‘So just take them into work with you and leave them in your office. I can pick them up from there.’
‘When?’
‘God, whenever ! I don’t know, do I?’
‘Wouldn’t it be simpler if you just picked them up from me at home?’
Which home does he mean? And h ow on earth did this conversation fetch up at this juncture? ‘No, Charlie. It wouldn’t. Please. Just take them to work.’
I hear him inhale. Then there’s a pause while he exhales. ‘You okay?’ he says finally.
‘No, I’m not.’
Another long, long pause. ‘Me neither.’
‘Charlie, I’ve got to go.’
‘No, I mean it. I feel dreadful. I’m not sleeping, I’m not eating , I feel like –’
‘Charlie, really . I’ve got to go .’
‘Okay, okay . I’ll take your things in, then. Tomorrow.’
‘Great. Thank you. I’ll collect them when I can.’
He starts saying something else, but I have to cut him off because my throat hurts so much. Bloody, bloody hell. This is just so much harder than I thought it would be.
I’m just wondering when, precisely, I will stop worrying about Charlie (this week? Next week? Sometime? Never?) when Jake shuffles into the kitchen. ‘Er,’ he says. ‘Mum,’ he says. ‘Er,’ he says again. He tips his head back a little and makes a very funny face. ‘Dee’s here,’ he adds, nodding towards the hall.
‘Really?’ I say. I’d completely forgotten about the door. So it wasn’t for him after all.
I sniff back a snuffle and snap my phone shut. ‘Oh!’ I say. ‘Right! Hi, Dee!’ I call out.
Jake’s face is still doing stuff, I notice. Odd stuff. Eyebrow stuff mainly. ‘She’s still on the doorstep,’ he hisses at me. ‘She’s a bit…well…you know…’
‘What? ’ I nudge him aside and move past him into the hallway, to find, just as he says, that Dee is still on the doorstep. And indeed, as Jake said, a good bit ‘…well…you know…’ Spike trots up and sniffs at her. I stand there and gape at her. Jake’s wrong. I don’t know. ‘What the hell happened to you?’ I gasp. ‘Jesus. Get inside, will you?’
She does so, bringing with her the evocative odour of a Tuscan trattoria on a warm summer’s night. She glances behind me. Jake’s still in the kitchen doorway.
‘Perhaps I ought to stand on some newspaper,’ she ventures.
There’s really no need. She’s not so much dripping as evaporating. But perhaps I need to stop Jake from gawping at her anyway. ‘Jake, go get a newspaper for me, please, will you, hon?’ He shuffles off with the perplexed air of a boy who thought he’d seen most things, but is suddenly having to have a major rethink.
I touch a finger to her hair, her face, her shoulders. ‘My God, you need a shower and then some,’ I observe. ‘And I wouldn’t bother undressing. Look upon it as a pre-wash. What the hell is this anyway? Worcestershire sauce?’
She manages a wan smile. ‘Nothing so common. A bottle of Oak Aged Balsamic vinegar.’
*
By the time I hear the shower pump shut off upstairs I’ve decided to dispense with the tea and break out a bottle of wine instead. It is Friday night, after all. And I deserve one. I’m just prising out the cork when she returns to the kitchen, wearing my dressing gown and with her hair in a clip, looking (and smelling) much, much better.
‘Just as well you’re dark- haired already,’ I tell her.
‘Just as well I have good reflexes,’ she responds. ‘It must have missed my head by this much.’ She parts finger and thumb a scant inch or so.
‘Well, thank God for that, at least.’
‘Thank God nothing. I think it’s high time He took a bit of notice of me, frankly.’
As God may or may not have witnessed, t hey were – as in her and her husband Malcolm – in an Italian restaurant called Spiro’s, in Cardiff Bay. About to have dinner. About to Have A Serious Talk. They do this all the time. Well, Dee does, at any rate. Keeps at it. Keeps trying. And had it not been for one tiny, all-important detail, perhaps she would have managed to do so this time as well. The detail being that Dee was going to Al-Anon after work, and Malcolm was going to his AA meeting, and that after said meetings they’d meet up in the Bay, and discuss how both meetings went. This is what they do. Well, in theory, at least. Because on this day, and it was nowhere near the first time he’d done it, Malcolm had not been to his. He’d been running late at work (at least he still manages to do that okay ) and he’d decided he couldn’t be bothered. This despite them having agreed that his going to his meetings was the one non-negotiable part of the deal. The deal being that all deals were off until such time as he could be relied upon to turn up to the meetings. And he hadn’t. Hadn’t because, excuses aside, he no longer thought that he needed to. So he went off and had a beer instead.
