Exposure (22 page)

By the time he wakes, winter dusk is already thickening outside his windows. It makes him think of buses looming through fog, and taxis at walking-pace. It’s good to be inside, in the white, clean bed. They have an amazingly clever way of changing the sheets so that he doesn’t have to get up. They roll him on one side, draw the sheet from under him, roll him back and draw the other side out, and then they do the same to replace it with a clean one. They work together, as efficient as anything he’s ever seen. They can give him a blanket bath without ever chilling his body. Wonderful girls.

Nurse Davies is going off duty soon, but she takes his blood pressure, temperature and pulse first, and notes down the results on his chart without comment, as usual.

‘Good about the X-rays,’ he says.

She glances at him. ‘Mr Anstruther is going to pop in at six o’clock,’ she says, ‘and after that I go off duty. Sister Ransome is on tonight. Now don’t go fainting on her, will you?’

‘Keeps you on your toes,’ he says, but a fit of coughing interrupts him. By the time it finishes he’s bathed in sweat.

He must have dropped off again because when he opens his eyes Anstruther is at the side of the bed. He draws up a chair and sits.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asks.

‘Bit tired.’

Anstruther nods. ‘I’ve had a look at those X-rays.’

Something in his tone sharpens Giles. He raises his head to look Anstruther full in the face. ‘And?’

‘I’m afraid there are some abnormalities.’

Giles doesn’t speak. His whole body tenses, surging with adrenalin. He searches Anstruther’s face. Something’s there, in the eyes or is it around the mouth?
He knows something that I don’t know.
No one,
no one
, is going to know things about Giles that he doesn’t know himself.

‘I thought as much,’ he says.

‘I was concerned about the possibility of a pulmonary embolism following surgery, given your state of health, but we seemed to be in the clear. However, with the increase in breathlessness and the pain in your side that you reported to Sister, I thought we should take a chest X-ray.’

‘How does one treat a pulmonary embolism?’

They are on the same side again. The situation is under control. But no. Anstruther still knows something. He is embarrassed.

‘I’m afraid …’ Anstruther clears his throat and looks at the floor and then up again. Suddenly Giles sees that behind him the door is open and Sister is hovering. Now, at once, clearly and forever, Giles knows that he has been barking up the wrong tree. They are not in this together. Something awful, irreversible, is about to be said. He must stop Anstruther. He must stop this humiliation of them knowing and him not knowing.

‘It’s bad news, I gather,’ he says.

‘Yes. I’m most awfully sorry. I’m afraid the X-rays showed a mass in your right lung. A growth.’

‘A cancer, you mean.’

‘I’m sorry to say that it looks like that. Of course we shall do further tests—’

‘But you don’t need to. You can tell.’

Slowly, Anstruther bows his head. ‘I’m afraid it does look pretty clear on the X-rays. There is a small mass in the left lung, but the right lung is more severely affected.’

‘I see.’

‘If you wish, I can show you the X-rays.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’ Cold, staccato, withdrawn. That’s the style. That’s the only way to get through this. If only Sister doesn’t come in with pity in her eyes.

‘I’ve sent copies of the X-rays across to a colleague of mine in thoracic surgery,’ says Anstruther. ‘He’ll come in to see you tomorrow morning, to discuss treatment options.’

Treatment options? Lung cancer was a death sentence;
everybody knew that. Even so, a small, weak part of him leaped with hope.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Barnes-Wilson will assess you. It looks as if there may be significant pleural effusion. That can be drained, which will improve the breathlessness. Surgery on the lung itself doesn’t immediately look like an option, but it’s not my area.’ How much more comfortable he is, now that they are back on professional ground. ‘Barnes-Wilson is absolutely the top man in the field. He’s doing interesting things with radiotherapy, too.’

I bet he is, thinks Giles. He does interesting things and then he goes home afterwards, in the pink. Anstruther seems not only far away but also too bright, too distinct, as if someone’s shining a light all around him from behind. Giles is not going to faint again. He will not do that in front of Anstruther.

‘Thank you,’ he says. The words make hardly any sound but they clang in his head as if mad bell-ringers are at work there. ‘Going to sleep now,’ and he shuts his eyes, shuts himself off until he is sure that Anstruther has gone. The tumult inside him slowly calms itself. He, Giles, the pulse of him, is still here. When he opens his eyes, he will see his hands outside the hospital sheets. His leg is healing itself. What the hell is it doing that for? Doesn’t it know that there’s no point? Now he realises that he forgot to ask Anstruther the question that everybody is supposed to ask:
How long have I got?

‘I’ve brought you a cup of tea.’ It’s Sister’s voice. She knows he’s not asleep.

‘Thank you,’ he says, opening his eyes.

