Swimming Upstream (27 page)

“What are you doing?” I asked her, as she whipped
out his teeth and plonked them on the table beside him.

“See if you can find another blanket,” said Zara. “Go
and have a look in the bedroom.”

There was only a sheet and one blanket on the
unmade bed. It didn’t look as though it had been slept in.

“Good,” said Zara when I came back in. “Now wrap
it round him. Keep his arms away from his body.” She was holding a lighted
match over the gas stove but nothing was happening. “Damn, no gas,” she said. She
looked up at me in astonishment. “He must have been cut off.”

Just at that moment Uncle Silbert’s neighbour came
in through the front door with two paramedics. They covered his face with an
oxygen mask and lifted him onto a stretcher while we watched in silence. As
they lifted him up I touched his shoulder. It felt hard and shell-like through
the thin layers of clothing. Then they were gone, out of the door, and down the
steps.

The journey down was fraught with difficulty as
the stairwell wasn't wide enough and turned at funny angles. Zara and I hung
back anxiously as they manoeuvred the stretcher up and down and round the
corners; it all seemed to be going on forever. Finally we got to the bottom and
they put him into the ambulance. Zara jumped in after him.

“See you there,” she said.

The rain was still dribbling down dismally as I
drove to the hospital. I parked the car and hurried across the car park to the
now familiar entrance to Saint Barts' Accident and Emergency department. The
waiting room, as usual, was packed.

Zara and Shelley met me in the corridor. Shelley
had just finished her shift. Two elderly ladies and a young man were pushed up
against the wall on trolley-beds.

“Which way?” I asked.

“He's in there,” said Zara, pointing to a
curtained-off room further down the corridor. “We have to wait.”

“What's happening?” I asked.

“It's pneumonia,” said Zara. “They've got him on a
drip.” She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Anyway. They're doing
everything they can.”

“Zara?” A doctor was walking towards us. He nodded
to us, took Zara by the arm and led her into the room behind the curtain. Shelley
and I sat down and waited. The corridor was brightly lit, as if they were
trying to keep everyone awake. My eyes felt tight and weary despite the fact
that I’d slept all afternoon.

“What happened to you lot, last night?” I asked
Shelley. “Why did you all just disappear?”

She shook her head and frowned. “Don’t you know?
Martin kicked us out.”

“What! Why?”

“I thought you realised,” she said. “You saw the
way he was acting, right? Mind you,” she added. “You were pretty well gone. I
think he thought Giles was trying to take advantage of you. Which,” she added. “He
probably was, knowing Giles. So I suppose he was just doing the right thing.”

“Who?”

“Martin. Your knight in shining armour.”

I heaved a big sigh and said nothing.

“Although,” said Shelley. “He was a bit out of
order, the way he went about it, ordering us all around. Gavin wanted to clock
him one.” Shelley paused and looked at me out of the corner of her eye. “No
offence to Catherine, but I would definitely say he fancies you.”

I looked at my feet.

“So you were okay, then?” Shelley persisted. “After?”

“Yeah,” I lied, still looking at my feet. “I was
okay. Just, you know, went to bed. Slept it off.”

We seemed to sit there for a very long time.

“It's a good sign, isn't it, don't you think?” I
said, eventually.

“What is?”

“That they've been in there so long.”

Shelley shook her head. “That's just the
consultation room,” she said. “He's not out of the woods yet.”

Zara lifted the curtain and came out.

“What's happening?” I asked her.

“They've got nowhere to put him. They want to take
him to Homerton,” she said.

“What? He's got pneumonia ... how can they?” I
asked.

The doctor appeared behind her. “I'm afraid we
simply don't have a bed for him here. It's the nearest hospital with beds,” he
said. “An ambulance will be arranged.”

I went to fetch the car. Shelley and I followed
the ambulance through the now pouring rain, which was battering against the
roof of the car in torrents and flooding the road ahead of us. I switched my
wipers onto the fastest setting.

“Jesus Christ,” said Shelley, and shook her head.

We drove up past the Barbican towards Old Street
and into Hackney, all the time staring at the tail lights of the ambulance
ahead of us. They were just a few hundred yards in front of us, but the back
doors were obscured by the lights and the rain. It felt strange to be so close
yet so far away.

