The Best of Times (38 page)

The other nurse was not at the desk; Sue had settled down to do the reports—and then remembered she’d been instructed by the sister to give Mr. Connell an extra sleeping pill that night. Which she had, of course; she’d counted them out very carefully, and had then fetched him some extra water, as he’d asked, and when she got back, he’d taken them all. But she wasn’t sure what that brought his total dosage to. She’d need his notes to do that, and they were in his room. Just for a moment she was tempted to leave it and fill it in in the morning. But no, it was too important.

She opened the door very cautiously. Thunderous snores greeted her. He seemed very firmly asleep.
Good
. She fished the notes out of the pocket at the bottom of his bed, and was just leaving the room again when she realised he was lying rather oddly, slumped onto his right side. She moved over to the bed, to see if she could ease him into a more comfortable position without disturbing him too much, and saw the neat pile of notes on his bedside unit.

The top one was addressed to “my boys.” That was good. He’d sent them away today, she’d heard; he was probably telling them how sorry he was and how much he’d like to see them soon. As she leaned over him, starting to ease his pillows into a more supportive position, she knocked the pile of letters onto the floor. She bent down to pick them up and saw that there was one addressed to Dr. Pritchard. That was … well, it was odd. Why write to one of the doctors? And then she saw another—“To whom it may concern”—and her heart began to beat uncomfortably hard.

She looked at Patrick again, and then reached out for his hand to take his pulse. It was cold, and the pulse was very slow. Very slow indeed …

Sue Brown half ran from the room and set off the alarm. It was the early hours before it could be pronounced with any certainty that Patrick was going, probably, to be all right.

• • •

Alex, in ICU, had realised for the first time perhaps how wretched and impotent it felt to be on the sidelines there. But at least he was able to comfort Maeve; he had sat with her in the relatives’ room, fetching her tea, which she didn’t drink, talking in platitudes, even holding her hand while she wept and berated herself for not being more understanding and sensitive to Patrick’s depression.

“How could I have got cross with him, Dr. Pritchard?” she said, wiping her eyes, “yesterday and on Friday, telling him to pull himself together, not to be so selfish. How could I have done that?”

“You’ve been under a dreadful strain, Maeve,” he said, “and been so brave and loyal. How many people would have done that awful journey every day, uncomplaining?”

What he would have given for a wife like Maeve. Even a bit like Maeve …

• • •

The journalist from the
Daily Sketch
was woken by his mobile ringing at seven a.m. It was Maria, the hospital cleaner. She was talking very quietly and very fast. He had to ask her to repeat herself twice before he worked out what she was saying.

“Mr. Connell, he try to kill self. Last night. He all right now. You meet me dinnertime. And for last time. And bring my money, OK?”

• • •

Maureen Hall, the receptionist at the main entrance of St. Marks, took an immediate dislike to Linda. She was so bloody sure of herself,
standing there as if she owned the place, in the middle of a busy Sunday afternoon, not an auburn hair out of place, demanding to see Mr. Patrick Connell …

“I’m sorry,” she said to Linda, “you can’t see him. He’s in ICU—the high dependency unit—and can’t have any visitors.”

“In that case, I wonder if I could see the doctor in charge of his case, please.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” said Maureen Hall disdainfully. “Our doctors are all very busy, not available for consultation in that way.”

“I see. Well, it is very important that I—this young lady and I—see someone who is caring for him.”

Maureen Hall looked at the young lady; she was very young indeed, and looked terrified, standing behind the woman, chewing her nails.

“Well, the only thing I can suggest is that you talk to Patient Liaison. They may be able to help you. What name shall I say?”

“Di-Marcello, Linda Di-Marcello.”

“Right.” Maureen tapped on her computer keyboard with her long nails; a silence ensued; then she said, “I’ve got a Miss de Marshall here; she wants to see someone about Mr. Patrick Connell. Yes. No, I know that, but she’s very insistent. Can she come up; maybe you can explain? Thanks, Chris.”

She turned to Linda.

“You can go and see the patient liaison people if you like. Second floor. The lift’s over there. It’s signposted when you get up there. Sorry, madam,” she said with exaggerated politeness to the woman standing behind Linda and Georgia in the queue. “Sorry to have kept you so long.”

