Tread Softly (22 page)

‘What did I tell you? It's one thing after another, just like poor old Job. It'll be a plague of boils next.'

She ignored the Monster's hoot of derision. ‘But how on earth did it happen, Mr Hughes?'

‘These things do, unfortunately. I'd put it down to bad luck.'

Bad luck or bad nursing? Antonio, she'd noticed, hadn't washed his hands between fingering the boil on his neck and rebandaging her foot. ‘So will you have to take the wire out?'

Mr Hughes pondered for a moment. ‘No,' he said. ‘First we'll try another course of antibiotics. If we remove the pin at this stage we may lose the good position we've achieved.'

Good position? She stared disconsolately at her toes. The big one in particular seemed to have already started curving to the left again. ‘I have to say, Mr Hughes, I did hope this toe would be straighter.'

He coaxed the toe back to the right and held it gently but firmly in place. ‘I'm afraid we haven't got quite as satisfactory a result as we might have wished.'

She noted the ‘we'. Was he suggesting that
she
shared the responsibility? Or did he work in partnership with God? Yet in a way she felt sorry for him. He seemed genuinely disappointed, whereas if she had addressed such critical remarks to Ralph in his present frame of mind he would be instantly on the defensive. When he had phoned last night from Gloucestershire he sounded so tired and tetchy she was almost glad he was too far away to visit her.

‘And I am a little worried that the second toe may stiffen,' Mr Hughes observed in his Courvoisier-and-honey voice, handling her foot like a piece of priceless Venetian glass. ‘Are you moving it as I asked you?'

‘Yes, but it hurts.'

‘Nevertheless, it's imperative that you do it every hour. Move it really vigorously, back and forth, back and forth. But otherwise I'd like you to rest as much as you can, with the foot elevated on several pillows. And please only use the crutches for going to the bathroom. I don't want you trying to walk long distances. Is that quite clear?'

‘Er, yes.' But how could she lie around with her foot in the air when Ralph needed her to hold the fort at home? Work was getting out of control, he'd said: invoices not sent, quotes not followed up. The travelling was bad enough, without all the paperwork. Yet it was unlike him to complain. In fact he didn't seem his normal self at all. She was used to him being morose, but not downright acrimonious.

‘Right, Mrs Pearson, I'd like to see you again in three or four days, to review the situation. Meanwhile Nurse will take the stitches out.'

Don't go, she pleaded silently. All we've talked about is failure. I want to tell you other things – intimate, important things.

But he had already closed the door.

A couple of minutes later, in bustled a pretty young nurse. Lorna envied anyone blessed with two fully functioning feet and an absence of blisters on their breasts, but this girl, with her big blue eyes and cascade of ash-blonde curls, could have sprung from the heaving pages of Mills & Boon. That Mr Hughes might succumb to such charms was almost more than she could bear.

‘Hello, Mrs Pearson. I'm Samantha.'

Yes, you would be, Lorna fumed, disliking her even more. Why couldn't she be plain Jane or two-a-penny Susan?

Unabashed, the nurse perched on a stool at Lorna's feet, displaying long, shapely, sun-tanned legs. ‘I'd better warn you, this may hurt.'

‘What she means', the Monster cackled, ‘is that it'll be sheer, bloody purgatory! Just you wait and see.'

There wasn't long to wait. Samantha set about gouging at the stitches with an array of vicious-looking instruments. ‘I know it's painful,' she said cheerily, ‘but this type of stitch is rather difficult to get out. Your skin's so thin, you see, that Mr Hughes couldn't use absorbable stitches.'

“Course he couldn't, the stupid oaf! And
she
's no better, is she? Call herself a nurse? She's making a real pig's ear of it. I bet she's not even trained.'

For once the Monster seemed to be right. Despite her strenuous efforts, Samantha hadn't yet managed to remove a single stitch. Lorna had to agree that she must indeed have been chosen purely on the strength of her looks. Image and appearance were, after all, major considerations in private medicine.

‘Oh dear' – Samantha sat up suddenly, her baby-blue eyes growing ever bigger as a realization dawned – ‘I forgot to give you any painkillers.'

‘Typical!' the Monster sneered. ‘I expect she's just an ex-model, playing at doctors and nurses until a nice, rich, gullible consultant comes along.'