‘Let’s raise you up a bit …’ She is at it again, with her small, strong hands. Another pillow slides behind him, and he is half-sitting. She has brought the tea in a china cup with blue flowers on it. It is steaming and fragrant. ‘And ginger biscuits. I know you like them.’

Imagine Sister bringing tea with her own fair hands. What a revolution in etiquette. He half smiles.

‘I forgot to ask him how long it’ll be before I conk out,’ he says.

‘You mustn’t talk like that. Drink your tea. Mr Barnes-Wilson is very good, you know.’

‘But not a miracle-worker.’

Sister looks him full in the face. ‘No.’

‘Thought not. Will they be moving me?’

‘I shouldn’t think so. We can look after you here as well as anywhere.’

She knows that Barnes-Wilson won’t decide to operate. He might as well die here as anywhere, that’s what she means.

‘That’s good,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to move.’

She holds the cup steady so that he can drink. He can’t manage the biscuits, but it was a nice thought.

‘Leave the light on,’ he says, as she’s going out. They try to start the night so early in hospitals. ‘I don’t want to be lying here in the dark.’

A slant of winter light touches the motes drifting silkily from the pile of flour Lily has just sifted into the mixing bowl. She takes a knife and cuts shavings of butter into it, then rubs in the fat. Cold water to bind it, and on to the marble slab where it will rest until the apples are ready.

Mr Austin keeps his Bramleys through the winter in the shed he calls the apple shed. The shelves are slatted so that air can circulate, and each apple is wrapped in newspaper. Their skins are wrinkled now, and the flesh no longer crisp and fizzing with juice, but the flavour, he says, is better than ever. They keep until April sometimes.

All those apples, in their wrapped rows, each set a little apart from the next so that if there is rot, it won’t spread. She has peeled and cored, chopped and sweetened, added a clove and a grating of nutmeg, and the fruit is beginning to melt into a mush. Lily takes the pan from the stove and sets it on the back doorstep to
cool, with the lid off. Steam rises in plumes. There is just time to make the custard before she rolls out the pastry. Mr Austin likes Bird’s custard, not the real thing, and he prefers it cold.

‘Leave it in the pantry with a plate over it.’

‘There will be skin on top.’

‘That’s all right, I like the skin.’

All that trouble over growing the fruit, and he eats it with a concoction of cold factory cornflour. He also claims a strong partiality for baked beans. ‘Butter and Marmite on the toast first, then the baked beans, piping hot. Beats caviar any day.’

The pie is finished, the edges crimped and the pastry lid glazed with beaten egg. She’ll put it into the oven now, and he will take it out. He seems to like a little system of notes with instructions. The pie will last him two or three days.

‘You can’t beat a wedge of cold apple pie, with Cheshire cheese. Or Lancashire.’

Lily smiles. She knows by now that for all his words, really he is indifferent to food. He goes through the motions for her sake, out of his superlative politeness, because he knows how much trouble it all is for her. The whole kerfuffle, the business of keeping alive. He pretends to an appetite that he can’t feel, because eating alone kills the taste of everything. He’s very thin, but probably he always was. It’s that type of build: lean, almost boyish, stooping.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr Austin. The Irish stew for dinner is on the larder shelf, and I’ve left a note on the
kitchen table about heating it up. You can warm up the apple pie, or have it cold. I’ve cut ham sandwiches for your lunch, and for pudding there’s the treacle sponge from yesterday, with the rest of the cream. Don’t forget the gingerbread at teatime: the tin’s on the top shelf. It’s all in the note.’

‘It all sounds absolutely delicious.’

His wife was everything to him, and did everything for him. They had no children. He doesn’t play golf, or bridge, which is how she’d thought a retired country solicitor would pass his days. He reads a great deal, listens to music and takes long, solitary walks. The garden? Oh, that was all Louise. She made it out of nothing. She planned the beds, the walks, the orchard: all of it. Drew it all out on sheets of paper when most of the garden was a wilderness. It had been let go for years before the two of them came to Bourne House, thirty years ago. The place had belonged to an aunt of Louise’s, who lived to be over ninety.

Lily has thought of suggesting that perhaps he might get a dog, but decided against it. She didn’t want to seem presumptuous. Besides, it was hard to imagine a dog bounding through this quiet house.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Mrs Callington.’

‘Yes, I’ll be here at nine.’

‘Good.’

He is very lonely. A reserved man, and dignified, with his sudden sweet smile. He keeps his routines going but hasn’t a clue about how to run the house. Louise must have done all that, too. As for cooking, he hasn’t the
foggiest, he admits. That’s why Lily’s notes are so marvellously handy. If it’s not a frightful bore, he’d like her to write down a few recipes. Easy ones, of course. He can boil an egg and heat up a tin of beans, but that’s about it. Still, never say die. He’ll get the hang of this cooking business in the end, if he sticks at it. If Mr Austin had had a daughter, he would never have abandoned her. Lily thinks of her own father, in a city called Fez where she has never been.

