Patience

by Victoria Scott

  He ran his hands through his almost entirely grey hair, short on the back and sides and bald on top, recently shorn at the small Indian-run barber’s down the road. Vikram – thirty, a father of four from Kerala, reliably attentive – also counted those men as clients, no doubt. It was a small town. Or at least, the Western expat bit of it was.

  Pete was hungry and seeking a quick and easy dinner that would allow him to get an early night. He had to be up before dawn tomorrow to catch the first flight home, and after a long day in the dust, he had only another couple of hours of life in him before he would gladly welcome oblivion. Knowing that a club sandwich was as speedy and relatively tasty as this hotel got, he made his way into the café just off the lobby.

  Pete selected a small table next to the window and caught the eye of the waitress, Sandra, as he sat down. She came over immediately and he ordered without even glancing at the menu. Sandra smiled and retreated, leaving Pete looking out of the window beside him. It was one-way and mirrored, and its dark tint meant that the evening light, which was fading fast outside, appeared to have dimmed already.

  It had been a hard week. A hard month, come to that. James, ever keen to impress their local CEO and the UK office, had promised that they would complete the new hotel by June, but it was perfectly clear to Pete that they’d need a miracle to finish it by next Christmas. The supplies just weren’t coming in fast enough and the labourers were exhausted and demoralised, six months into three-year contracts and they wouldn’t get home to see their families in India and Nepal for another eighteen months. They’d been working extra-long days to make up for hours lost during Ramadan, and their one day off a week was generally spent holed up in their camp on the outskirts in the city because James had cut back on free bus transport on Fridays to save money.

  Pete knew that his decent salary, furnished apartment and ability to fly home once every couple of months made him a very lucky man. But knowing this didn’t make his essentially ‘single’ life any easier. Even being aware that he was, by accident of birth and opportunity, very lucky indeed, Pete was exhausted, physically and mentally. As each visit home approached he became less tolerant of life in the Gulf. He knew that he needed to get out regularly to reassess and restore the diminished parts of his soul, and he yearned for the day when he didn’t need to accept another contract.

  His attention was caught by movement on the other side of the glass. He could just make out a woman getting out of a cab, paying her fare and walking up the steps into the lobby. Was it – was it her?

  His stomach lurched. She was about forty, with brown hair swept up into a bun. She was particularly notable because there were hardly any Western female visitors at this hotel who weren’t with their families. This woman was wearing a dark trouser suit, an odd choice in this climate. Qatar’s weather leant itself rather more to loose cottons. He’d often wished he could get away with wearing the local dress to work – a white cotton robe was definitely the way to deal with the desert – but sadly, not so practical on a building site.

  As the woman faded behind the tinted glass into the hotel lobby, Pete’s phone buzzed, distracting him, and he looked down. It was a message from Louise, another of many. She was asking which flight he was booked on tomorrow. He had not told her yet. In fact, they hadn’t actually spoken since he’d sent that email objecting to the gene therapy trial. He knew that she was angry – she’d made that abundantly clear – and it was an unspoken rule between them that they never embarked on an argument when he was overseas.

  In the past, video chats had helped bridge the gap a bit, but a recent decision by the government to block these calls meant that he now relied on text messages and emails, and these were a very poor substitute for face-to-face conversations. It was also impossible to make up properly afterwards. Their marriage had always been an affectionate one, and not being able to touch each other, to embrace and say sorry, was a real problem for them both. And when he was being honest with himself, really honest, he had no idea whether he could find the strength to say sorry, or to even meet her halfway on this one. He believed absolutely that she was in the wrong. In fact, she seemed to have taken leave of her senses in recent months. She was no longer someone he recognised.

  What communication there had been between them since his last trip home had been in terse, written messages, largely to organise the so-called ‘best-interests’ meeting which was scheduled for the New Year. It was a statutory requirement that everyone with an interest in Patience’s care should get together to discuss major issues that affected her well-being. There would have been such a meeting with or without his objection to the trial, but there was no doubt that the strength of his feelings would affect that meeting and its decision, and Louise resented this deeply.

  He had wondered, in recent months, whether he should consider backing down for the sake of his marriage. He loved Louise very much, even now, and he didn’t doubt her love for him, either, or for Patience. But he couldn’t ignore his nightmares, like the one where Patience was swept away and he couldn’t save her, or where she was buried alive, unable to shout to tell others she was there. He did not want to lose her, and he did not want to put her through pain and distress. She mattered too much.

  ‘Your sandwich, sir.’ The waitress had returned with his drink and meal, both of which were placed in front of him with a winning smile. Pete smiled back and began to eat as soon as she had turned her back; he was starving.

  Christmas. Louise was the queen of all of that stuff. His input was rarely required. He just had to turn up. And he would turn up, definitely; he was booked on a flight tomorrow. The office PA had organised it for him several days ago.

  Patience would be coming home for Christmas, as always. If she was well enough, that was, but she’d been in reasonably good shape since her seizure in the summer, so he had reason to hope. It was exhausting, having her back at home, physical work without cease, but it wouldn’t be Christmas without her, and he absolutely wouldn’t let the fact that he had to work thousands of miles away get in the way of their festive reunion.