‘I could even smell it on his breath! And I just flipped, Abs. I just completely lost it. I just snapped . I mean, the front of him! It’s like this whole business is just one big joke to him –’
‘Oh, Dee. Surely not –’
‘Well, okay, if not a joke, still not something he takes remotely seriously. He seems to think – no, no, he even admits – that it’s something he’s doing for me !’ She shakes her head. ‘I mean just what’s it going to take for it to sink in that it’s not about me. It’s about him !’ I wish I knew the answer to that one, but I don’t. ‘Anyway, I’m still not sure what got into me, but, you know, I just couldn’t stop laying into him.’
Which is not the sort of thing Dee does, ever. ‘So he threw a bottle of balsamic vinegar over you?’
‘God, no.’
‘You mean you tried to throw it over him ?’
‘God, no! That was the waiter.’
‘The waiter ? Blimey, were you really ranting that much ?’
She shakes her head. ‘He didn’t mean to. He was just coming up to pour some oil and vinegar into a dish – you know, like they do – and he was behind me, and I didn’t see him, of course – I was too busy ranting at Malcolm – and just as he was about to pour it into the dish, I flung out my arm and it knocked the carafe out of his hand. It just –’ she flings her arm out again now, to illustrate – ‘just launched right up into the air, hit the wall behind me, and then just exploded all over my head. You never saw anything like it. Just, literally, shattered into a million pieces and the whole lot rained straight down on me.’
She takes a big gulp of wine, and I wonder, would the oil have been better or worse? There are a couple of tiny cuts, I notice, on the backs of her fingers. She’s trying to smile now, but comic though it sounds in the telling, it could have been oh so much worse.
Though it was bad enough, clearly. She drinks some more wine. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been so embarrassed in my entire life. It was just excruciating. There couldn’t have been a single person in the place who wasn’t staring at me. Absolutely everyone . And you could have heard a pin drop. It was awful .’
‘I can imagine.’
‘And you know what Malcolm said?’
‘I can’t begin to think.’
‘You won’t believe it. He said “You stupid fucking cow”. Like, really really loudly. Just “You stupid fucking cow”. Can you believe that?’
Regrettably, I can. ‘Oh, God, Dee. The ba –’
‘Exactly. Bastard! The bastard !’
Two expletives in one utterance. This is so not like Dee. ‘And then what happened?’
‘I left. I stood up, I shook my skirt out… God, I was so embarrassed… and I was out of that place like a rocket. Bits of glass flying everywhere, Malcolm shouting at me, the waiter shouting at Malcolm, the…oh, God , Abs.’ She puts her head in her hands. ‘It was just awful .’
I gesture to her hands. ‘You’ve cut yourself too.’
She turns them over. There’s an angry looking weal in her left palm as well. She looks at it distractedly. ‘I did that in the car, I thi
nk. I was trying to pick the last of the glass off of my lap. I didn’t even realise till I saw I’d smeared blood on the steering wheel.’
‘Oh, you poor, poor thing.’
She shakes her head then. ‘Not me. No more. Oh, no. No more ‘poor Dee’. Not a bit of it. No, as last straws go this has been a particularly effective one. You know, I think I’ve finally had the kick up the backside I need.’ She empties her glass then sets it down on the table. ‘Well, blow on the head, then.’ She smiles wanly. ‘Whatever. That’s it. I’ve had enough. I’ve done my best, I really have. But I really can’t do it any more.’ She picks up her glass again and drains the contents in one swallow. ‘Can I have another glass of wine?’
I pour her one, and top up my own while I’m at it. ‘ So. D’you want to stay here?’
She nods. ‘Do you mind? Just for tonight? I really don’t think I can face him.’ We’ve been here before, often. Poor Dee. Too often . ‘Oh, but that’s a point.’ She glances around her. ‘What about your mum? Isn’t she here?’
‘Not yet.’ My face pulls a face. It can’t help it. ‘She’s moving in properly on Sunday.’