‘Goodbye, then. See you in the morning.’

‘I look forward to it,’ he says, with the old-fashioned courtesy that is part of his being. The same courtesy makes him appear to take for granted Lily’s sudden arrival in East Knigge, and the absence of her husband. But
The Times
is delivered every day. He will read the reports of the trial, when it begins. She wonders if she ought to say something now, before she has to. It might be better. But no, she decides for the third or fourth time as she walks away down the drive, she can’t afford to say anything about Simon. If she keeps quiet, Mr Austin may never make the connection. Callington is not such an uncommon name. He assumes that Lily is in East Knigge to stay, and has already said that next year the children must come and pick as many plums and apples as they want. ‘There’s only so much fruit that one can send to the Harvest Festival, and most of the apples aren’t keepers. Louise used to bottle the plums.’

‘I could make jam,’ Lily said, but Mr Austin shook his head.

‘Can’t have that,’ he said. ‘I ate enough plum-and-apple pozzy in France to last me a lifetime.’

Lily smiled, to hide the fact that she had no idea what he was talking about.

Now she walks briskly. Last night’s frost hasn’t yet melted from the hollows under the trees, where leaves lie thick and crisp. Birds scuffle in the undergrowth. This afternoon she has laundry to do, and mending, and then a letter to Simon. Her mind is so much set on all this that she isn’t pleased to see a figure standing on her doorstep. A woman, with a silly little yapping dog. Cold, alien moment of unrecognition, and then Lily realises that it’s Erica, with Coco on a lead. What is she doing here?

‘Erica!’ she calls, waving and hurrying forward to hide her own reaction. Erica waves too, and Coco lunges to the end of the lead in recognition. There is Erica’s thick, soft tweed coat, the scent of her skin as they embrace.

‘I thought you were never coming! I was going to give up and get the train back to London.’

‘I didn’t know – Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘How could I? You’re not on the telephone.’

‘You could have written.’

‘I could have, I suppose. But what does it matter? I’m here now.’

Erica didn’t want me to know she was coming, in case I told her not to, Lily thinks. And she was right: I would have told her not to come.

‘Come in and have some coffee. I’ve just finished work.’

‘You’ve found a job? Trust you, Lily!’

‘It’s not a teaching job. I’m keeping house for an old gentleman – a widower.’

‘You really are extraordinary. Here you are in the back of beyond and you’ve already found a job and no doubt the widower’s fallen in love with you. And what about the children? Have they got jobs too? I’ve always thought a spot of child labour would do Thomas good.’

In spite of herself, Lily is warmed by Erica’s flattery. ‘They’re at school. Damn, the key always sticks. Push the door, could you?’

‘What a ducky little cottage.’

‘It’s not bad, is it?’

‘It’s lovely. You’ve made it lovely.’

To Lily the cottage looks cold and unprepossessing. She stoops to light the fire.

‘You are so organised. I always have to clear out the grate.’

‘Paul does that, and he lays the fire every morning before school.’

‘Oh God, you really do put me to shame. Thomas could no more lay a fire than he could fly to the moon.’

‘But where’s Clare, Erica?’

‘Tony’s looking after her. He’s to look after her, and fetch Thomas from school, and make the supper. You know what Tony’s like, he wasn’t keen—’

‘He didn’t want you to come here.’

‘Don’t be like that, Lily. He didn’t want to be landed with the children, that’s all it was. I had to say I’d bring Coco, or he’d have rebelled.’

‘I’m glad you did,’ says Lily, stooping to caress Coco. At the touch of the silky coat, Lily’s eyes, in spite of her, sting with tears. Why did Erica come? I can manage, I can keep going, as long as nobody comes. She daren’t look up. With her face averted, she says, ‘Have you had lunch?’

‘I had sandwiches on the train. Coffee would be wonderful. Lily—’

‘I shan’t be a minute.’

But Erica catches sight of her face, and follows her into the kitchen. ‘Don’t bother with that now. Let’s sit down. You don’t want me to see that you’re upset but how could you not be? It’s awful. The whole thing. Let’s not pretend—’

‘I’m not pretending. I’m trying to make some kind of a life for the children.’

‘I know that. Don’t be cross with me, Lily. I’m your friend. That’s why I came.’

Lily leans against the sink and rubs her eyes hard. They are sore. She must look awful. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m tired, that’s all.’

‘Every time I see the people who are living in your house, I want to spit at them.’

‘What are they like?’

‘I don’t know really. She hasn’t been here that long. They’ve got three boys.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘None of them is in Thomas’s class. I hope they’re paying the rent on time.’

