Swimming Pool Sunday (12 page)

When he reached the cafeteria, he saw them instantly, sitting back, relaxed, as though nothing was wrong. He was immediately filled with a bleak fury.

‘Louise!’ he called.

‘Barnaby!’ She looked up and smiled; she actually smiled. Barnaby strode over.

‘Katie’s all alone,’ he said, aware that his voice sounded accusing, yet unable to stop himself. ‘She’s been all alone for half an hour.’

‘She’s not all alone,’ protested Louise. ‘She’s being looked after by a team of trained medical experts.’ She took a sip of coffee and Barnaby, suddenly enraged, thumped his huge fist on the table with a bang.

‘That’s neither here nor there!’ he exclaimed. ‘The doctors said that
our
voices would help to bring her round! My God, if you can’t even sit and talk to her …’ Louise stood up, her face pink with anger.

‘I’ve been with her all day. I’ve been talking to her and massaging her feet and doing everything I can for her. I came here for one cup of coffee! One cup of coffee, Barnaby!’ Her distressed voice rose through the room, and various members of the cafeteria staff began to look in their direction. ‘And anyway,’ added Louise, calming down slightly, ‘Cassian and I have been talking about
the accident. You should listen to what Cassian’s got to say.’ She sat back down on her chair and, with slightly trembling lips, took another sip of coffee.

‘What?’ Barnaby looked at Cassian with black suspicion.

‘Perhaps later,’ murmured Cassian to Louise.

‘No, now!’ thundered Barnaby. ‘Tell me what he’s said, that’s so important it’s kept you from being with Katie.’

‘All right,’ said Louise. She took a breath. ‘He says we should sue Hugh and Ursula. On Katie’s behalf,’ she added.

‘What?’

‘I’m not really sure this is the time or place for this discussion,’ said Cassian smoothly. ‘Perhaps the two of you could talk, and …’ He stood up, then flinched as Barnaby roughly pushed him back into his seat. Louise looked anxiously at Barnaby; his face was bright red and his whole body was trembling.

‘Talk?’ he roared. ‘Talk about what? Are you serious?’

‘Apparently we could prove they were negligent,’ began Louise. Barnaby gazed at her, aghast.

‘Hugh and Ursula? Are you saying Hugh and Ursula are to
blame
? My God …’

‘It’s not a matter of blame,’ put in Cassian swiftly. ‘It’s a matter of … compensation.’

‘Compensation?’ echoed Barnaby. ‘You mean money! You’re just talking about money, aren’t you?’ Louise looked down awkwardly at the table. ‘Katie’s been in hospital for less than a day,’ Barnaby shouted, ‘and already all you can think about is
money
!’

He looked from Louise to Cassian, with an incredulous pent-up expression. All the misery, worry and despair of the last twenty-four hours seemed to be building up inside him like a furnace.

‘You’re sick,’ he suddenly shouted. ‘You’re both sick!’ And with an abrupt savage movement, he kicked over a
chair. It hit the table noisily as it fell, and the cups and saucers clattered. From the other side of the cafeteria began some interested murmurings. Cassian smiled apologetically in the direction of the staff, keeping one eye on Barnaby.

‘Barnaby, don’t be like this,’ said Louise. She looked anxiously around the cafeteria. ‘This isn’t helping Katie either.’

For a few seconds Barnaby stared back at her. Then he sighed, bent down, and righted the chair. Louise and Cassian watched in a nervous silence.

‘I’m going, now,’ said Barnaby at last, ‘to see my daughter, and then I’m going to church to pray for her.’ He looked at Louise. ‘You can do what the hell you like.’

‘Barnaby …’

‘Leave it, Lou,’ Barnaby said in a shaky voice.

And before Louise could say anything more, he left; picking his way clumsily between the tables and chairs and customers; barging out of the door without looking back, with his shoulders hunched up and a stray glittery get-well card for Katie sticking out of the back pocket of his jeans.

The little church was packed when Barnaby arrived. People were milling around, talking and whispering, pulling chairs into line, depositing gifts of toys and flowers on a side-table that seemed to have been set aside for the purpose. The air was tight with uncertain anticipation, and as he surveyed the scene from the porch, Barnaby found himself hesitating like a nervous bride. When he heard his name being called, he gave a startled jump.