‘Moving in ? That sounds ominous.’
‘Well, for now, anyway. Till she’s got herself sorted. Pru really can’t cope with her any more.’
‘And you can?’
I shrug. I consider Dee. I consider being married to Malcolm. I consider what it must be like to be Charlie’s wife. I consider dead Hugo. Which puts the lid on it, really. There are so much worse situations I could be in, after all. So I smile. ‘I guess I’ll just have to, won’t I?’
Chapter 9
TXT MSG; DON’T WORRY. Is FINE about Nana, mum. No sweat. But tell her no toy boys in there, OK? . And no riffling through my Nuts either… actually, don’t tell her that. Hope u all well. Xxxxx
Dee was sick, now let me see, five times in all. Once on Friday night, three times on Saturday morning, and then once more, rather violently, on Saturday lunchtime, just after I suggested she try a bit of toast. Dee – oh, the irony! – is not built for drinking, that’s for sure.
Ah, but now it’s Monday morning. Lovely, lovely Monday morning. Tra-lee tra-lay, what a very happy day. Spike, extra choc drops for you!
I think it was Mark Twain that said that the happiest and most successful person works all year long at what he would otherwise choose to do on his summer vacation. Regrettably, it’s hard to imagine a career that would involve the twenty-four / seven wine books nachos sleeping sea sand sex scenario most of us aspire to during our two weeks in the Med or whatever, so most of us don’t sing on Mondays. But on the whole I do quite enjoy what I do, and on this particular Monday I also have the benefit of perspective. All things considered, a little singing feels right. For I am much looking forward to going to work.
Extra happy to be leaving the house. No matter that my list for today includes at least one odious old letch (Mr Potter – who also smells), I am happy to be going to work.
Even Candice, who is generally semi-comatose till ten, notices the spring in my step. Candice, for a time, had her mother-in-law living with her, and her mother-in-law was by all accounts a witch, so she absolutely understands why.
‘Funny, isn’t it?’ I tell her over coffee. ‘My own mother drives me mad, but my mother-in-law was actually very lovely. I didn’t see much of her, of course, because she still lived – still does live – in Dublin.’
‘That’s probably why you got on, then,’ she observes dryly. ‘Mothers-in-law should be made to reside on other continents, in my book.’
‘No, no. She really was. Very sweet lady. She made my wedding dress, you know.’
My own mother is no seamstress, but even if she had been, she was way too preoccupied on the run -up to my wedding fretting about what she’d be wearing.
But, truth be told, I feel a little bad moaning on to Candice about my mum. She has after all, offered to do my ironing while I’m at work. An occurrence that is so spectacularly out of character that I am still in a state of shock, and trying to work out what the angle is. But then I conclude that she is simply trying to make herself indispensable, having been deposited at my place along with a large sheaf of pamphlets about retirement developments and their many and varied advantages. Pru has been hard at work, bless her.
‘I didn’t have a wedding dress,’ Candice says wistfully. ‘I had a turquoise two-piece from Debenhams. Registry Office do. We decided to save the money and buy a leather sofa.’ She sighs extravagantly. ‘’Course, he got that. Bastard. You live and learn, eh?’
‘I’ve still got my dress. Though I don’t know why I’ve kept it, to be honest. It’s not like I’m going to use it again, is it?’
She’s leafing through Hello! and now she stabs it with her finger. ‘That’s me,’ she says. ‘If and when I get married again, I’m going to have the whole bloody shebang. Horse and carriage, six bridesmaids, five-star reception, honeymoon in St Lucia, hair extensions, the works. I’m going to make sure of it… Ah, good morning, Mr Dobson!’
I note s he’s bellowing now, suddenly, and I turn around to see an elderly gentleman shuffling in. A deaf one, I presume. She closes up the magazine and directs him to a chair. He sits slowly and gingerly, wheezing and puffing as he does so. He obviously didn’t want to risk the stairlift. Candice beams her best beam. ‘And how are we today?’
‘Oh, tickety boo,’ he says brightly, through his panting. ‘Tickety boo.’
‘Well, that’s good. ’
He nods and smiles. ‘And how are you ?’
‘I’m just fine , Mr Dobson. Oh, and this is Abbie,’ she trills at him. ‘Abbie McFadden. She’ll be looking after your back today for you.’
