Tread Softly (4 page)

‘I love you,' she whispered to Ralph. He suddenly seemed precious, the one who would drive her to the hospital, be there when she woke up (
if
she woke up), take her home again a week later.

‘Love you,' he muttered, embarrassed. He preferred sex to be silent and certainly free of clogging endearments. After more than a decade of marriage, words weren't necessary.

She lay back on the bed while he positioned himself above her, then she slid her feet up his chest and on to his shoulders – Mr Hughes's shoulders. She closed her eyes, saw his dark-as-treacle-toffee eyes gazing down at her. Weirdly, he was clad in pin-stripes at the same time as being naked. Pin-stripes were erotic, the uniform of fathers, two-dimensional fathers. Even Mr Hughes's penis had a seductive pin-striped foreskin. Enticingly rough yet soft inside her. The jargon he'd used at the consultation had become bewitching love-talk: ‘… dislocation of the second MTPJ … titanium hemi-implant …'

‘Yes!' she whispered back. ‘Dorsal subluxation … flexion deformity of the first metatarsal …'

They were building up a rhythm, an electrifying rhythm – long, fierce, sliding strokes, interspersed with gasping cries.

‘Wait,' Ralph panted. ‘let's do it the other way.' Swiftly he withdrew, arranged her on her hands and knees and knelt above her on the bed. It was even better that way – tighter, more exciting. She cupped his pin-striped balls, felt him thrust more urgently in response.

‘Oh yes!' she shouted, screwing up her face in concentration, tossing back her hair. ‘Yes, oh Malcolm,
yes
!'

‘Christ! What's that?' The engine had begun to stutter ominously and then suddenly cut out. Ralph punched the hazard-lights button and yelled to Lorna to stick her hand out of the window. He wrenched the car to the left, narrowly missing a van which swerved round them with a furious blast on the horn.

There was a further volley of hooting from the traffic roaring past. Lorna hardly dared to look as Ralph somehow managed to steer the car into the nearside lane before it slid to a halt. Cursing again, he opened his door and got out.

‘Careful!' Lorna warned, as cars and lorries thundered by, within inches. There was little he could do, she feared, in the way of a major repair, dressed in his best suit and cashmere coat. To make matters worse, it was minus two outside and a malicious flurry of snow was already settling on his back and shoulders as he lifted the bonnet and peered inside.

Having tinkered vainly for some minutes, he made his precarious way back to the driver's seat. ‘God knows what's wrong. It could be anything. I'll have to get the AA.'

‘But they'll be ages.'

‘Not if we're stuck in the middle of the A3. We're a hazard to other drivers.'

‘I'll be late, Ralph, even so. My operation's scheduled first on the list.'

‘You'd better take a cab then.'

‘Go … alone, you mean?'

‘Well, I can't abandon the car – not here.' He grabbed his mobile. ‘Let me try the AA. They may be able to fix it.'

While he phoned, she checked the time. They were already running late, thanks to broken traffic lights at Tolworth Broadway.

‘They'll be twenty minutes minimum,' he muttered. ‘And they said we must get out of the car. It's not safe in this traffic.'

‘Oh no!' In her sunshine-yellow jacket she was even less prepared for snow than Ralph. She had worn it specially, to counteract the inner and outer gloom, but the wretched thing was only waist-length and far from waterproof. ‘Look, let me order a cab first.' Please, God, she prayed, as she dialled. Although if there was a God He would hardly have got them into this mess. ‘Shit! The soonest they can do is eleven.' That was the time she was due at the hospital. ‘They blame it on the weather.'

‘Lorna, we
must
get out.' Ralph winced as a forty-ton lorry rumbled past, all but taking off their wing-mirror.

Reluctantly she opened her door and stepped into the snow. Surely someone would stop to help. But there was no let-up in the heedless stream of traffic.

‘I suppose I could always walk to the hospital!' she shouted above the din, gamely attempting a joke and gesturing at her gaping slip-ons, chosen for bunion-ease rather than a twenty-mile hike in a snowstorm.

‘Get off the road,' Ralph bellowed, taking her arm and helping her over the barrier. ‘You won't
need
an operation if you land up in the mortuary.'