‘Would you like some paracetamol now?' the ex-model enquired.

‘Well, yes, I would. But won't they take a while to work?'

‘Grab them while you can,' the Monster advised. ‘She's so cack-handed you'll be here all day – all night as well, I shouldn't wonder.'

Lorna gulped the tablets down, grateful for the interruption (albeit brief) in the gruesome process of stitch-removal. Samantha continued her digging and delving, and eventually succeeded in extracting the first stitch. One down, thirty to go. Lorna gritted her teeth, hoping the paracetamol would take effect before she expired from the trauma.

After a great deal of sighing and tutting to herself, Samantha finally gave up the struggle. ‘I must confess', she giggled, ‘I'm not the world's best when it comes to removing stitches – especially brutes like these. I think I'd better ask Mr Hughes to take over. The trouble is, he's seeing another patient, so it might be a bit of a wait.'

‘No problem,' Lorna murmured in relief. However long the wait, she knew it would be worthwhile, in every sense.

She closed her eyes and drifted back to childhood. She had fallen over and cut her foot, and her father was bathing the wound in warm water, applying soothing cream. Then he dried her tears, held her close and whispered into her mane of tawny hair, ‘Who's the most beautiful, precious girl in all the world?'

‘Good gracious!' Val exclaimed as Lorna was wheeled through the front door by two burly ambulancemen. ‘Are you all right, my dear?'

‘Yes thanks.' Again Lorna felt somewhat embarrassed about the manner of her arrival at Oakfield House. Being ferried by ambulance was all very well if you were in the throes of a heart attack or about to give birth to twins, but it did seem over the top for a minor procedure like having a few stitches out. (Or not out, as the case might be. Even Mr Hughes had failed to dislodge the last two.)

‘Shall I take you back to your room?' Val offered. As usual, there wasn't a nurse in sight.

‘That's kind of you, Val.' Lorna fumbled in her purse for some change, wondering how much to tip the men. They hadn't been exactly friendly. In fact they had spent the entire journey discussing Chelsea's chances against West Ham (leaving the field free for the Monster to dispense dire warnings about the near-certainty of her being a lifelong cripple). Still, better to be generous. She'd need another ambulance for next week's visit to Mr Hughes, when Ralph would be in Colchester. Infections came expensive.

Val wheeled her down to the lift. ‘I do hope you'll come to our next session of darts. It's Thursday again, at two. You were brilliant yesterday. I've never known anyone get a bull's-eye and a triple seventeen the very first time they've played.'

‘Oh, it was only beginner's luck,' she demurred.

‘Not at all. Darts requires a steady eye and good coordination, both of which you obviously have. And lots of natural talent.'

Lorna smirked at the Monster. ‘Hear that?' she said. ‘Crippled maybe, but a darts champion in the making.'

‘Darling, I got another bull's-eye! This afternoon. Everybody clapped!'

‘Well done,' Ralph muttered abstractedly. His pipe kept going out – bad-tempered, like its owner.

‘It's a marvellous feeling, you know, being good at something without even trying. I'd never have dreamed of playing darts before, but it's actually great fun.'

‘I don't know how you do it, with all those ailments you're supposed to have.'

She chose to ignore his sarcasm. ‘But that's the point. It takes my mind off things.'

Ralph struck another match, heedless of Oakfield's no-smoking rule. ‘And as for the old crocks around here, it's ridiculous for them to play any kind of game in their condition.'

‘They enjoy it, Ralph. And some of them have the guts to overcome their condition, as you call it. There's one old chap with Parkinson's whose hand shakes so much he can barely hold the darts. But he insists on having a bash. And there's a lady who's blind, for heaven's sake, who got two darts on the board today. Think what an achievement that is.'

Ralph snapped the spent match in two. ‘With any luck euthanasia will be legal when I'm their age.'

‘Well, it's a good job
they
don't feel like that. Mostly they have a tremendous will to live. I sat next to a man who's new – Alistair he's called. He used to teach at Oxford and he's had half a dozen books published. He's stuck in a wheelchair with osteoporosis, but it doesn't stop him working. He's writing a sort of thesis on whether machines can ever be conscious. He seemed to take a fancy to me and kept telling me how young I was.'

‘I suppose it's all relative.'

