I shouldn’t have, of course. But I did. When Jake was out with his mates and Mum was out at whatever soirée I’d dropped her off at (I lose track) I sat down and went through the contents of Hugo’s box. I felt very guilty about it, because it really was – is – none of my business, which is partly, I realise, why I didn’t show it to my mother. Partly, but not wholly. It also struck me that if he didn’t see fit to discuss it with her, then it perhaps wasn’t my place to either. And, well, it was snooping. I really had no right. So best that I kept it to myself.
The contents of the box made for very poignant reading. As little as I knew about Hugo already, it seemed that here was someone who had a whole other side to him, and I wondered again why he’d never told my mother about Gabriel. Was it guilt? Was it shame? Perhaps it was both. It would hardly have shown him in a very good light. Or perhaps, less charitably, it was born out of just the same sort of secretive nature that meant she didn’t know about the house. And I had to remember that this largely innocuous retired gent was at one time the worst kind of bad guy. No moral backbone, as my father was wont to say. A bit of a rotter, all told.
Yet here, laid before me, was evidence of someone who clearly wished he’d been better. Who, though he had (for whatever reason) failed to be reconciled with his son, obviously cared for him. Cared very much. Enough to record his whole life. Well, the last twenty years of his life, at any rate. Almost every one of them had its moment, all much thumbed and doubtless read and re-read. From a piece about him graduating from university right up to the pictures I had seen the other week.
And there were also lots of photos. Mostly of Gabriel himself, over a span of many years, several in uniform, some formal, others less so. But also some of a pretty dark-haired girl, whose name was Maria. From babyhood right up to what I presumed was fairly recently. I knew this because the backs of the photos were all marked. Maria, aged four. Maria aged 7. And then I found another, this time of a group; Corinne, Maria, and two other children (hers presumably), all larking about in a summertime garden, while Gabriel, in surfing shorts, soaked them with a hose. It was marked on the back ‘ Job clearly going to his head, eh, Dad? ’ in the same writing as many of the others.
So I presumed it was Corinne who kept Hugo posted.
And that Maria was Gabriel’s daughter.
And now he’s here in the clinic, and the life I have eavesdropped on so comprehensively has another chapter, another documented snippet, to its name. Though one that obviously isn’t going in any box. Which is probably no bad thing.
I get him set up with the TENS machine and a cup of coffee, and go off to write up my last patient’s notes. It’s been raining heavily and steadily and unremittingly all morning, the window panes thrumming out a mournful wall of sound.
When I go back to unplug him, he’s reading the Guardian, but the copy of Depth is also by his side, on top of a pile of magazines. I glance at it, and he straight away glances at me glancing at it.
‘Oh, rats,’ I say, peeling the contacts off his leg and cursing whatever lack of rigour caused that particular magazine to find its way on to that particular pile and that pile into this particular cubicle. And then it occurs to me that it might not be accidental. Perhaps Candice is busy planning some sort of coup. And using Lord Haw Haw tactics to help expedite things. ‘Dear me,’ I add, picking it up and pushing it to the bottom of the pile. Pointless, but I feel I need to do it even so. ‘You weren’t supposed to see that.’
He looks bemused – no, even amused – by what I’ve done. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says equably. ‘I already have.’
There doesn’t seem much to say to that. Well, not unless he says something else, which he doesn’t, so I busy myself with the rest of the contacts while he sits there and watches me do so.
And what’s to be said, after all? This sort of public scrutiny is presumably something he’s used to. Something he has to put up with as part of the job. And it’s certainly not for me to pass comment. I take the heat pad from the trolley to go and put in the microwave. The air is sweet and exotic. Coconut again.
‘And what I don’t see myself I always hear about eventually,’ he goes on, when I return. ‘My sister always keeps me informed.’
