get very shirty about that.’
‘Why?’ I said.
‘Why what?’
‘Why don’t they like giving change?’
‘It’s not what they’re there for,’ stout nurse said, flicking a meaningful look at the watch pinned upside down on the straining bosom of her lilac uniform.
‘What, making life for visitors a bit more bearable?’
Godfrey nudged me with his knee. ‘Don’t,’ he muttered. ‘She might take it out on Peter. We’ll get him home as soon as we can, and we can look after him there.’
‘Visiting hours finish in five minutes,’ she said.
‘OK,’ I said sending the stout nurse a fierce look as she swayed off.
‘What are you arguing about,’ Uncle Peter said.
‘Ah so you’re back in the land of the living!’ Godfrey said with a glad cry. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Pretty rubbish actually,’ he said, his thin fingers plucking at the bedspread. ‘Where am I?’
‘Hospital. It was appendicitis,’ I said, reaching out to put my hand over his.
‘Really? Thank God, I thought it was something far worse,’ Uncle Peter said with the smallest of smiles.
‘The surgeon said yours was the worst he’s seen for ages so well done,’ Godfrey said.
‘I do my best. Can I go home please?’
‘I think we should wait for the doctors to tell us. If there are any around,’ Godfrey said looking vaguely around as though expecting to see a Carry On Matron gaggle of medial staff wending their way towards us. Instead there was just a woman with a cleaning trolley who was leaning on her mop by the nurses’ station complaining about the rota.
A Year of New Adventures Page 27