“Cow,” hissed Linda to Georgia. Even that didn’t make poor Georgia smile.

• • •

“I can’t tell you how important it is that we see the doctor or doctors responsible for Mr. Connell,” Linda said. They were now in Patient Liaison. “This young lady was with him on the day of the crash—you do know about the crash, don’t you. Miss …?”

“Mrs. Patel. Yes, of course I do. But Mr. Connell is extremely ill. As I explained to you. It would be quite impossible for you to see him.”

“Yes, but—” Linda stopped. She felt so exasperated, words temporarily deserted her. She looked at Georgia. Who had suddenly stopped looking frightened. And was leaning on the desk, half shouting at Mrs. Patel.

“If he’s extremely ill, he needs to know what I can tell him. It’s really, really important. It could make him feel much better. Now, we’re not going to go away. We’re going to stay here as long as it takes, making a nuisance of ourselves. So you really might just as well be helpful, instead of obstructive. I mean, what about his wife? Is she here? Could we see her? Or could you tell us where she lives, so that we could talk to her …? Just do something, for God’s sake.”

Linda felt like clapping.

“Just a moment, please—I will go and make some enquiries.” Mrs. Patel got up and walked out of the room.

• • •

Alex had showered and changed his shirt and was on his way back to Maeve. Patrick was increasingly alert and increasingly angry, apparently, demanding to know why his instructions had been ignored, refusing to see anyone, even Maeve. She would need his support.

He picked up his beeper, informing the staff on reception that he would be back shortly, and made his way to the lifts. There were two people waiting there: a rather glamorous red-haired woman, exactly the type he most disliked, and a very pretty black girl who looked as if she might be about to run away. As they got in, the woman took the girl’s hand and held it. The girl half smiled at her, then resumed her
petrified expression, staring at her feet. Presumably someone up there they were worried about. He managed to smile at them. The woman smiled rather briefly back.

There was one other person in the lift with them: a tall young man with curly brown hair dressed in jeans and a denim shirt. He wore a very anxious expression and didn’t look at any of them.

As the lift stopped, Alex stood back and allowed the two women off first; the redhead gave him a slightly cool nod. The young man followed, then stood studying a file he was holding, scribbling notes on various pieces of paper and peering out of the window that faced the lift. Obviously something to do with the planning department, Alex thought. Bloody nuisance, all of them.

The two women stood there, clearly puzzled as to where they should go; slightly to Alex’s surprise, Maeve Connell appeared, hurried towards them.

“Hello,” she said to them, “I’m Mrs. Connell. It’s so good of you to come. Oh, Dr. Pritchard, hello. Have you come to see Patrick?”

“No, I’ve come to see you. I hear good news now—to a degree—of Patrick …”

“You could call it that, I suppose. But he … Oh, dear … I don’t know what do. Anyway, these two ladies may be able to help.”

She looked anxiously first at Alex, then at them; Linda smiled encouragingly at her.

“Do please go ahead; talk to the doctor. We’ll wait.”

She had a nice voice, Alex thought; the only thing he could find to like about her. It was very low and husky.

“No, no, Maeve, you talk to the ladies. If you want me, you can get any of the nurses to page me.”

“All right, Dr. Pritchard. Thank you so much. He is the kindest man on God’s earth,” she said, ushering Linda and Georgia along the corridor. “I don’t know what I’d have done without him these past two weeks.”

“Is he in charge of your husband?” said Linda.

“No, he’s the A and E consultant. But he did admit Patrick, and kept a very close eye for a few days, until … well …”

• • •

“So … Mrs. Connell …” Georgia’s voice was tentative as they sat down in the relatives’ room. “How actually is Patrick?”

“Maeve, please. Well … he was getting better. But of course he has a very long way to go. He’s paralysed from the waist down—”

“Paralysed!” Georgia’s great dark eyes filled with horror. “Oh, no, no—”

“I’m afraid so. The neurosurgeon is hopeful that it’s temporary, but of course it’s hard for Patrick to believe that. He’s had to have a lot of surgery and will have more. And he’s very depressed, of course. He … well, he took an overdose last night, but they found him in time.”

