Patience

by Victoria Scott

  Eliza took a good look at him, the man she’d spent twenty years with, the man she’d wanted to have children with, to share a park bench with when she was too old to walk far. His hair was thinning, she now noticed, and his forehead glistened with sweat.

  ‘It’s not fine, Ed, because I’m pregnant. You got me pregnant when you screwed me last November. Does she,’ Eliza turned to look at the woman in pink, ‘know about that? Were you together then?’ The woman’s face crumpled. ‘Oh dear, that’s a shame. But yes, I’m pregnant – yes, with your baby, before you ask. The baby’s due in August. I’ll send you a text when it arrives.’

  Eliza turned her back and walked away then, not waiting for an acknowledgement. The door behind her slammed shut and she made her way back past the cars, the identical front rooms, the wheelie bins and the local cats. In the distance, she heard a woman shouting.

  27

  Pete

  March

  Pete’s phone didn’t ring much these days. And if it did, it was either his brother asking him to come over for a shift, a lost pizza delivery man, or someone on a crackly line enquiring about an accident that wasn’t his fault. He’d found this room on Gumtree; a smoke-free home, no dogs, own TV, one load of washing processed a week. There was dense condensation on the windows every morning, and if he sat down on the bed too quickly, a cloud of dust rose to engulf him.

  He hated it here, absolutely despised it, but it was better than having to admit to Louise that he had been too proud to ask Steve to put him up and there wasn’t enough left over from the small amount he allotted himself each month to pay for something more decent. But he wouldn’t tell her. He didn’t want her taking him back home out of guilt.

  It was ten o’clock on a Saturday morning and he was trying to get a lie-in, but the noise from both outside (teenagers on mopeds) and inside (thumping Bhangra from the room next door) was making this impossible. But at least this meant that when his phone did ring, he was able to locate it and answer it quickly.

  ‘Peter Willow?’ Jesus, his full name. Lawyer, policeman, or doctor?

  ‘This is Dr Ramsden at Birmingham general. Your wife has asked me to call you. I have your daughter here on the ward and Patience isn’t doing too well this morning, following the lumbar puncture she had a couple of days ago. Mrs Willow would like you here.’

  Pete did not need telling twice. He slung his legs out of bed, threw on a shirt and trousers, swilled his mouth out with mouthwash and grabbed the keys to the fifteen-year-old Ford Focus he’d bought the previous week. He was only a few miles away.

  *

  ‘Lou?’

  Louise was sitting beside Patience’s bed in a side room, holding their daughter’s hand. Her face was ashen, devoid of make-up, and her clothes looked like they’d been slept in. Pete walked around the bed and saw that on the floor next to her chair were several half-empty water bottles, two empty sandwich cartons and two crisp packets.

  ‘They’re worried about her breathing,’ she said, addressing an invisible person in front of her, rather than Pete. ‘Her oxygen saturation has gone down too far.’ Pete sat gingerly on the edge of the bench and looked closely at Patience, whose breathing was rapid, each inhalation snatching just a tiny parcel of air. Her face was pale and she had a faraway look in her eyes, as if she was opting out of consciousness. ‘I thought you should be here. In case,’ she said, in monosyllables.

  I should have been here long before this, he thought, the guilt of his decision to steer clear of the lumbar puncture procedure bubbling back to the surface. It was never far away.

  ‘Is it that bad? What have they said?’

  ‘They aren’t saying, and that’s what worries me,’ she replied. ‘But they didn’t expect side effects like this so early.’

  Pete got up from the bed. ‘Back in a few minutes,’ he said. He walked along the corridor that linked the wards, seeking out someone officially dressed. He eventually landed upon a man wearing a white coat and a name badge, who was scribbling frantically on some notes, leaning on the nurse’s station as a support.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Are you a doctor on this ward?’

  ‘Yes, I am. For my sins.’ Then the young man looked up at Pete’s face, registered his distress, and backtracked. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Force of habit. But I am a doctor here. How can I help?’

  ‘I’m Patience Willow’s father.’

  ‘Ah, yes. We spoke earlier.’