There’s something in his tone as he says this that suggests he’s not a hundred percent impressed with that particular state of affairs. I wonder how he’ll feel about the fact that she’s spent two decades doing similarly with his father, about him. Angry? Dismayed? Or will he find it a comfort? I don’t buy into his insouciance, his I-don’t-care manner. His father’s just died, and if I know anything about anything, it’s that, whatever he says, it must hurt. Perhaps hurt all the more because of the unfinished business. Because his father is no longer there for him to forgive. But it’s none of my business, so I don’t comment on that either. ‘Speaking of which,’ I say, instead, because I’m keen not to dwell on any Depth related topics. ‘Any news on the sale of the house?’
He shakes his head. ‘Not as far as I know,’ he says. ‘I think there’ve been some viewings. I’m not really that involved, to be honest.’
Which would figure. ‘Tell me,’ I ask him, because I’ve been wondering. ‘How did that come about? I mean, how did it turn out that your father lived in the house that was left to you by your mother? From what you’ve told me, I’d have thought that would be the last thing she’d want.’
‘She didn’t know. That all happened much later. After she died.’
‘Oh. I see.’
‘Though I dare say she turned in her grave.’ His smile turns into a wince as I begin to massage his leg. ‘But, well, he needed somewhere to live, and the house was there. She’d been renting it out for several years, and they were thinking about selling it. And, well, I guess it made sense.’
I note the ‘they’. So he didn’t have anything much to do with it, clearly.
‘And you were happy about that?’
H e shrugs. ‘Made no odds to me where he lived. Anyway, I was in Italy at the time.’
I think about his dark- haired daughter called Maria, and I wonder who her mother is – or was. And it occurs to me that I’ve no business wondering. It really is none of my business. Not at all.
‘My son is in Italy at the moment,’ I say instead.
‘Oh?’ he says. ‘Whereabouts?’
‘Rome, when I last heard. But he could be almost anywhere by now. He’s inter-railing round Europe with a friend. He’s on a gap year.’
He looks so genuinely surprised that I’m almost tempted to let myself believe what he says next, which is ‘You have a son old enough to be on a gap year?’ But then I remember he’s a television person, and smooth enough to know that I’m a woman of an age where such comments hit every sort of right spot every time.
Though I don’t hold it against him. It’s sweet of him to say it, even so. ‘I had him very young,’ I say. Which is, in fact, true. Anxious to build a proper home and family of my own, I did everything very young, when I come to think about it. Or so I imagine a psychologist would say. It wasn’t conscious, not at all. But it’s certainly true that I wasted no time in getting married, having children, paying a mortgage, growing frown lines. And now I have a resident mother to add to the list. And to the frown lines, no doubt. I smile widely and purposefully to smooth them all out. ‘And I don’t know where the time’s gone. I certainly don’t feel old enough to have a son on a gap year.’
He doesn’t gild the lily by repeating his compliment. Which makes me believe it even more. ‘My daughter’s in Italy,’ he says. ‘Just outside Siena.’ Which makes me start, but then I realise she’s probably no big secret anyway. Just something – someone – that simply hasn’t come up. Why would it? I barely know him, after all.
Just things about him. Which is different. ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘On holiday?’
He shakes his head. ‘No, she lives there. Her mother’s Italian. I was out there for several years.’
Tho
ugh not now. Is he divorced too, I wonder? I nod. ‘Oh, yes. My mum mentioned that.’
I hear a ping then, so I go to fetch the heat pad from the micro. ‘How’s she doing?’ he asks when I return. ‘Your mother. Or shouldn’t I risk asking without donning a tin hat?’
I pull the sort of face that his amused expression seems to warrant. ‘Hmm,’ I say. ‘What’s that word? Begins with an ‘H’. Habituation, that’s it. We are becoming ‘habituated’ to one another. Though I suspect she’s becoming more habituated than I am, so I’m trying to keep her on her toes. Touch of ground glass in her porridge, the odd trip wire. Spiders in her bed at night. That sort of thing.’
He laughs. ‘Seriously though, it must have been one hell of an upheaval for you. All this. I’m not sure I’d maintain my sense of humour quite so well if I had to have my mother live with me.’
I reach under the trolley for a towel. ‘Who said I was?’
‘You seem to be to me.’
I smile at this. ‘She’s not the only actress in the family, you know.’