“Oh, Mrs. Connell. Maeve. If only … I mean, if … if I’d known! I was in the cab with him when it happened,” Georgia said, and her voice was very strong suddenly, no longer frightened or tentative at all. “He gave me a lift; he was terribly kind to me. And I was there when … when he crashed.”

“So … did … did you see what happened?” said Maeve, so quietly Georgia could hardly hear her.

“Yes, I did. Everything.”

“Because, you see … he thinks … that is, he is convinced … that it was his fault. That he went to sleep. That is what is so terrible. That’s all he can remember—being sleepy. Even though most of the reports talk of another car going out of control in front of him.”

“Oh, dear God. Maeve, I can tell you, with absolute certainty, that he did not go to sleep. No way. We were chatting; he was fine. Right up to the very last moment. I don’t know how far all the enquiries have got, or what Patrick or you think, but I can tell you, absolutely for certain, that it wasn’t Patrick’s fault. Not in the very least.”

• • •

“Patrick … it’s me, Maeve. How are you feeling now?”

“How you’d expect. Dreadful.” And he did look it, back on all the machines and drips, propped up on high on the ICU bed, grey-white, his skin somehow transparent, his eyes sunken in his thin face. “Maeve, I keep telling you, stop coming here, for the love of God. Just leave me in peace.”

“I know, Patrick, but … but I have some news for you. Some very important news. You … you know you said you thought you could remember someone in the van with you? Just before the crash? Well … she’s here. She’s come to see you. A young girl, name of Georgia.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want to see anyone. There’s no point—”

“Patrick, there is. It’s going to make all the difference, because she says she saw what happened.”

“She saw me going to sleep? Is that what she saw?”

“No, no, Patrick that’s exactly what she didn’t see. She says—Will you see her Patrick, please? Just for a moment.”

“Maeve, I’m too tired for girls with fairy stories. Why should I believe what she says? She’d have come before if it was true. I just wanted an end to it; they’ve robbed me of that. Now leave me be, will you?”

He closed his eyes; Maeve left the room and made her way along to Linda and Georgia.

“He … oh, God, he says he doesn’t want to see you. He says how can he believe you were there; why … Oh, it was good of you to come, both of you, but I’m afraid there was no point. Not with Patrick, anyway. Maybe if you talked to the police again …” She looked utterly defeated, her eyes swimming with tears. She tried to smile and failed totally; her mouth trembled and she bit her lip.

“Oh, dear. Oh, this is dreadful. Um … Maeve …” Georgia started rummaging in her bag. “Maeve, do you think this might make a difference? Here …”

She put a small box into Maeve’s hand.

“It’s a watch. It was a birthday present for your mother. Patrick showed it to me, and then he gave it to me to look after. I’ve had it all this time.”

Maeve took the box, opened it; a small watch lay inside. It was very pretty indeed, set in a diamanté bracelet. She sat staring at it for a moment, then said, “I’ll take it in to him. Thank you, Georgia. Thank you so much.”

Five minutes later she came out again, smiling, her small, tearstained face radiant.

“He remembered it! Could you come in with me? Would that be all right?”

“Of course it would,” said Georgia. “It’d be absolutely all right.”

• • •

Alex Pritchard decided to go home. A tedious day with nothing to do in A&E was beginning to look even worse than trying to find a corner he could call his own at home. He’d just go up and make sure Maeve was all right and then leave.

He went into the relatives’ room and found the red-haired woman sitting alone, talking into her mobile. She looked up at him, half smiled, and went on talking.

“Just tell them tomorrow that you haven’t had any formal voice training, but you can sing well enough for the chorus. Yes, I’m pretty sure. You can put them on to me, if you like. Yes, of course. I’ll be in the office. Now if you want me again this afternoon, just ring my mobile. Sure. Ciao.”

She rang off and was clearly ready to make another call; it annoyed Alex. There were several notices in the room asking people not to use mobile phones.

“Sorry,” he said, making a conscious effort to sound polite, “but you really are asked not to use your mobile on hospital premises.”

“Oh, I know,” she said. “I also know that it’s a load of nonsense. It can’t really interfere with equipment; it’s just so you don’t have patients rabbiting on all day in the wards. Which I completely sympathise with.”

“Oh, you do?”

“Yes.” She smiled at him. It was a very nice smile. Didn’t make up for a considerable arrogance, though. He didn’t smile back.