They stood disconsolately side by side, heads bowed against the snow. She glanced at her watch again in dismay. Much as she dreaded the operation, postponing it would be worse still. Since September, hardly a day had gone by without her thinking about the ordeal to come. Not that the last two weeks had left much
time
for thinking. She felt as if she'd been running a marathon, working all hours to leave everything in good order for Ralph, as well as battling with crowds (and panic) to do the Christmas shopping, and writing a hundred cards to clients past and present. A week in hospital would probably be a respite, anxiety or no. But now it seemed she'd have to start the hideous waiting process all over again. Even with private medicine, surgeons couldn't fit you in at the drop of a hat if you happened to miss your scheduled date. Besides, next week was Christmas, and after that Mr Hughes was going away for ‘a spot of winter sun'.

Winter sun. If only … She was so cold her teeth were chattering and she had lost all feeling in her hands. She wished a genie would appear with a sheepskin coat and a pair of woolly gloves, although Ralph looked so morose that even a brace of genies was unlikely to console him. A grounded car, in his view, was much the same as a limp penis – a source of personal failure.

She squeezed his hand (which at least felt warmer than her own). ‘Don't worry,' she mouthed. ‘It's not your fault, darling.'

Any reply he might have made was lost in the wail of a siren as a police car glided to a stop behind them, its blue lights flashing dramatically.

‘Thank God!' said Ralph. ‘They may be able to help.'

One of the officers got out of the car – a short, squat man with sandy hair. ‘Hello, sir and madam. What appears to be the trouble?'

Nothing, Lorna bit back – we're just fresh-air fiends enjoying the first fall of snow this year.

Fortunately Ralph did the explaining, then the policeman helped him push the car further off the road.

Ralph brushed snow from his eyes. His hair was dishevelled, and there was a streak of oil down one cheek. ‘The thing is,' he said, ‘my wife's due in hospital for an operation.'

‘Kingston? No trouble, sir, we can drive her there.'

‘No, it's the Princess Royal in north London.'

‘In that case, sir, I'm afraid we won't be able to help. If it was local we'd take you with pleasure. But look, I'll check with the AA and see how long they're going to be.'

Lorna fought an urge to laugh. The situation was so awful it was funny. Even Aunt Agnes would have trouble coming up with some edifying remark. ‘You're lucky to have a car at all' perhaps.

The policeman was soon back. ‘Ten minutes, they reckon. And in the meantime you're welcome to sit in our vehicle rather than standing around in the cold.'

Lorna followed him somewhat unwillingly. She had already been inside a police car, thirty years ago, when she had run away from school. The local Somerset constabulary had returned her promptly to an incandescent headmistress.

‘I'm Andy, by the way. And this is my colleague Pete.'

‘Oh, how do you do …' Lorna introduced herself and Ralph, although Ralph's curt nod signalled his disdain for such extraneous pleasantries on a busy road in blinding snow.

‘You look drenched,' said Pete. ‘But you'll soon warm up in here.

And if you're feeling peckish I can offer you a bar of fruit and nut.'

In 1971 there had been no offer of chocolate, only a stern talking-to and then, back at school, detention every night for a week and exeats cancelled for the rest of term. (Not that she minded about the exeats. She only went out when other children's parents took pity on her, and she invariably felt superfluous.) ‘That's kind of you. I'm sure my husband would love some.' She handed the chocolate to Ralph, watching enviously as he broke off a couple of squares. ‘I'm not allowed to eat,' she explained. ‘I'm having an operation. Well, that was the general idea. I suppose now it rather depends on the AA.'

Pete turned round with a sympathetic smile. ‘I can imagine how you feel. Just yesterday we were called to another breakdown. The lady involved was nine months pregnant and we had to rush her to the labour ward – in the nick of time, as it transpired.'

‘There you are, you see,' Aunt Agnes put in triumphantly. ‘Didn't I tell you things might be ten times worse?'

As Ralph bit into the chocolate, Lorna could taste its creamy richness slowly dissolving on her tongue. She crunched an imaginary nut between her teeth, savouring the contrast in the textures. She would probably fast all day only to find the operation was cancelled in the end. Still, at least she wasn't panicking – a miracle given the circumstances. But then panic was of its essence unpredictable. It could erupt for no reason at all, yet fail to materialize in a bona-fide crisis.

With a sigh of resignation she sank back in her seat, listening to the crackle of the radio. The whole area, it seemed, was experiencing a spate of burglaries, muggings and horrific accidents.