‘Quite a woman, though, isn’t she? I had no idea she was so famous. Not till I saw all the trophies and so on. By the way, turns out that Lucy’s aunt was in a show with her once. I meant to tell you.’
I fold the towel and place it over his knee, then put the heat pad on top. ‘Really?’
‘A musical? In the early seventies or thereabouts.’
I nod. ‘That would be about right. She was in several. Which one?’
‘I forget the name of it. She’s going to dig out a photo for me. I’ll have to bring it in. Small world, eh? Ouch. Is that supposed to be so hot?’
‘Yes it is. Can you bear it? It’ll start cooling down soon. Actually, now you remind me,’ I rattle on, because this seems the perfect time to do it, ‘I have something at home for you too.’
‘You do? What?’
‘Some things I found when we were clearing Mum’s stuff out the other weekend. Some papers of your father’s. I thought you might want them.’
‘Oh?’ he says. ‘What sort of papers?’
‘Erm …I’m not really sure. Mementoes, mainly. Things to do with you, I think.’
‘Really?’
I study his expression. Aha! So I was right. He is interested. It’s as plain as the rather fine nose on his face. ‘I think so. You know, photographs and so on…’
‘Really?’ he says again. ‘What of?’
‘Well, you, in the main. I was going to bring them in today,’ I hurry on. ‘But then what with one thing and another it went straight out of my head and I forgot to put them in the car… But I can bring them in next time you come, if you like.’
‘Be easier if I pick them up from you after work one day, wouldn’t it? Save you the trouble.’
‘It’s no trouble,’ I start to say, but then I realise he’s probably suggesting that because he doesn’t want to wait another fortnight. He wants them now. Which is nice. And I’m glad for him. ‘But if you want to, then fine. I’m fairly central. Only in Pontcanna. Tell you what, I’ll go and get some paper and write down my address for you.’
Candice stops by the cubicle at that point, as is getting to be her wont. ‘Another coffee, Mr Ash?’
He shakes his head. ‘ No, thanks.’
‘Gawd, will you look at that!’ she adds, looking past us out of the window. ‘Hammering down. You’d never think it was August, would you?’
We both turn to look. ‘Actually,’ Gabriel Ash says, ‘this is perfectly normal. People often don’t realise, but August is one of the wettest months of the year.’
‘Never!’ says Candice enthusiastically, clearly flushed with the thrill of having engaged him in conversation, and newly enamoured of precipitation generally.
‘But it’s going to be a lovely weekend,’ he adds.
‘Honest?’
H e winks at her. ‘Starting this very afternoon, as it happens. Remember. You heard it here first.’
I see him out soon after and I think, yes. It is going to be a lovely weekend. I shall make sure of it. I don’t know why, but seeing Gabriel Ash has put me in a good mood. Yes, I do. It’s because I can tell seeing me has put him in a good mood. That my news about his father has brightened his day. And on a day that probably needed some brightening too. I’ll bet he’ll be on the phone before I know it. I’ll bet he’ll be round to collect the box tonight. I know it’s not my business, and I know it’s not my family, but it’s made me feel that at least something positive has come out of all this. Perhaps some of it will rub off on me too.
‘God,’ Candice sighs, as he heads off down the stairs. ‘Why are all the good guys already taken?’
I smile at her naivety, even though I know it really isn’t. It’s simply rhetoric, and I often think the same thing myself. ‘But Candice, that’s just the point,’ I remind her. ‘They’re taken precisely because they’re good guys. That’s the way it works.’
‘I know,’ she says. ‘Ain’t life a bitch?’
No! Well, yes it is sometimes, I guess, but thinking such depressing and dispiriting thoughts is the absolute worst way to carry on. And not how I intend to, so, when I leave the clinic at five, it is with the firmest of firm intentions that I will start this upcoming lovely weekend a day early. Tomorrow’s my day off, after all. And true to Gabriel’s words, the rain has stopped, the clouds have all dispersed, and the puddles on the road are shrinking even as I watch. Yes, I think, I will sit in the garden and read a book. Better still, I will buy a bottle of wine on the way home. Or some Pimms. What the hell. Yes. And I might even buy a lime. I have nothing to do and nowhere to be. And Jake’s sleeping at Tom’s tonight, so I don’t even have to cook. I can prepare a feast of tortilla chips and salsa and cornichons, and mother will just have to lump it. And there’s a thought. Perhaps I will ring Dee and see if she’d like to come over. Perhaps I will even get-the-barbecue-out.