‘Yes, they are. It was good that you heard about them, Erica.’

‘So what’s going to happen?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Come on, darling.
What’s going to happen.
Are you coming back to London? Are Simon’s parents going to cough up some cash so that you can go back to the house, or don’t they care? What’s going to happen at the trial? I’m assuming he’s got a good solicitor. Do you think he’ll get off?’

‘Erica, please …’

‘No, Lily. There’s been enough of this. You not saying things and me not daring to ask. Your vanishing act. That bloody Mrs Wilson had the nerve to say to me in the playground: “Such a pity about the Callington children,” as if the children had some contagious disease that couldn’t be discussed.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said: “Why is it a pity?” The silly cow shouldn’t teach children if she can’t face reality. She said, “Oh, well, you know, everything that has happened.” I wasn’t going to let her get away with that. I said, “No, I don’t know. What, exactly, has happened? What have those children done?” And so she had to say that of course the children had done nothing.’

‘But what difference does it make, in the end, what Mrs Wilson thinks?’

‘You’re doing what they want, Lily. Letting people brush you under the carpet – as if you’re a bad smell—’

‘A bad smell under the carpet?’

‘You have every right to come back to your house and the children have every right to come back to the
school. The Mrs Wilsons may not like it but they’ll get used to it.’

‘I haven’t got the money to pay the mortgage unless I let the house.’

‘But you could get it. You could frighten those Callingtons – they need it. Make them say out loud:
We refuse to keep a roof over our own grandchildren’s heads.
Make them afraid that everybody in their neighbourhood is going to know just how vile they’ve been. Those kinds of people care about what the neighbours think.’

‘Everyone does.’

‘Not everyone, Lily.’

‘I didn’t mean you.’

‘I should hope not.’

‘I don’t want to ask anything of Simon’s family.’

‘Don’t you see, that’s exactly what they want? You hiding yourself down here, slaving away cleaning houses? No embarrassment for the Callingtons. No need for them to think about how it is for you and the children, because you’re conveniently out of sight. Look at your hands, Lily! What future is there for the children here?’

‘Don’t, Erica.’

‘I’m sorry. Look, I brought you some flowers, darling.’

Erica delves into her bag and gives Lily a beautifully wrapped tricorn, with ‘Broadway Florist’ scrolled across it.

How many times has Lily been in that shop? Zinc buckets crammed with narcissi or roses or chrysanthemums … The chill, and the green smell of pollen,
leaves and crushed stems. Flowers for Erica when she had Clare; flowers for her own mother before those punishing trips to Brighton; flowers for the house at Christmas. She sees herself, Sally on one side, Paul on the other, Bridget in the pram outside. The assistant gives her the bunch of hyacinths and white narcissi that Lily has chosen. They are wrapped in green and white paper with the name of the shop on it. Outside, red buses push their way through the grey afternoon. Their headlights are on, although it’s only half past three. The shop-bell rings as Lily opens the door to leave. There’s Bridget, bouncing against her pram harness, glad to see them. Lily pushes up the brake with her foot and off they go. They pass the greengrocer’s and the children want to touch the leaves poking out of the boxes of tangerines. People hurry past, other mothers, also holding the hands of children. Lily knows most of them.

Lily opens the flowers Erica has brought her. They are anemones, still in bud, and limp with cold. She must put them in warm water to revive them.

‘Thank you, Erica.’

‘I brought a box of Maltesers for the children as well.’

‘They’ll love that.’ Lily pauses. She touches the crumpled petals of a dark crimson anemone. It looks almost dead, but she knows it isn’t. ‘I do want to come back.’

‘I know you do.’

‘Everyone thinks Simon will go to prison.’

‘How long for?’

‘I don’t know. Years.’

‘You can’t stay here for years!’

‘Simon has done nothing wrong, and they’re going to lock him up for years. Being down here is nothing compared to that.’

Lily thinks, suddenly, of the file. Her stomach clenches. She can’t stop seeing that page with the initials on it. Not Giles’s initials, and certainly not Simon’s. Julian Clowde saw those documents and signed the page to say he’d done so. His was the last set of initials.

She remembers the party where she first met Julian Clowde. It was full of theatre people; Giles took them along, not long after Simon began working at the Admiralty. Noise surged around them, and when she was introduced to Clowde he heard her name wrong. He bent over her, charmed, charming, as if there were no one else in the room. He told her how delighted he was to meet her. Smiling boyishly at his own enthusiasm, he told her that he was the most tremendous fan. She began to have her doubts then, to protest, and when he swept on into a discussion of
Lucia di Lammermoor
and what a voice such as hers, a lyric coloratura, might bring to the role, she put her hand on his arm to interrupt him.