  ‘I’ve just arrived. I wondered if we could have a chat about her condition?’

  ‘While I’d love to help, that’s been taken out of my hands, I’m afraid,’ the young doctor replied. ‘They’ve called in a consultant neurologist – he’ll be here soon – and I believe that the man who’s heading up the gene therapy – Professor Larssen, is it? – he’s coming to see her, too. We are monitoring her, of course, but there’s not much we can do, apart from that. This is new territory for all of us.’

  ‘But what’s going on? Is this related to the lumbar puncture?’

  ‘We’re assuming so. The trial team warned us there might be some response from the autonomic system – that’s all the stuff the body does without us thinking about it, like breathing, digesting, the heart beating – so this isn’t entirely unexpected.’

  ‘So her heart could be in trouble, too?’

  ‘Not at the moment, Mr Willow. That seems OK for now.’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ said Pete, his words not aimed at the doctor, but at the situation at large. ‘What a mess.’

  *

  ‘I’ve brought you a tea,’ he said to Louise, as he entered the room. He’d found a machine in the corridor. She rubbed her eyes and took it from him, muttering her thanks. Pete took a seat next to her and the two of them sat sipping their drinks in silence for a few minutes, the frantic rhythm of their daughter’s breathing their only soundtrack. Both of them were unable to take their eyes off the oxygen saturation readout on the screen next to the bed. It was hovering close to 80 per cent, but so far had not dipped further. They both knew that anything under eighty could begin to damage her organs.

  ‘I suppose you blame me for this,’ said Louise, finally.

  ‘No,’ he replied, with emphasis.

  ‘Really?’ she said.

  ‘No, I don’t. How could I possibly do that? You only did what you thought was right. I’m so sorry, Lou. I’ve been a shit. A blind, idiotic shit.’

  He reached out his hand and Louise took it. He noticed that her eyes were filling with tears.

  ‘Oh my God, Pete, what have I done?’ she said, looking at him with desperation. ‘We could lose her. And it’s my fault.’

  ‘No. I blame the scientists for this,’ he said, his colour rising. ‘They knew. They knew this could happen. Have you called Eliza?’

  ‘I left her a message. Maybe she’s asleep, or busy with Ed. She seems very distracted these days. When are you going back to work, by the way? You haven’t said.’

  ‘I’m not. Not in Qatar, anyway. I jacked it in.’ Pete took a gulp of tea, avoiding Louise’s gaze.

  ‘Bloody hell. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Because the only communication we’ve had in the past month has been in the presence of a counsellor,’ he said, lifting his cup in the air for emphasis. ‘And a shit one at that.’

  ‘Knock, knock.’

  An elderly man with white hair and glasses had appeared at the door, and he was smiling. He had sung those words, rather than tapping on the door. Oh, brilliant, thought Pete – a comedian.

  ‘Sorry to disturb,’ he said. ‘I’ve just come to check on our patient here.’

  ‘Has no one told you?’ asked Pete, his hands gripping the metal bars beside the bed so hard his knuckles were showing, ‘she’s barely breathing.’

  ‘Yes, Dr Ramsden has been ringing me with updates. Let me see her.’ Professor Larssen approached the bed. ‘Patience, I’m just going to take a look at you, OK?’ Quietly and confidently, he ran throug
h a series of checks, listening to her chest, checking her pupils, taking her blood pressure. When he was finished, he returned to his original position at the foot of her bed. ‘Apart from the breathing, which is clearly a concern, she seems stable,’ he said. ‘We had expected some disruption to the autonomic system and we are hopeful it will pass quickly.’

  ‘Hopeful? Who the hell made you God?’ Pete was on his feet now, and he had the height advantage. ‘How dare you use my daughter to experiment on and not seem the least bit concerned that she’s clinging on to life?’

  ‘Pete,’ pleaded Louise. ‘Please calm down.’

  The professor appeared unmoved. ‘I understand your concern, Mr Willow. Honestly, I do. But as I say, we believe that this stage will pass. It is a side effect we anticipated and, if necessary, we will help Patience out with some extra oxygen. But she is doing fine on her own at the moment. I am not unduly worried.’