It’s with such pleasing thoughts uppermost in my mind that I pull my phone from my bag and switch it on.
It starts tootling and squeaking at me almost immediately. Two text messages, voicemail, the whole kit and caboodle. And an incoming call now, as well. Dee herself, in fact, I see. How very handy. Yes, we’ll have a barbecue, maybe. That is, if she’s not already got a prior date with Tim. Strange to think she’s been living exactly the same double life I have. Strange to adjust to the possibility that she might already have something else on. Thrilled as I am for her, tonight I hope she hasn’t. We can sit and talk babies while the sun sets.
‘It’s official,’ I tell her happily, as soon as I connect. ‘Straight from the weatherman’s lips, in fact. High pressure system moving in over the Atlantic. Hot dry and sunny in all parts all weekend.’
She doesn’t respond entirely as expected.
‘There you are,’ she says breathlessly. ‘I’ve been trying you for ages. I thought you’d want to know about Charlie.’
‘Charlie? What about Charlie?’ I ask her.
‘Abs, he’s had a heart attack,’ she says.
Chapter 15
WHEN I GET TO my car I spend a number of minutes just sitting in it, listening to the blood pounding in my ears. Charlie’s forty-six years old. Forty-five to fifty-five is heart attack territory. Charlie looking ill. Charlie looking pale. Charlie looking too thin, too drawn, too listless, too not like Charlie, and my ignorance and arrogance and sheer bloody stupidity had me thinking it was something I could put down to me.
Then I drive straight to the hospital, where I sit a few minutes more, berating myself. Hating myself. Perhaps I’m not so way off beam. Perhaps it is something to do with me. But then I berate myself further. I am – no, I was – just a symptom of his problems. But I feel culpable – guilty as charged – even so.
None of which has any bearing on the matter in hand, however, which is that I absolutely have to see him and make sure he’s okay. Though it doesn’t escape my notice that it’s now a little after six on
a Thursday night, and the chances are that he already has a visitor or two, I have driven to the hospital to do exactly that and, try as I might to convince myself I shouldn’t, I don’t intend leaving until I’ve done so.
I think. I’m still in my A and P uniform, of course, so I’m at least reasonably well attired for the one woman covert SWAT Team exercise that I realise might have to form the basis of my getting to see Charlie without arousing suspicion. If anyone – okay, his family – wonders at my being in the hospital, they might reasonably suppose I still work here. I get out of the car and lock it, and make my way across the car park. Or if not, at least that I could be here in relation to work. Better, much better, than if he’d been down at the BUPA hospital. But then he always did say that, if he was a patient, right here, amongst friends, is where he’d want to be.
And doctors, on the whole, don’t tend to go private. Not for things like this. Not for big things. They don’t need to. They look after one another. There are precious few perks to an NHS career, but this, at least, thank God, is one of them.
All I know from Dee is that he was admitted to the Coronary Care Unit at some point yesterday evening. I know nothing more because she doesn’t either, apart from the fact – oh, thank God – that he’s still of this earth. She’s been off work today for an ante-natal appointment, and only knows what she knows because Carolyn mentioned it when she happened to call her earlier today.
When I finally fetch up on CCU, however, it’s to find, to my surprise, that he’s no longer there. The two nurses at the nurse station, busy with their current charges, direct me without fuss or questions to the relevant ward. Once there, however, my initial reconnaissance through the window in the door tells me nothing, as all the eight bed bays are curtained. No choice, then, but to go in and see for myself. The very worst that can happen is that the family will all be there, and if so, I can slink right back out again and wait.
Out on a Limb Page 15