  His current job out here had come about by accident. Quite literally. The previous incumbent had died in a head-on collision between his work truck and a Toyota Landcruiser. He’d been killed outright and Pete had been on the flight out to interview just a week later, probably arriving just as that poor man’s battered body was being loaded on for return to his family.

  Danger lurked everywhere out here, in his professional opinion. His role was to keep his colleagues safe at work, but he had no control over the standard of driving, the quality of the electrics, the frankly often shoddy installation of air-con units. He worried about the labourers particularly, in their packed dormitories, poorly insulated and under-cooled, cables strung between windows and across roads, sharing what power there was far too thinly. When he’d decided to take this contract, he’d made a judgement that his tax-free wages were worth that risk. But he knew that the blue-collar workers rarely had a choice. They needed to work here so that their families could eat.

  He could see one labourer now – not one of his company’s, but one employed by the sub-contractors who maintained the hotel’s grounds – on his hands and knees, picking up fronds discarded by the royal palm trees from the spiky goose grass below. He hadn’t even been given a mask. He just had a piece of cloth tied around his mouth and nose to try to protect him from inhaling the dust.

  ‘May I sit here? Is this free?’

  The woman he’d seen getting out of the taxi a few minutes ago was standing next to his seat. He looked up and sighed with relief. It wasn’t her after all.

  Up close, he could see that she was older than he’d thought originally, but in good shape, with make-up apparently unaffected by the elements, and nails painted a fresh shade of coral.

  ‘Of course, go ahead. I’m almost done here.’

  Her accent was Antipodean. She sat down opposite him and reached to unbutton her jacket, removing it slowly and
hanging it over the chair, sweeping stray strands of her hair away from her face as she did so.

  ‘You’re Pete, aren’t you? I think I saw you at work this morning.’

  Pete could not place her.

  ‘I’m here for a few days from head office. Auditing the accounts – you know, the head of finance here is new and they wanted me to come and give him a helping hand.’

  Pete gave no response, but she carried on regardless. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve interrupted your moment of peace – but there weren’t many other places to sit.’

  Pete looked around him. It was certainly busy, but there were several other tables with a chair free.

  ‘No, that’s fine, as I say, I’m almost done.’

  He looked up at her and she returned his gaze. He was about to smile to signal friendliness, and then he remembered.

  She had smelled of cherries and spice. She had been wearing a red shift dress, made from what may have been linen, although he was far from expert on those matters. It had been slightly too tight around her hips, causing it to form gentle waves around her middle.

  Pete wondered whether it would be rude to leave immediately. But he had to be up early and he was not in the mood for empty small talk. Or empty flirtation, for that matter. It was lonely out here, he knew that, but he had no doubt she’d find other company. He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, took a final swig of juice, and stood up.

  ‘In fact, you’re in luck. I’m not that hungry. You can have the table all to yourself.’ He stood up and made to go.

  ‘Good night, then, Pete.’

  ‘Good night.’ He walked briskly up to the bar and asked for the bill. He would never find out her name – and that suited him fine.

  12

  Patience

  December 23

  Fleetwood Mac is playing in the kitchen. That’s a bad sign. Mum’s a Christmas traditionalist, a lover of carols, festive schmaltz, on the harp, the ukulele, whatever. This is not the season for Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours. This does not augur well.

  I’m lying in my bedroom at Mum and Dad’s, the one Dad converted from the dining room when I was about ten. It’s downstairs, so there’s no need for a lift, and I’m within earshot of the daily comings and goings, which is nice for them as they can keep an eye on me, and nice for me as it means I am not really alone. This is not a big house and the walls are thin, so I don’t miss much, even in here.

  The bed I’m in has a specially designed mattress which helps keep my circulation going, and it raises and lowers, just like the ones you get in hospitals. Mum has done her best to try to hide the medical nature of the bed, mind you. Some years ago she made a headboard out of MDF, tie-dye material and some staples, and stuck it at the top end. It’s fraying seriously now and it’s not really convincing anyone, but I love that she tried.

  Most of the room is dark (I’m supposed to be having my afternoon nap) but Mum has left my Christmas tree lit. It’s small and made from green plastic, and it’s ancient. I think it was Eliza’s first. A string of coloured lanterns, stylish circa-1970, are draped around it. They look like sweets that have been left out too long in the sun, sticky and losing their definition around the edges. The tree is topped with a star made from tinsel, probably something Eliza brought back from Brownies. It’s set at a jaunty angle and I long to straighten it.

  The door is half-open into the hallway and I can just make out Mum shuffling about the kitchen, her slippers scrubbing the heavily marked lino underfoot. She’s making mince pies, I think, but so far she just seems to be succeeding in making noise. I watch as she reaches into cupboards and slaps baking trays, jars, canisters and spoons onto the laminate surfaces, slamming the yellow oak doors closed in turn, like a percussion section tuning up. Every so often she pauses and checks her phone, and mutters.