  ‘Well, that’s nice for you. But I suspect neither of us will sleep tonight,’ said Pete, gesturing at Louise. ‘Just like always, you medics throw a diagnosis at us and then leave us to pick up the pieces.’

  ‘Pete! Now is not the time for this. Come on, stop it.’

  ‘And what will you do tomorrow if her heart starts to play up, as I’m told it might?’

  ‘If it does, then we will deal with it, Mr Willow. We will give her the best of everything. I still hope for a successful outcome.’

  ‘Well, bully for you!’

  ‘I think perhaps I should go,’ said Professor Larssen. He turned to Louise. ‘I’m so sorry you are both being subjected to this worry, Louise. I can imagine how you feel. Please don’t even consider returning to work any time soon. And remember, I’m available twenty-four hours a day. I’ve told the doctors to keep a very close eye on her and they will call me the minute anything changes. If not, I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you, Philip.’

  ‘Not at all. See you then.’

  The professor was gone, leaving Pete still standing, wrangling with his ghost.

  ‘He fancies you, doesn’t he? Has he tried it on yet?’

  ‘That’s ridiculous, Pete, and you know it. And anyway, he has a very nice wife.’

  ‘Whatever. It’s that bloody man,’ he said, ‘who caused all this.’

  ‘No, Pete,’ Louise replied, ‘that bloody man is trying to fix all this.’

  *

  Pete decided it was probably time to leave the hospital when the night shift arrived. No one had explicitly told him so, but it was clear that he was no longer welcome. First, a nurse wearing freshly laundered scrubs and a determined expression had dimmed all the lights, then the orderly who came afterwards, sweeping the ward with a grey, straggly mop, had sighed as he had circled the exclusion zone around Pete’s feet.

  The day-shift nurses had managed to find Louise a camp bed and some sheets and blankets and Pete had helped her make it up in silence, then had sat down beside her on a rigid plastic chair in the neon-splashed semi-darkness, keeping watch until she finally drifted out of frantic consciousness. They had spoken little since their argument that morning; they knew each other well enough to judge that now was not the time for anything vaguely resembling a truce. Instead, they had settled for companionable silence.

  He was relieved to see Louise finally getting some rest after a day characterised by breath-holding and persistent pacing. Sleep appeared now to be weaving its magic on Patience also; her breathing seemed to have eased a little and he felt that it might be safe now to leave her for a few hours.

  When he finally climbed into his car and drove the well-practised route onto the dual carriageway, he found that he had turned in the direction of Kidlington, not Aston. The route was firmly embedded in his memory and anyway, Louise was away, and Tess still needed to be fed and walked. He could be useful at home, he thought.

  When he pulled into their road, however, he saw that there was another car parked in their weed-splattered driveway. Louise hadn’t mentioned that anyone was staying – so who was in the house? Had Eliza bought a new car, perhaps? She hadn’t said.

  ‘Eliza?’ Pete called as he pushed the front door open, noting that their porch was looking unusually tidy, the usual bonfire of mismatched shoes notably absent. He saw then that there was light leaking out under their living-room door. He walked swiftly along the hall and pushed the door open. Inside, the television was on, broadcasting Scandi Noir to a sleeping, supine redhead on their wizened leather sofa.

  ‘Serena?’

  ‘Eh?’ Serena stretched and rubbed her eyes. ‘Oh, Pete,’ she said, taking in who it was. ‘Sorry, I drifted off. What time is it?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Serena, I just didn’t expect to find you here,’ he said as Serena swung her legs over the side of the sofa and pulled herself upright. ‘Lou didn’t say.’

  ‘No, well, I hear you’re not talking much at the moment.’

  Instead of replying, Pete decided to leave the room in search of booze. This was still his house, after all. But instead of their usual well-stocked, chaotic fridge, he was greeted by clean, ordered and pared-down shelves – with not a beer in sight.

  ‘I’ve emptied the fridge of all alcohol!’ shouted Serena from the lounge. Pete sighed, and settled for a can of lemonade instead. When he returned to the lounge, he took a seat in an armchair opposite her.

