The Faerie Tree (10 page)

Visiting is one thing but now they're talking about discharging Robin only it's hard for them to find somewhere for him to go. He didn't actually tell me this – there was a nurse talking to him about it when I arrived and it's clearly a problem; he can't go back on the streets all day; night hostels are apparently exactly that and with council departments more or less closed it's hard to see where the funding for anything else would come from.

After the nurse left, Robin and I talked about other things, but the ugly grey elephant loomed large between us. I'd bought him The Times and we struggled with the crossword together, failing miserably. Now I am sitting in my car wondering if I am going to fail him miserably again.

If I was on my own I would have no hesitation in asking Robin to convalesce in my home, but it isn't fair on Claire to expect her to live with a stranger, however temporarily. And I hardly know Robin now – what sort of man would I be bringing into close contact with my teenage daughter? It's really too stupid to contemplate; and yet I am. A sunny, freckly Robin on the
beach at Kimmeridge flashes through my mind – and then a monosyllabic depressive, unable to get up for work in the mornings, incapable of holding down his job.

I'm getting nowhere. The tip of my finger is sore from drawing figures of eight on the rough plastic of the steering wheel. I start the engine and make my way home.

I am in the kitchen making a cup of tea when Claire strolls downstairs.

“How was Robin today?”

“Improving all the time. They're even beginning to talk about discharging him.”

She puts her head on one side. “Where do homeless people go when they leave hospital?” She's studying sociology; I could have guessed she would be interested.

“It's a problem. If they sent him back onto the streets he'd be ill again before you knew it. I think the current plan is to wait for a space to come up in a care home where there'd be some council funding.”

“That sounds pretty grim.” She helps herself to a biscuit.

“It does, doesn't it?”

“And there really isn't anywhere else he could go? None of the hostels or anything?”

“I think they're pretty inflexible.” I remember the woman at Hyde Street. “They're just not geared up for people to be there during the day. Health and safety or something.”

Claire is wearing her outraged sixth-former face. “But that's so wrong,” she exclaims.

I nod. “I know – and Robin's really embarrassed about it too.”

“Why can't he come here?”

I am open mouthed. “Claire – you've never met him and I haven't seen him for twenty years – it would be inviting a stranger into our home.”

“But you're going to see him every day…”

“That's not the same.”

“Yes, but he can't be a stranger anymore.”

“Claire – he is. I know nothing about him at all.”

“You'd find out if he was here. You said you wanted to.” There is challenge in her eyes.

“Not at any price. He could have a criminal record, be a drug addict… anything.”

“You told me he was intelligent and articulate.”

“He is. I'm just not taking any risks with your safety, that's all.”

“Hah – so if you were on your own you'd do it?”

I pass her tea and sit down. “Yes, I think I probably would. But I'm not. And that's all there is to it.”

“Mum – will you just let me meet him?”

“It won't change my mind, you know.”

“I'm not saying that. I guess…” she turns her mug in her hands, “I guess… I'm curious too.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Robin is sitting in the chair next to his bed wearing a standard issue striped hospital dressing gown over an unmatched pair of pyjamas which don't quite reach his ankles. They ride up even further as he struggles out of his seat to greet us. The ward feels unbearably stuffy and I loosen my scarf.

“Please excuse the uncoordinated manner of my dress – beggars quite literally can't be choosers and I haven't had conventional nightwear in my wardrobe for quite some time.”

I don't know where to put myself but Claire laughs out loud. “Mum said you had a sense of humour.”

“You must be Claire.” He puts out his hand and she shakes it. “I'm very pleased to meet you.” To my shame I find I am scanning his face for signs of lust.

I swallow hard. “How are you today?” I ask.

He smiles at me. “Big improvement. I've hardly had to use my oxygen and the drip's come out too – they've decided I'm well enough to take my medication in horse-sized tablets instead.”

Claire's attention is caught by the newspaper on his bed. “You read The Times?”