We passed London Fields and pulled into Homerton
High Street. Finally, the lights of the hospital shone out like a beacon
through the darkness.

I pulled up outside the entrance. Zara was getting
out of the ambulance in front of us and standing in the rain watching as they
brought out the stretcher, her hair plastered to her head and the wind whipping
at her flimsy top - which was now wet through, and even more see through - and
flapping the edges of Uncle Silbert's blankets. I pressed my face up to the
windscreen and squinted as they passed through the beam of my headlights but
the respirator was over his face and they moved quickly away and through the
double doors into the hospital.

I turned to Shelley. “Go on in,” I said. “I'll
park the car and come and find you.”

“I'll wait for you in the entrance,” she promised.

I drove round the car park several times. The rain
was coming down in huge sheets, the droplets dancing in the light from my
headlamps. Every time I thought I'd found a space, the bumper of another car
reared up before me and I had to keep stopping and reversing, and driving round
again. Finally, I rounded a corner to find a car backing out from a space. I
slammed on my brakes, skidded to a halt and edged hurriedly into the gap. I ran
across the car park with my bag over my head, rain soaking through my shoes and
splashing up my jeans. I met Shelley at the entrance and we hurried down the
corridor in the direction Zara had gone. As we rounded the corner we saw her
sitting on a chair in an empty corridor, her hair still wet and clinging to her
head.

“Where is he?” asked Shelley, as we ran up to her.
Zara lifted her head and looked at us, her face blank.

“In there,” she said, nodding towards a room
opposite.

“Can we go in and see him?” I moved towards the
door. Zara didn't say anything. I stopped. “Zara?”

“You can if you want to,” she murmured.

“Of course we want to,” I said, turning the
handle. I stopped again. “He's going to be okay, right?”

Zara looked up at me,
as if seeing me for the first time. “You don't understand,” she said, shaking
her head, her voice fading to a barely audible whisper. “Uncle Silbert ...
well, he's in there still. But he died a few minutes ago.”

I stayed at Zara’s, the two of us huddled up in her bed,
and we both slept until lunchtime the following day. When Zara woke she sat up
and said, “I’m going to be sick,” before running off to the bathroom.

“You okay?” I asked when she returned.

She nodded and climbed back into bed. “It’s
probably just the upset,” she said. “Or tiredness. I feel so amazingly tired.”

“Well, you just get some rest. I’ll make some tea
and toast.”

I went down into the kitchen. When I came back up
again with a tray, Zara had fallen back to sleep. I climbed back into bed
beside her and drank my tea and nibbled on a piece of toast and then I lay back
down and drifted back to sleep as well. It was late afternoon when I woke
again. Zara was still asleep. I decided in the circumstances to leave her in
bed. I couldn’t see the point in insisting she get up when I didn’t feel much
like facing the world myself.

“I’ve got to go,” I whispered into her ear. “But
I’ll call you later. And I’ll come round after work tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Zara nodded without opening her eyes.

I got dressed and went downstairs. The house was
quiet. Shelley and Tim must still be at work. I didn’t want to leave Zara
alone, but I was due back at work the next day and there was still some
clearing up to do back at the flat before Catherine came home. I shut the front
door behind me and walked down the road to where I had parked my car.

The flat felt empty and strange. I instantly
regretted having returned on my own. It was as if time had stopped still since
I had woken the previous morning and found Martin in my bed. I wandered round
the flat. Every room reminded me of him and what had happened. I stripped the
bedclothes and threw everything into the washing machine and tipped all of the
remaining party food into the bin. I picked up my doll and held her tight but
the comfort I had found in Uncle Silbert’s words to me the day before had gone,
now that he himself was no longer here to share his wisdom and his love.

I found myself standing staring out of the window
for what seemed like hours, immobile with fear and hurt and guilt and grief. My
stomach was churning but I couldn’t eat, or sit down, or clear up, or do
anything at all, except stare out of the window and wish that I could turn back
time.

Suddenly, I spotted Catherine crossing the mews,
her rucksack slung over one shoulder. My spirits immediately lifted. I watched
with relief as she walked up the path, fishing around in her handbag for her
keys. I moved out from under the curtain, and went to open the door for her,
but then stopped as I caught sight of Martin’s car, which was turning into the
garages and reversing round.