  ‘Look, I wanted to say thank you, for coming to help Lou out after Patience’s fall,’ he said, hugging his can tight to his chest.

  ‘That’s what friends are for,’ Serena replied, smoothing her hair down with her hands. ‘Honestly. I knew she was alone, so…’

  ‘I’ve just come back for the night,’ he said, wondering why he was bothering to explain himself. ‘It seemed too late to go back to Aston.’

  ‘I thought you were staying with Steve?’

  ‘No. He didn’t have room,’ he said, aware that she would see through this lie immediately. Steve pretty much lived in a mansion. ‘I’m in a bedsit for now. Until we settle things.’

  ‘I see.’

  Not knowing what to say next, Pete turned his attention to the TV, where a young, attractive blonde woman was, predictably, about to be murdered in a particularly grizzly way.

  ‘Lou’s had a breakdown, I think,’ said Serena, who was also now looking at the screen, on which mist swirled around a dark, forbidding forest.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I feel such an idiot for not spotting it. I’ve spent so many years seeing her as the strong one, I’d forgotten how vulnerable she is underneath.’

  A man had now appeared in vision; he was wearing a dark cap which obscured his face.

  ‘Yes, she’s a total softie really,’ Serena replied. ‘But of course, you know that.’

  The man’s footsteps were now the only thing the viewer could see or hear. Then a woman appeared centre-screen, dressed in a flimsy white strappy dress. She was wearing no shoes.

  ‘I’ve failed her, Serena.’

  The woman in the white dress had broken into a run.

  ‘She needed me here, and what did I do? I left the country to make money. Talk about having the wrong priorities.’

  Unable to watch her step in the dark, the woman tumbled over a log, and fell hard.

  ‘Yes, but you’re here now. And it’s not too late. I’m sure of it.’

  Suddenly, the man was looming over her. He had something heavy in his right hand, raised his arm to strike…

  ‘I hope so,’ Pete replied, before aiming the remote control at the TV, and switching it off. That young woman would live to die another day.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Serena said, turning her attention to Pete. ‘I should have been more on the ball, too. But honestly, since Patrick’s death…’

  ‘Don’t be,’ Pete replied, taking a sip of lemonade. ‘You’ve been through hell.’

  ‘Lou is so lucky to have you,’ she said.

  Pete looked across at Serena, to check that she was sincere.

  ‘She isn’t thoug
h, is she? I’ve let her down everywhere you look.’ Pete stood up abruptly and made to leave.

  ‘How’s Patience?’ Serena asked, before he reached the door.

  ‘A bit better, they reckon. I think she might be pulling through.’

  ‘That’s wonderful.’

  ‘Yes. Although this might be just the beginning. Who knows what damage this gene therapy might have done.’ Serena nodded her understanding. ‘I’ll be gone by the time you’re up in the morning, by the way. I want to get to the hospital before Lou wakes,’ he said, looking back at her as he turned the door handle.

  ‘She needs you,’ he added, as an afterthought. ‘She needs you more than anyone.’

  ‘No, Pete. That’s where you’re wrong,’ Serena replied. ‘It’s you she needs.’

  28

  Eliza and Patience

  April

  Eliza rang the doorbell of Morton Lodge and examined her reflection in the glass door. She’d just had her brown hair cut into a bob and it was so much easier to manage than before; she just washed it, brushed it and it fell into place. She’d had long hair for what felt like forever, but since deciding to keep the baby, she’d felt a surge of confidence in other areas of her life, a desire to ring the changes.

  She had used the past few weeks to spring clean her flat and she’d also splashed out on new bedding from John Lewis. Ed had insisted that their bedding had to be white, with a high thread count. This new set was yellow, and she had deliberately ignored its labelling. Polyester-schmester – she had liked it and that was enough; this was a new Eliza and she didn’t give a damn what people thought.

  Shit, though. Was that Jimmy coming to the door? The last time she’d seen him was in that church when she’d yelled at him and run off. Far from her finest hour. He must think she was an idiot. An absolute fruit loop, frankly.