“Only when your mother's kind enough to bring it for me and even then I can't say I've gone from one cover to the other; I sort of cherry pick.”

“So which bits do you like best?” She perches on the edge of the bed, close to his chair. I continue to hover.

“Well let me tell you the bits I didn't read – it's easier. Sport, for a start – leaves me completely cold and the business news isn't especially relevant to me either. Nor the court circular to be fair. But other than that it's always useful to catch up with what's going on in the world; gives you a few conversational gambits when you're lucky enough to have visitors. What do you think of The Times, Claire?”

“I prefer The Independent. They wrote an obituary for Dad. It was really weird reading it but I was very proud, all the same.”

“Your mum said he was a musician but I didn't know he was a famous one.” He looks up at me and smiles.

“He wasn't exactly famous but he was leader of the Bournemouth Philharmonic Orchestra and credited with developing concert programmes which made classical music accessible without dumbing it down.”

“Claire – you're more or less quoting now.” I shift from foot to foot; I haven't often heard her talk about Connor, certainly not in this way. Maybe she is making sure that Robin knows he was a wonderful man. Maybe she's warning him against stepping into Connor's territory.

Robin's gaze drops back to Claire. “Well it must be nice to have a father you can be so proud of.”

“What did your father do?” she pounces.

“I don't know. I never knew who he was.” I am amazed at both his reply and his frankness. I am about to chastise Claire for her probing but I don't want to appear an old harridan in front of Robin, and anyway, he changes the subject himself.

“So are you musical, Claire?”

“No. Dad did let me try his violin a few times when I was little but I couldn't get the hang of it. He thought it was funny but Mum said I made a horrible noise.”

“You did too, Claire. All scratchy and…”

“Oh, hello Robin – I see you have visitors.” A woman clutching
a buff-coloured file has materialised on the other side of his bed.

Robin turns to her, sounding uncertain. “Yes, I have. But… can I help you?”

“It's me that's going to be helping you, Robin. I'm Sylvia. I'm from social services and I've just been assigned to your case.”

A flush of colour rises up Robin's neck under his beard. “I'm not sure why…”

“People in your position need support, Robin. We can't just let you go back on the streets when you're discharged.” Her voice is like treacle; I can see why it's sticking in his throat.

“No… I'll be fine… I'll… work something out.”

“I'm afraid that isn't an option.”

“Why ever not?” The sound of my voice surprises me; as does Claire's thumbs up behind Sylvia's back where only I can see.

“Robin is a vulnerable person.” Sylvia rolls the last words around her tongue with relish.

“In what way?”

She looks at me with pity. “He's homeless.”

“No he's not.” It's all I can do not to gape at Claire as she buts in. “He's coming to stay with us.”

“Is that right?” Sylvia clutches the file in front of her as she looks to me for affirmation.

“Yes, yes it is.”

Robin reaches for his oxygen mask.

“Oh, well in which case… I'll just tell the discharge nurse on my way out.”

Claire turns and watches as Sylvia retreats up the ward. When Robin looks up he is trying not to laugh. “Thanks for getting me off the hook, but I won't hold you to your offer.”

I want to ask him where he thinks he's going to go.

***

As we are walking past the ward reception one of the nurses stops me and thanks me for giving Robin somewhere to stay.

“It was getting to be quite a problem,” she explains, “and he's
such a nice man; none of us wanted to see him back on the streets again.” She puts her hand on my arm. “You really are a true friend.”

I smile and walk on.

As soon as we round the corner I turn on Claire. “Now look what you've done.”

She gives me her butter-won't-melt-in-my-mouth look that used to twist her father around her little finger. “What do you mean?”

“Telling that social worker that Robin was coming to us.”

“But she was awful, Mum. I thought I wanted to be a social worker, but if they're all like that… sticking their noses in…”

“From what I've seen today then you're perfectly suited to it.”