‘Barnaby!’ It was Frances Mold, coming through into the porch and pulling the door behind her. She didn’t smile, but took his arm and squeezed it. ‘I’m glad you could come,’ she said simply.

‘There are so many people here,’ said Barnaby uncertainly.
He gazed down at Frances. ‘I don’t know half of them.’

‘Lots of them seem to know Katie,’ said Frances. ‘Friends from school, I think.’

‘I suppose Louise knows them,’ said Barnaby, scowling in spite of himself. The mere thought of Louise still sent a thudding anger through his body. ‘Is she here yet?’

Frances looked up at him.

‘Louise isn’t coming to the service,’ she said. ‘She phoned from the hospital. She feels she should stay with Katie, just in case she wakes up.’

‘Oh,’ said Barnaby dully, ‘I see.’ And suddenly he felt a sense of abandonment. He was going to have to do this on his own.

Frances looked at her watch and reached for the porch door. ‘We should really be going in. I’ve saved you a seat next to me.’

‘Wait,’ said Barnaby suddenly. ‘I’m not …’ He swallowed and looked away. ‘Just give me a second.’ Frances waited silently, watching him compose himself, take a few deep breaths and push his fingers through his dark springy hair.

‘Right,’ he said at last. ‘I’m ready.’

As they walked in there was a rippling effect along the pews, as people gradually realized that Barnaby had arrived, and turned to see. Many immediately turned back, but some remained, staring at him with expressions of sympathy ranging from mild compassion to deep distress. Somebody somewhere was quietly crying, and as Barnaby made his way to the front of the church, a baby began to wail.

Alan Mold was already standing at the front of the church, and he gave a kindly nod to Barnaby as he took his seat.

‘Let us pray,’ he said.

There was a moment’s silence. Then, from behind
Barnaby, came a rustling sound, as, wordlessly, the congregation sank together to their knees. And as Barnaby himself slowly knelt down, he felt, through the stillness, the silent support of a hundred people flowing towards him in a single strengthening wave.

It was a short simple service. Alan Mold addressed the congregation in warm tones, read prayers full of love and hope, and led the singing of ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’. When the service had ended, Barnaby stood up to leave, but Frances tugged at his sleeve.

‘If I were you,’ she said, ‘I’d stay here for a bit. Unless you want to have to talk to everybody.’

Barnaby looked down at her. Throughout the service he had felt unable to open his mouth; unable to join in the prayers; unable to sing the hymns. Talking to people was unthinkable. So he nodded gratefully and sank back down next to Frances.

Behind him he could hear the chatterings and murmurings of people leaving; there were many voices that he recognized or half recognized. Several times he heard his name, but he didn’t turn round.

‘Barnaby?’ Suddenly somebody was right beside him. ‘Barnaby?’

He looked up. It was Ursula, peering at him in mild concern.

‘Hello, Ursula,’ he managed. Ursula smiled hesitantly at him.

‘I don’t know what your plans are,’ she said, ‘but we wondered whether you’d like to come back to our house for some supper.’ She paused, then added anxiously, ‘You really must eat properly.’

Barnaby tried to give a jovial smile and failed.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’m eating fine.’

‘Just for the company, then?’

‘To be honest, Ursula,’ said Barnaby, ‘I’m not much good in company at the moment. It’s very kind of you, but I think I’ll head back to the hospital.’

‘Of course,’ said Ursula in slightly crestfallen tones. ‘I understand,’ Barnaby took her hand.

‘I’m very grateful for the offer,’ he said, ‘but I’ve got to be with Katie. She might …’ He swallowed. ‘She might wake up any minute.’

‘We’ll pray that she does,’ said Ursula fervently.

‘Yes, I know you will,’ said Barnaby, and he squeezed her hand. ‘I know you will.’

Three days later, Barnaby woke early, with a start. He immediately sat up with a beating heart, hoping that he had been woken up by the sound of the telephone ringing. But the phone beside his bed was silent. Another night had passed with no summons to the hospital; no joyful announcement that Katie had woken up. His excitement subsiding, Barnaby got out of bed, padded into his little kitchen and put the kettle on to boil.

Since moving out of Larch Tree Cottage, Barnaby had been renting a tiny ground-floor flat in the new development on the other side of Melbrook. There was only one bedroom and no space for the girls to play when they came to visit, but it was all he could afford, on top of supporting Louise and the girls.

