Tread Softly (16 page)

Lorna was shocked. ‘All day, you mean?'

‘Oh no. He spent Christmas with his dad. But Steve's no good with kids. By tea-time he'd had enough. So he's pissed off out with his mates.'

‘But, Sharon, that's appalling! You must get home and make sure he's all right.'

‘How can I? Matron would do her nut.'

‘I thought she'd gone.'

‘Yeah, but she's back now and raising hell. You see, me and Tommy had a little drink. Well, you wouldn't think they'd begrudge us one on Christmas Day, would you? But Matron didn't see it like that.' Sharon screwed a Kleenex into a tight, damp, lilac ball. ‘If anything happens to Danny I'll
kill
her.'

Lorna averted her eyes from the overfilled commode. ‘Sharon, I wonder if it would help if I had a word with Sister Kathy?
She
might understand.'

‘Yeah, Kathy's OK. But she doesn't like me much. None of the nurses do. Can't say I blame them really.' She gave a hollow laugh. ‘I'm not exactly a little ray of sunshine. But then nor would they be if they was trying to bring up a kid on their own. Steve never wanted children. He says it's my fault I lumbered him with Danny.'

Lorna fixed her gaze on the carpet. Exactly what Tom had said.
She
could be in Sharon's position, a single parent struggling to make ends meet. What if Danny were her own child, alone on Christmas Day, likely to injure himself, or maybe venture out in the dark in search of his mother or father …? It didn't bear thinking about. ‘We've got to do something, Sharon. You go and find Kathy and ask her to come up here. If I explain the situation I'm sure she'll be able to help. And if she can't I'll tackle Matron myself!'

‘Oh no! You'll get me sacked.'

‘OK, I'll tell you what. If all else fails we'll send a cab to Steve's place and get them to pick Danny up.'

‘I can't afford cabs.'

‘Don't worry. I'll pay.'

‘But where can he go? There's no one at my place, bar the cat.'

Where indeed, thought Lorna, trying to force her brain to work. There was always Ralph, of course, but even if he were well he would hardly welcome an errant four-year-old. And nor would most of her friends. ‘He'd better come
here
, Sharon.'

‘Here? They'd have a fit!'

‘They won't know. I'll say he's my nephew or something. I'll ask the cab-driver to bring him up to my room, and I'll look after him till you've finished work.'

Sharon stared at her in amazement, evidently not used to being offered help. ‘
Would
you, Mrs P … P …? That's fantastic! Thanks ever so much.'

‘Don't thank me yet. We'll try Kathy first, in any case. Now off you go and find her. And no more drinks!' Hypocrite, Lorna told herself, pressing a hand against her aching head. Well, playing social worker was a good way to forget a hangover –
and
dispel the threat of panic. She was also greatly cheered by the thought of looking after a child. For so many years she had longed to have a child around at Christmas. Now her wish might be granted.

‘Come in,' Lorna said listlessly, flipping over a page in her magazine. It would only be someone to collect her tray.

The door opened to reveal a tall, lean, haggard figure in an impeccable dark suit.

‘Ralph!' she exclaimed, ‘What a lovely surprise!' Unable to leap up and embrace him, she reached out her arms and drew him down towards her.

For once he didn't resist, and she pressed her face into his chest, inhaling his familiar smell of pipe-tobacco and Silvikrin shampoo. ‘I've missed you, darling, terribly.' At Oakfield House she had come to realize how precious a husband was. So many of the residents were widowed, or had no one in the world to care for them or about them. And today she had been feeling bereft, stranded in her room, unwell, with only a new and singularly ungracious carer bringing her meals on a tray. ‘Did you miss me?' she dared to ask.

‘Mm,' he murmured, embarrassed. ‘How
are
you, darling? I couldn't get much sense out of anyone when I phoned.'

‘I'm doing well,' she lied. He looked so tired and ashen-faced she didn't want to burden him with more problems. ‘More to the point, how are
you
?'

‘Fine.'

‘Fine? With flu?'

‘It wasn't flu.'

She hid a smile. Rather than inflating a cold to flu, as many people did, Ralph was more likely to pass off double pneumonia as simply a sore throat.

‘Good God!' he said, alarmed. ‘What's that awful noise?'