Did he have to be so grudging? Alistair had actually taken her hand and held it affectionately in his, and told her she was as pretty as a picture (even though she was dressed in her baggiest, rash-friendly clothes). It did her a power of good to feel appreciated. Compared with the other residents, she
wasn't
bad-looking and certainly a mere baby in their eyes. ‘Stay young, stay young!' a woman of ninety-three had urged. And she'd heard Ellen remark wistfully to her neighbour, ‘That young Lorna's very fortunate. She'll get out of here. We never will.‘

She repositioned her air cushion (provided by Oshoba to reduce the pressure on her bedsore). ‘It's funny, Ralph – the darts seemed like an analogy for life. I mean, some people tried so hard and put their heart and soul into doing well. And others got annoyed and carped about the scoring, or accused Val of favouritism. And a few just slumped in their chairs and refused to have a go. Poor Sydney wasn't with it at all. He kept looking out of the window and saying, “There's the bus! Quick, catch the bus!''' She laughed. ‘There isn't even a road outside, let alone a bus route. I expect he was harking back to his earlier life. But it struck me as rather symbolic – how important it is not to miss the bus. I've been thinking about it a lot.
They
're too old to make changes, but I'm not. Ralph, are you listening?'

‘Mm.'

‘Well, can't you say something?'

He got up and paced restlessly about. ‘It beats me how this place can call itself a nursing-home when there isn't any nursing. Someone should have
noticed
the wire was getting infected.'

‘Oh, Ralph, don't start that again.'

‘You just told me to say something.'

‘Yes, but not about my foot.'

‘And that surgeon! Fancy him admitting he's not pleased with the result. You'd better think seriously before letting him loose on your other foot. You don't want
two
botched operations.'

‘Can we change the subject?' She had no wish to be reminded of the second operation – weeks of sitting around immobile again, guzzling pain-killers like Smarties, and, knowing her luck, probably another crop of infections.

He glanced at his watch. ‘There's a thing I want to see on
Future World
– a faster type of modem.'

End of conversation.

She lay miserably, watching him take surreptitious sips of Scotch. Today it was in a hip-flask, no doubt so she couldn't see the level going down. His attempts at cover-up were pathetic. This morning she'd found a whisky-smelling empty Lucozade bottle stuffed down the side of the chair. Ironic, she thought, that although they were not at present under the same roof they did spend an hour together most days – a rare occurrence at home. But these shared hours were becoming increasingly stressful. If only they'd had a child, to make them a proper family. Her failure to carry a baby to full term had never been satisfactorily explained, although she did sometimes wonder if it was connected with her parents' death: because they had died so young,
she
couldn't be a parent. A totally irrational idea, yet …

Irritably, Ralph zapped the remote-control. ‘The programme doesn't seem to be on.'

‘Well, that means we can talk.'

‘What d'you want to talk about?'

‘Nothing in particular. Just – you know … chat.'

‘But you can't hear yourself speak with that racket next door.'

‘It's only the old girl's television. Surely you're used to it by now.'

‘I'll never get used to this place.' He rooted in his pocket for the pipe-cleaners. ‘If you want to know, it really gets me down.'

‘Gets
you
down? Come off it! You're here for less than an hour a day. And then we never communicate. Every time I open my mouth you snub me.'

‘Well, I'm sick of hearing about illness and old age. Can't you lighten up?'

Hurt, she lapsed into silence. She had recounted plenty of funny stories as well as distressing ones, but Ralph was being completely vile for some reason. She had never known him so cantankerous, so lacking in compassion. In fact the thought of returning home filled her with dismay. No more communal meals or companionship, no more reminiscences about pea-soupers, gaslight, Zeppelins, coach-built prams, wedding-dresses made from parachute silk, rice pudding with brown skin on top. For all Oakfield's faults as an institution, just being with the people here had made her think more deeply about life, health, marriage, death. Yet Ralph showed not the slightest interest in such things. It occurred to her that perhaps he was missing sex. If even Arthur, at ninety-six, could make overtures to Clare, then Ralph might well be frustrated. But what was she meant to do about it? Stripping off to reveal a suppurating rash would hardly turn him on. And if she gave him what the professionals called private hand-relief someone was bound to barge in – Frances, maybe, who would die from sheer embarrassment, or Matron, who would eject them both on the spot.