She sticks her hands in her pockets. “I didn't mean any harm. I just wanted to get her off his back.”

“Well you did that most effectively. But now where do you think he'll go?”

“He'll find somewhere… or… he could, you know…”

“Claire – grow up!” I don't even wait for her to follow me down the corridor. I'm out of here.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Given that Robin sleeps most of the way to Bishop's Waltham it was never likely he'd ‘hop out around the corner' as he so hopefully put it before we left the hospital. As we pull up in front of the house the living room curtains are open and the TV flickers in the grey afternoon. Just as Robin opens his eyes, Claire bobs up from the sofa and waves.

It takes every shred of energy Robin has to cross the drive, but instead of sitting in the lounge for a while he insists he'll be better off in bed. I don't doubt it, but he only gets about a third of the way up the stairs before he loses his breath. I make him sit down and wait.

“I'm a pathetic old man, Izzie,” he grumbles. “What the hell have you taken on?”

“Oh don't worry,” I tell him. “In a couple of days you'll be running up them two at a time.”

He grunts. He's probably too short of air to waste it replying to stupid remarks.

Claire and I move around the house like a pair of church mice until about six o'clock when Robin turns up in the kitchen. His clothes are respectable if not particularly clean and it seems tactless to offer to wash them straight away. I'd rather live with a
faint tang of sweat than cause offense and thankfully Claire keeps her mouth shut as well.

I make spaghetti bolognese for tea and soon the scent of garlic and onions fills the kitchen. As I cook I pour myself a glass of wine, but Robin refuses to join me because of all the tablets he's taking. It seems overly cautious and it makes me wonder how long his problems with drink continued. Claire plays the gracious hostess and offers him a cup of tea instead.

Robin eats as though he is savouring every mouthful. In hospital he was surprisingly talkative but the change of environment seems to have silenced him and I remember how he was in the latter part of our relationship. Is the good natured Robin an accomplished act? I can see that Claire is troubled by his manner too.

Once he has finished Robin pushes himself to his feet and leans on the back of his chair. “I'd offer to load the dishwasher but I need all my energy to crawl up those stairs. I can't remember feeling so bushed – I'm sorry.”

I am overcome by guilt for my less than charitable thoughts. Claire beams up at him. “That's OK – the dishwasher's my job. Mind you, I've got plenty of other chores I'd be more than happy for you to take on – perhaps we can negotiate when you're feeling up to it?”

Robin smiles back and wheezes, “Tomorrow – you can give me a list.”

Robin

Chapter Twenty-Four

I stared at the blue and white curtains, struggling to think where I was. That moment of waking, being unsure, then pure disbelief as I watched the honeysuckle clamber up and down the stripes. No, not drug induced. I was in Izzie's house. If I listened carefully I could just hear her voice in the kitchen below.

I picked up my watch from the white melamine bedside table. Nine thirty. 31
^st
December. Izzie probably had plans for tonight. I needed to be on my way.

My feet landed on the softness of carpet but it didn't help my legs to feel any more stable. I shuffled along to the bathroom like a geriatric and once I had locked the door behind me had to sit on the toilet seat for some minutes just to get my breath back. Standing under the shower was too much and as I sunk into the bath I realised I wasn't going anywhere today – or even maybe tomorrow.

It seemed to take forever to haul myself into my clothes, but Izzie was still in the kitchen, drinking a mug of tea.

“How are you feeling this morning?” she asked.

“Pathetic.” I slumped into a chair. “I wanted to be out of your hair today but it's taken me half an hour just to get dressed.”

To my surprise she laughed. “Don't you think that's a tad ambitious?”

“I don't want to be any trouble. Certainly not spoil your New Year.”

She stood up to fill the kettle. “Tea? Coffee?”

“Tea please.”

“And how would you like it?”

“White, no sugar please.”

“Bacon butty?”

My mouth was watering but I shook my head. “I don't want to be any trouble.”