‘Oh, it's only the woman downstairs. She's paralysed, so they have to use a hoist to get her in and out of bed.'

He prowled over to the window, grimacing at a sudden blare of music. ‘Do they have to have their televisions so loud? These walls are paper-thin.'

‘Mrs Owen's deaf. Sometime she even has it on full volume in the middle of the night.'

‘How on earth do you manage to sleep?'

‘With difficulty!'

‘You can't stay here, Lorna.' He turned to face her, raising his voice above a booming commercial. ‘It's absolutely appalling! I couldn't believe it when I walked in – all those fossils sitting around in various states of decrepitude.'

‘Oh, come on, Ralph, it's not that bad. We'll be old one day.' You sooner than me, she thought.

‘And this room …' He gazed around in disgust. ‘It's so small and shabby. And the
smell
.'

‘You get used to it in time,' she said, although she had to admit that with Ralph here the room did seem smaller and shabbier. He was too tall for it, too smart. Suits were unknown at Oakfield House. The few male residents she'd met were kitted out in standard-issue sweat-pants to disguise their bulky incontinence pads. Seeing Ralph's tailored trousers, she suddenly remembered their first meeting – how elegant he'd looked compared with Tom: a good deal older, yes, but distinguished. It had been part of his attraction: the crisp white shirt and navy cashmere coat, the quiet silk tie and gold cufflinks, all of which seemed to preserve him in a time-warp – old-fashioned, sober, safe. (And ‘safe' was crucially important to her, as much then as now.)

He ran his finger across the television set, leaving a pale pathway in the dust. ‘I thought this was a proper convalescent home, not a … a mausoleum.'

‘I couldn't find a convalescent home. Apparently they don't exist any more. One of the nurses told me. The NHS wouldn't fund them, so they sort of … withered away.'

‘Well, in any case, it's time you came home. You've been here over a week.'

‘Six days.'

‘Is that all?' He sank down on the chair and rubbed his eyes. ‘It seems like years.'

‘So you
did
miss me!'

He gave a non-committal grunt, fumbling for his pipe.

‘I'm sorry, darling, you're not allowed to smoke in here. Only down-stairs in the Smokers' Lounge.'

‘I'm not flogging down three floors again. It was bad enough walking up.'

‘Didn't you find the lift?'

‘Yes, full of old biddies in wheelchairs. And then the doors wouldn't close.'

‘Have you eaten?' she asked, changing the subject.

‘No.'

‘Do you fancy a couple of cold fish fingers?' She indicated her untouched supper-tray. ‘Or there's fruit jelly, if you like. Well, that's what Gary called it, although I can't see any fruit. Still, it seems a shame to waste it.'

‘Aren't you hungry?'

‘No.'

‘Nor me. Just dying for a smoke.' He was sitting cradling his pipe. Suddenly he rooted in his pocket for the matches and struck one defiantly, lighting the pipe with a series of short, coaxing puffs, before inhaling with a sigh of satisfaction.

She prayed Matron wouldn't choose this moment to appear. ‘They'll go mad, Ralph! It's a fire risk.'

‘Don't worry. I'll hide it if anybody comes.'

‘But the smell …' She wafted the magazine to and fro, to disperse the smoke.

‘I'll open the window.'

‘No, please don't. It's perishing in here.' The manic-depressive radiator was in its depressive phase, which was why she had put on Ralph's old towelling dressing-gown in addition to two nighties and a sweater – hardly alluring nightwear to attract a long-absent spouse. She pulled the sheet up to cover her clothes; and as for the pipe-smoke, she would tell Matron it was the only way to mask the stench of urine. In fact it was working rather well – St Bruno was infinitely preferable to pee. Much as she hated Ralph smoking, she did feel a certain affection for his pipes. They were like his children: endlessly loved and indulged. The downside, of course, was that they provided a wonderful excuse for him not to talk. When an intimate conversation threatened, he would select his most refractory pipe and go through a laborious repertoire of scraping, filling, prodding, poking, puffing, sucking, blowing – ample demonstration that words were out of the question. Now, however, he seemed surprisingly communicative – a result of their week-long separation perhaps.