‘Oh?’ he remarks, but not in the least bit unpleasantly. ‘No June?’
‘She’s retired now. Remember ?’
He nods. ‘Of course.’ Then he looks at me carefully. Now he’s recovered his breath, I can see that he’s absolutely the sort of man who’d eschew the convenience of even a shiny new stairlift. He’s ramrod straight, proud-looking. Sharp-eyed and intelligent. Stoical. Ex-forces is my guess.
‘Hello, Mr Dobson,’ I say, proffering a hand.
He almost breaks all of my fingers.
Mr Dobson, it turns out, is ex-forces. Very ex, by now, of course, because he is eighty-seven, but he still has that bearing, that robustness. He was a tail-end Charlie in a Lancaster bomber and was the sole survivor when the plane got shot down in the Bay of Biscay. He then spent three years in a prisoner of war camp and came home to find his young wife had met someone else and run off with him, taking their two and a half-year-old with her. He married again, in the fifties, but his wife has had a stroke now, and he looks after her all by himself. Which is how he came to have the fall that resulted in his disability. He has, in short, lived a bit and suffered a lot. Though you’d never know it to hear him talk. He pooh-poohs all my commiserations. As far as he’s concerned, every single day after the day he hit the ocean is one day more than the rest of the crew had. He considers himself very, very blessed. We spend an amiable half-hour getting to know one another. I could use lots of patients like him. Always good to be reminded that, however tedious one’s own life, there are others whose lives are so much poorer. Or perhaps, when I think of it, they’re actually richer. Less centred on self. Much more focussed on others. Memo to self: keep Mr Dobson in mind at all times. Especially in the matter of mother.
Just as I’m closing the cubicle curtains so he can dress, I get a sharp rap on the bottom with a rolled-up magazine. It’s Candice and she’s clutching a stray My Weekly and grinning. Proper ear-to-ear grinning. ‘Just to let you know,’ she says, as if imparting some terrifically important secret. ‘Your next patient is here.’ Then she nudges my arm. And she winks. ‘Wow- eeee.’
‘Wow- eee what?’
‘D’oh ,’ she says, clapping me on the arm this time. ‘You’ll see! Cor, you are one lucky cow.’
&nb
sp; ‘But who is it?’ I persist. ‘I thought I had a gap now.’ A gap between patients, in which Brendan and I were going to go through some protocols for a research project he’s currently involved in.
She shakes her head. ‘No longer. I slotted someone in.’
‘But who ?’
‘Da da!’ she sings. ‘Gabriel Ash !’
I am somewhat shocked, to say the least, by this news. I didn’t cancel his appointment, of course, because whatever truculent thoughts I might have had about doing so, it was not my business (or, indeed, in my interest) to be taking it upon myself to turn away new patients. I am A Professional Person, even if there is the odd occasion when being so can be a little trying. And besides, I thought he’d cancel it anyway. But, as is evidenced now by Candice’s breathless announcement, he didn’t. I haven’t liked to ask Candice because I don’t want to start her off on any investigative forays, and it would be altogether unseemly to start furtively scrabbling through the appointments book to check. And, in any case, I thought his appointment was on Thursday.
‘He’s here? Now? Today ?’ I hiss.
She nods happily. ‘Called just after Mr Dobson got here. He wanted to see if he could change the time of his appointment on Thursday because he’s got some recording thing or other he’s got to go to but I couldn’t do that, of course, because you’re fully booked up all Thursday now so I said we’d have to go into next week but then it occurred to me that you had a slot today and he said fine, because he wasn’t far away anyway, and – hey, why the face on? I thought you’d be pleased!’
The curtain s part. Mr Dobson is back in his trousers, so I make my farewells, and follow him back out to reception. Where Gabriel Ash is indeed now sitting, filling out an Aches and Pains form. He stands up as I enter.
‘Good morning,’ he says brightly.
What an ache and what a pain. ‘Oh!’ I say, pasting on my professional smile in the vain hope that it might draw attention away from my oh-so-fast reddening cheeks. ‘Goodness!’ Which is a stupid thing to say. This is a physiotherapy clinic and he is a man with a limp. And an appointment, for that matter. With me.
Out on a Limb Page 10