As the key turned in the lock and the front door
opened I saw the look on Catherine’s face and knew instantly that she knew. She
looked back at me as she closed the door, and said nothing.

“Hi,” I said, weakly.

“Hi,” she said. “I’ve come to get my things. I’m
moving out.”

“Why?” I asked pointlessly.

She stopped and looked at me, her chest rising and
falling heavily. Her eyes had a misty, far away look, which made her appear as
though she was at peace, like a Buddha, but actually meant she had been crying.
Catherine wasn’t the kind of person to lash out. She wasn’t the kind of person
to punish me either. She was simply hurt. And so she was going to leave.

“Look, I’m not going to do this now,” she said. “Martin’s
waiting for me in the car. I understand why you did it. I know you’re lonely. But
you’ve hurt me more than you will ever know.”

“Look, Catherine,” I said. “I don’t know what he’s
told you…”

“Only the truth,” she said. “Which is why I just
can’t look at you right now.”

She turned her back on me and walked into her
bedroom. I followed her. I stood in the doorway and watched as she opened up
her rucksack, which I now realised was empty. She pulled her suitcase down from
on top of the wardrobe and began scooping up her make up and her jewellery and
putting things into bags.

“Catherine, please,” I begged her. I held my hand
out towards her. “Go if you want, leave if you have to. But first please,
please
give me a chance to explain.”

“What is there to say?” she said, with her back to
me. “You wanted my man, and now you’ve had him. It’s almost ruined things
between us. And now me and him have got a lot of sorting out to do.”

“Look,” I said. “I don’t know what he’s told you,
but has it occurred to you that it might not be the truth?”

“Martin wouldn’t lie to me,” she said, looking up
at me with a saintly expression, almost as if she were proud of him. “Whatever
he has done, he wouldn’t lie. He said that’s why he had to tell me. He didn’t
want any secrets between us.” She didn’t have to say “unlike you” because it
was written all over her face.

“He told me not to tell you,” I muttered, but I
knew it was futile.

“He told me you’d say that. He didn’t want me
hurt. He wanted to wait until he knew I was okay, until he knew my Dad was all
right.”

It occurred to me that when I had last seen him,
Martin had not even mentioned Catherine’s father, nor had he appeared to be
even remotely concerned about him. He had clearly known she wasn’t coming home
that night, third hand from Shelley, perhaps. But he hadn’t even asked me where
Catherine was, what was wrong with her dad, or which hospital he was in.

“He told you not to say anything because he didn’t
want me upset,” Catherine continued. “And he thought it would be better coming
from him.”

I shook my head. “I bet he did.”

Catherine folded the last of her clothes, the
pink, white and blue floral sundress that we had bought together back last
autumn and a navy blue chenille shirt that I loved and had borrowed many times.
She placed them in the suitcase and folded down the lid. I leaned over and put
my hand on the top.

“Please Catherine,” I begged her. “Don’t go back
to him. I don’t care if you hate me, but please don’t go back to him. He’s
lying to you. He doesn’t care about anyone but himself. He’s not safe to be
around.”

Catherine picked up my hand and removed it from
her suitcase. I started to cry. She looked at me for a moment then turned away
and pushed the bulging lid down and zipped it up. “Funny,” she said. “That’s
what he said about you.”

“I don’t hit people!” I sobbed. “I don’t threaten
them!”

“Oh Lizzie, get over that, will you. That was a
long time ago. He’s not that person anymore.”

“He is!” I pleaded. “He hasn’t changed! What
happened with me and him, that was his doing, not mine. He hurt me!”

Catherine turned to look at me. “What do you mean,
he hurt you?”

“He was angry,” I said. “When I wanted him to go. He
grabbed me. Pushed me.”

She stood still, looking at me for a moment. Then
she shook her head. “I don’t believe you. Why would I? I can’t trust anything
you say anymore.” She picked up her handbag and turned to face me. “And it
doesn’t matter what you say. Lizzie. Nothing you say can change what’s
happened. I just can’t be around you right now, that’s all.”