‘So how's the foot?' he asked, disposing of his spent match in the jelly-dish.

‘OK. Well, I had a bit of bother on Christmas Day. A little boy ran his toy truck right over my bad toes, and, God, did I yell!'

‘Little boy? Whose little boy?'

‘Oh … just one of the visitors' children.' She knew he would disapprove of her babysitting for Sharon, although, sore toes notwith-standing, Danny's impudent charm had cheered her up enormously.

Ralph exhaled another plume of smoke. ‘Look, I don't want to push you, darling, but when d' you think you'll be back in harness?'

The phrase conjured up the image of a horse – a sickly, spavined creature stumbling between the shafts of its cart. She tried to picture instead a young racehorse raring to go. ‘Oh, not long now, I hope. How about you?'

‘I managed to do a bit today. And whatever happens I must be back full-time on Monday. Things are piling up.'

‘It's New Year's Eve on Monday.'

‘Oh, God, yes. Which reminds me – the Kirkwoods have invited us out. There's some ghastly dinner-dance at Hugh's golf club.'

‘Well, for once we've got the perfect excuse.' She gestured to her foot again, propped on a pile of books in lieu of pillows.

‘We're not really in a position to refuse. Hugh's doing us a favour, darling – he's asked his next-door neighbours, who are apparently very taken with the Kirkwoods' low-maintenance garden. Well, the wife is, anyway.
And
they've got a place in the country, so it would be madness to pass up the chance of new business.'

‘But, Ralph, I can't go to a dance on crutches.'

‘There's no need for you to dance. All you have to do is be charming and look nice. And surely you don't want to spend New Year's Eve in
this
dump? What treats have they in store? Let me guess – bingo and a sing-song.'

‘Close! Carpet bowls and Scrabble. Followed by tea at five and bed at seven thirty.'

‘Well, there you are.'

‘Actually, I was rather looking forward to not having to celebrate. You see, I've come out in a rash and –'

‘Like the one you had in hospital, you mean?'

‘No, that was nothing much – just a side-effect of the antibiotics. This is rather nasty.'

‘Where is it? Let me see.'

She pushed the two nighties down, to show him.

‘Strewth! It's awful. And it goes right round your side. Do you think it could be bites – fleas, or bed-bugs, or something? I wouldn't be surprised in a run-down place like this.'

She shook her head. ‘It's not just itchy, it's painful. Ow! Don't touch. The slightest pressure hurts. I can't even wear a bra.'

‘I don't like the look of it at all. What did the doctor say?'

‘I haven't seen a doctor.' Come to think of it, she hadn't ever seen one at Oakfield House. No doubt doctors were rationed, along with pillows, knives, functioning lifts and care assistants with problem-free personal lives.

‘Well, the sooner we get you home the better. Then you can make an appointment with Dr Burgess.'

‘All right.' She was too dejected to argue. The thought of moving from her bed, packing her stuff here and then unpacking it at home seemed beyond her powers at present, never mind sitting through a dinner-dance till the small hours.

‘Would you like me to ask at the chemist's? That place in Park Street stays open late, and maybe they can recommend an ointment.'

‘Don't worry. I'm OK.' He made no demands on her when
he
was ill, so it seemed unfair to burden him with shopping trips. Besides, what use would ointment be? Morphine and a skin graft might help, but they, alas, weren't available at chemists'.

‘Or how about ice, to cool it down.'

‘Ice? I shouldn't think they have any. And even if they did it would be a puddle of water by the time it got up here.'

Ralph sat frowning, his shoulders tense, his fingers drumming on the chair-arm. ‘Mind if I just catch the news?' he said finally.

‘N … no.' He had only been here ten minutes. Still, ten minutes' conversation was quite a triumph compared with home. She had long suspected that Ralph's addiction to news was simply another ploy to avoid talking. Faced with footage of a big London hotel going up in flames and Serbian corpses being exhumed from a mass grave, she could hardly burble on about rashes or bad feet.

She retrieved her magazine and turned to the problem page. ‘
If your marriage is lacking oomph, you may need to play the seductress. Give your husband a luxurious sensual massage, or share a bubble bath …'

Ralph hated sharing the bathroom, let alone a bath. Should she write in for advice?