  Dad is supposed to be here by now. That’s what Mum told me in her stilted monologue during the drive home yesterday. She said he was due on the afternoon of the twenty-third of December, a later flight than she’d expected. But there would still be time, she promised, for our family outing to see the lights, for hot chocolate. These two things have become family traditions – crucially, they were things I could actually take part in – although the chocolate has to be partially cooled these days and artificially thickened. But sometimes Mum adds rum to it and I like the taste.

  I’m off to respite care tomorrow. Just for the night; I’ll be back here in time for lunch on Christmas Day. It gives Mum and Dad a break while they get everything ready. They’ve done it this way for years, ever since they had a stand-up row with my grandparents over the turkey and trimmings, Mum’s mum and dad sitting aghast at one end of the table, Eliza covering most of her face with a napkin at the other. To be honest, I don’t mind going there, not one bit. Trust me, when you’ve witnessed your parents at each other’s throats for decades over, say, what sort of socks you should wear today, it’s nice to have a breather.

  Mum’s frantic baking activity is linked to her plans for this afternoon. Frank and Julie, our neighbours, are due any moment. They come around every Christmas. They haven’t got their own family and they’re now retired, so I think they find the chaos of our home a welcome change. Or perhaps something like aversion therapy? This house would put anyone off having kids. For a start, I’m still lying here, like Miss Havisham’s mouldering wedding cake, at least ten years after I should have left.

  Frank was an architect and Julie was the practice nurse at the local doctor’s surgery. They’re a nice couple, very approachable. They usually make an effort to get down to my level to say hello, which not everybody does. Julie sometimes even does my hair for me; she used to run a mobile hairdressing business on the side. I could do with a bit of colour now, I think, judging by how I looked last time I got to look in a mirror. I have a tendency for frizz, and I can see a few grey hairs starting. At least my hair is blonde; those greys will be hard to spot for a while.

  There’s the doorbell. Mum’s just slammed the oven door shut, so there’ll be fresh mince pies for our guests, at the very least. She takes her apron off in one swift movement, dislodging one of her special festive earrings, a flashing Christmas tree. It’s probably fallen down her top. Wonder how long it’ll take the neighbours to spot it?

  She’s raced to the door. I can hear her exchanging pleasantries with Julie and Frank. ‘Happy Christmas, both! No, he’s not here yet, delayed I think. But hopefully soon. How’s Alfie?’ Alfie is their dog. He’s an Alsatian and I like him. He looks at me like he knows I can understand. Maybe he can, too? They’re clever, Alsatians.

  They’re moving in the direction of the lounge, and they pass my door. Mum looks in and sees that I’m awake. ‘Ah, Patience, you’re back with us,’ she says, brightly. ‘I’ll just take Frank and Julie through and I’ll come to get you.’

  Getting me out of bed is a palaver. I need rolling and hoisting. Mum had to apply for a grant to buy the hoist system in my room. If you imagine a Brio railway track, it’s like that, only stuck on the ceiling. It cost thousands, but it does at least mean that she can manage me with just one helper, so I can still live here most of the time. I like it, mostly; Mum’s cooking is delicious, the TV always has Take That on, and it smells of home, of Tess the dog and of dust. It’s a little lonely, though. I rather like the madness of the respite care home. There’s always something going on and they take us out – to the shops, to the theatre, to church. They treat us like adults.

  While Mum’s embroiled in the complicated process of transferring me from my bed to my chair, she hears keys in the front door lock.

  ‘Pete? Is that you?’ A few seconds later, Dad appears at my door.

  ‘Hi, Lou,’ he says, coldly, not really looking at her. ‘And hi, Patience!’ he adds, transferring his gaze to me, his tone transformed. ‘My lovely girl. How are you?’

  I’m pleased to see him, of course I am. It’s been a month – and although I love Mum, it’s a little dull when he’s away. I smile.

&
nbsp; ‘Why didn’t I hear from you?’ she demands. ‘Why are you so late?’

  He’s not looking at her, he’s still looking at me.

  ‘Sorry. I had a lot on at work and it was all a bit last minute.’

  He leans in to kiss me on the cheek.

  ‘Too last minute to reply to my texts and let me know when you’d be here?’

  There is an ugly pause.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Pete, don’t be like this.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Cold. We’ve barely spoken in the last month. But come on, you’re home and it’s Christmas, Patience is here, Eliza and Ed are coming over for Christmas day – there’s so much we need to discuss about the wedding – come on, let’s get things back on track. And I need to talk to you about asking Eliza…’

  ‘Back on track? Like, you know, before you decided to sign Patience up for something that could kill her?’

  What? Oh My God, this is news to me… and… and… I am having my period and I feel paranoid every month at this time anyway. What? This is going to tip me over the edge.

  ‘Be quiet, Pete!’ Mum rasps at Dad. ‘Frank and Julie are just down the hall. And it’s not going to kill her, don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘They’re here, are they? Lovely,’ he says in a forced voice, before adding in a quieter tone, a sort of harsh whisper: ‘I am not going to pretend, Lou, that things are better. You have made it perfectly clear that you don’t give a shit what I think, but hey, I’m going to keep telling you, anyway. This is an experimental trial. Who knows what it’s going to do to her?’

  Yes, what the bloody hell is it going to do, Mum? Mum?!