‘
… suspects breaking in now at 15 Burlington Road. Both men armed …'

‘
… pile-up in the Kingston one-way system. Believed serious injuries.'

‘
… burglary at 7 Fairfield North. Two masked men seen running away …'

Not very tactful of Ralph to sit there scoffing chocolate while bodies were strewn pell-mell across the county: bleeding, coshed, unconscious, robbed, raped or dead.

‘What operation are you having?' Pete asked. ‘I hope it's nothing serious.'

She hesitated. Something serious would actually sound more impressive. A triple bypass, for example, would induce instant respect. Bunions, like mothers-in-law, were merely fodder for jokes. ‘It's, er, on my foot.'

‘Well, I wish you all the best. Certainly the Princess Royal is said to be first class. And very snazzy, so I'm told.'

Spoilt bitch, they probably thought, swanning around in luxury while the have-nots languished for decades on the waiting-list. Perhaps the car breaking down was her punishment for queue-jumping. Private schools, private doctors, and she had the gall to call herself a socialist!

‘It's not a bunion, is it?' Andy continued remorselessly. ‘A friend of the wife's had hers done and said it was worse than having twins.'

Luckily an item on the radio diverted their attention – more bloodshed or skulduggery, she assumed, although she couldn't decipher a word of it. She stared glumly at the back of Pete's bald head. The car was getting fuggy and, far from being a haven, felt cramped and claustrophobic. Its blue lights seemed as restless as her thoughts, circling on the same obsessive track. She could see snowflakes trapped in their beams, frenziedly trying to escape.

Pete switched on the heater to clear the misted windows, while Andy pursued the subject of his wife's friend's bunion op.

‘Yes, Janet wishes she'd never had it done. After all that pain and aggro her feet are just as bad. In fact she has to walk with a stick.'

Lorna swallowed. ‘Yes, well …'

‘Aha!' said Pete. ‘Rescue is at hand!'

Yellow flashing lights were now added to the blue as the AA van drew up in a flurry of slush. Ralph and Andy got out and stood talking to the patrolman, who then strode across to the stranded car and inspected the engine.

Please be able to fix it, Lorna pleaded silently. As soon as humanly possible.

Ralph returned glowering to the police car. ‘It's an absolute bugger. There's nothing he can do here, he says. He'll have to tow us to a garage.'

‘Oh God!' she wailed. ‘I should have booked that cab when they offered it. I'd better see if it's still free.'

It wasn't of course. There was now a delay till two o'clock.

‘Ralph, what on earth shall I
do
?'

‘Ring the hospital. Tell them with any luck we'll be there in an hour.'

‘But that's impossible. It's an hour's drive from here, and we haven't even got to the garage yet. And what if they can't mend it straight away?'

‘Phone the hospital anyway.' He handed her the mobile. ‘And get a move on. The AA man's waiting to tow us.'

‘Engaged,' she groaned. ‘I can't believe it.'

‘Well, try again in a minute.' Ralph helped her out of the car.

‘Good luck,' Andy called. ‘I hope the operation goes well!'

‘If I have it,' she muttered, slipping on a patch of slush and practically measuring her length.

Ralph caught her arm. ‘Be careful or you'll break your leg.'

Mm, she thought – not a bad idea. A broken leg sounded a good deal more dramatic than bunions.

‘Your blood pressure is still extremely high, Mrs Pearson.'

Lorna grimaced. ‘I'm not surprised. The journey was a nightmare, as I told the other nurse. After hanging about in a totally useless garage, we had to walk miles to the station. And when we eventually caught a train it stopped for half an hour outside Clapham Junction – the wrong kind of snow no doubt. Then in the cab from Waterloo every single traffic light was red. I was beginning to think someone up there had it in for us!'

The nurse pursed her lips. ‘It's no laughing matter. Mr Hughes won't operate unless we can bring it down in time.'

Better to laugh than cry, Lorna thought. Since their arrival, wet through and dispirited, it had been all systems go. First the paperwork – concerned less with the state of her health than with that of her bank balance. (If she died from the strain, they probably wouldn't care less, so long as she could pay.) Then a change of room when her original one was found to have a mysterious stain on the carpet (blood? urine? absinthe?). Next a briefing on the formidable array of call-buttons, lights and switches, requiring a degree in computer science. And last, and apparently least, her medical history was taken and her raised blood pressure discovered. And now here she was, lying in bed in a hospital gown, awaiting further developments.