Now he looked around morosely. He suddenly felt weary and depressed. Every night, since the accident, he had fallen into bed hoping, like a child on Christmas Eve, that by the time he woke up, something would have happened. Katie would have woken, smiled, perhaps even asked for him …

And every morning he awoke to find no news. No change. She was still stable, the nurses would tell him. No, they couldn’t say when she might wake up. No, they couldn’t say what damage her injuries might have done. It was early days, they kept saying. All they could do was wait and see.

Until now, Barnaby had quietly obeyed the nurses; had agreed with them that there was no point in
thinking the worst; had avoided probing them for the alarming thoughts he could see behind their eyes. Like a coward, what they didn’t want to tell him he hadn’t wanted to know. But today he did want to know, he suddenly thought, pouring boiling water onto a tea-bag. Today, at the meeting with the consultant, he would demand some answers. He would write out a list of questions and ask them, and would keep asking them until he found out what he wanted to know.

He sat down with his cup of tea and shuffled through the pile of letters he had opened the night before. Many were cards for Katie; letters of concern and sympathy – as though she were dead, he thought savagely to himself. Why was everyone being so bloody gloomy about it? She was going to get better. She was.

At the bottom of the pile were all the other letters. Day-to-day correspondence, mostly bills. Since moving out of Larch Tree Cottage, the bills had been coming thick and fast, like angry rain. There seemed no end to them; no controlling them. Every time Barnaby thought he’d managed to work out a monthly budget, something else came along to surprise him. This week it had been the bill for servicing Louise’s car – £300, out of the blue. He was going to have to dip into his savings again.

Why was life suddenly so much more expensive? Living together with Louise in Larch Tree Cottage, his salary had seemed ample for all their needs; now it seemed stretched beyond endurance. None of his sums seemed to add up; however careful he was, at the end of every month he found himself with an overdraft. Despite the fact that he was living in the cheapest accommodation he had been able to find; despite the fact that he’d cut back on practically everything that wasn’t essential.

Of course it was his duty to support Louise and the girls, he thought dejectedly to himself, taking a sip of tea and pushing the bill from the garage underneath the
pile of cards. They were dependent on him. It was only right. But did that mean he was never going to be able to afford a life of his own?

At ten to eleven, a nurse came over to Katie’s bed and tapped Louise on the shoulder.

‘Yes?’ She turned, startled.

‘Sorry,’ said the nurse. ‘Didn’t mean to alarm you. I just thought I’d remind you that you’ve got a meeting with the consultant at eleven. Just in case …’ she paused tactfully, ‘… in case you wanted to comb your hair or pop to the loo or anything.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Louise dully. ‘Yes, thank you. I expect I look dreadful.’ She paused. ‘Not that it matters what I look like,’ she added, slowly getting to her feet. ‘I mean, the doctor won’t care what I look like, and I shouldn’t think Barnaby will, either.’

Since Monday, Louise had barely talked to Barnaby. She had barely talked to anyone, except the nurses and the odd doctor and, of course, all day long, Katie. She spent hours at a time wearily staring at Katie’s little face; uttering encouraging words; peering in exhausted desperation for some kind of response. And when there was none she found herself irrationally beginning to doubt her own powers of communication. Sometimes she felt as though she were retreating into a detached light-headed world of her own, in which only she and her own whirling thoughts existed; in which she had been sitting by the same bed for an eternity, staring at Katie’s face, willing her to wake up.

On the locker beside Katie’s bed was a notebook, which one of the nurses had given to Louise, suggesting she keep a journal of Katie’s progress, and of her own thoughts and emotions. So far it was empty. Louise’s thoughts were too wild and random to be written down. When she slept, her head filled with dark menacing dreams, which lingered on, like looming
shadows, after she woke. Her mind felt stretched; wrung out like an old cloth. Sometimes she thought she might open her mouth and find she had forgotten how to speak.

She hadn’t been able to bring herself to attend the church service on Monday evening. The official reason was that Katie might wake up while she wasn’t there, but the real reason was that she wasn’t sure she could face it. She shuddered as she imagined sitting there, under the glare of all those curious eyes – benevolent and sympathetic, maybe, but curious too, without a doubt. Somehow forcing herself to tell people again and again how Katie was doing; somehow managing to express a suitable gratitude for everyone’s interest. Hearing, out loud, the prayers for Katie; trying not to crumble; trying not to cry; trying not to break down completely.