Trio (12 page)

‘I’ll get Sister.’ She hurried to the nurse’s station and alerted Sister Colne, who administered more medicine.

‘Sit with him a while,’ she told Caroline. ‘He’s spiking a temp so keep him cool and he can drink if he’s thirsty.’

Caroline took the cloth from his brow, dipped it in cold water, wrung it out and replaced it. He was hovering between sleep and waking, his eyelids fluttering up and down, his mouth working occasionally but no speech. The drugs would make him woozy. There was a rank smell from him, sour and unwashed. He wouldn’t be bathed until the doctors examined him again in the morning.

It was warm on the ward and quiet now save for the snoring from someone at the far end and an occasional murmur from the depths of a dream.

Caroline closed her eyes for a moment, felt herself settle in the chair. Her head was heavy and she felt sleep steal over her like a cloak, creeping up her spine and over her skull, enveloping her shoulders. When she jerked awake some time later he was looking at her, his eyes made dreamy by the medicine.

‘Hello,’ he said.

She smiled.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Caroline.’

‘Paul.’

‘The pain, has it helped?’

‘Yeah. Where are you from, Caroline? That’s not a Manchester accent.’

‘Bolton,’ she said.

‘Ah, Bolton,’ he mimicked her.

She smiled even though having the mickey taken was not particularly amusing.

‘Get that a lot?’ He surprised her.

She nodded. His hair was cut close, for the services of course. He had a strong face. She could imagine him as a man of action, no nonsense.

‘This leg, what'll they do? Nobody’s saying anything. Will they . . . ?’ He faltered, looked away then back, his Adam’s apple bobbed. ‘Can they save it?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘It's only if there’s gangrene or complications.’

Relief shone damp in his eyes. Light-blue eyes. She saw his chest fall as he exhaled.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘The operation?’

Oh, you poor man. ‘They’ll put a pin in, a metal rod, where the bones are shattered. You’ll have a lump, scars.’

‘And a stick? Charlie Chaplin. No more drill, then.’ He spoke in a rush. Then gave a little hiccup. ‘Sorry.’

Mortified, Caroline realised he was crying. She wanted to crawl under the bed and hide. ‘Don’t worry, please,’ she said. ‘I’d better go.’

He nodded.

She drew the curtains round so, although the light sleepers might hear the broken breathing coming from the cubicle, no one would have to witness him losing control.

His plaster cast was off and his leg looked sick beneath it, the skin like uncooked fish, greyish-white and damp. A smell too, cheesy. The skin had healed in puckered lumps along the outside muscle and across the knee. As if a child had started to model a leg from white plasticine and left it rough and unfinished. She betrayed no reaction as she wiped it gently with clean water and antiseptic and began to prepare the bandages.

She was fed up, another black mood, a miserable day. Most days were. A knot of resentment inside. She felt hot tears pressing behind her eyes. No reason for them. No reason for any of it. She stirred more plaster of paris into the mix.

‘Are you courting?’ he said.

She looked sharply at him, two spots of red forming on her cheeks.

‘Sorry,’ he amended quickly. He watched her work, sneaking a look at her face now and then, large brown eyes, broad cheeks, her hair pulled back under the nurses hat. ‘What would you do if you weren’t a nurse?’

She shrugged. She didn’t want to chat.

‘What about when you were little then . . .’

Why wouldn’t he just give up and shut up?

‘. . . what did you want to be? I suppose it’s different for girls – you don’t have to be anything much once you get married – but boys it’s always engine drivers and pilots and footballers. Or soldiers.’

No more drill parade.

‘Farming,’ she said.

‘That’s a hard life for a woman.’

Try this.

‘What sort of farming?’

She thought of the ewe and of sick people, sick animals, mess. Grandma’s allotment. ‘Crops,’ she said. ‘Market gardening, a nursery.’

He raised his eyebrows.

And landscape gardening too. The chance to sculpt the earth, to plant it and make beautiful vistas, like they did in the grand old houses. Not the sort of thing a nurse from Bolton could aspire to.

She started to wind the bandages, feeling the plaster wet and cold and heavy on her hands. She wished he wouldn’t stare at her so much.

He had several weeks of physiotherapy. He was moved out of the men’s surgical ward. Caroline missed his company and felt a ripple of embarrassment when she realised she was manufacturing reasons to run errands to the convalescent ward. Then one day he came looking for her, using a stick now not crutches, with a rolling gait so he appeared to travel as far sideways as he did forward.

She turned from the cupboard she was stacking to greet him. They were the same height, she was pleased he wasn’t taller. But why did it matter?

‘You’re doing well.’

He nodded. ‘Discharge next week. Back home.’ His family lived up in Yorkshire.

A crush of disappointment pressed on her heart. Silly, she thought.

‘I wondered, your day off, perhaps we could have tea?’

‘Yes,’ she said quickly, then, ‘Will they let you out?’

‘Occupational therapy. Got to try getting on a bus tomorrow.’ He tipped his head at the stick. There was a familiar trace of bitterness in his voice. She recognised it as a shield against self-pity.

Tea was a delight. He talked more than ever; about his army days, the boys in his regiment and his family. He asked after hers. She told him a little but threw questions back.

He reached out to touch her hand, his skin warm and dry against hers. She let his palm cover the back of her hand, a falling feeling inside her, like Alice in the rabbit hole.

‘Caroline . . .’ He licked his lips. She watched his mouth form different shapes as he chased words. ‘Can I write?’ He managed. ‘Do you think, perhaps?’

Oh, Paul, yes. But if he knew. He thought she was young and innocent but she was spoilt. It just wouldn’t be fair to him. He was a good man. She pulled her hand back. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea.’

His head reared slightly at the rejection and he ran his fingers along his jaw. ‘I see.’

On the walk back to the hospital their conversation was strained and awkward. She felt the numb weight of depression settle on her. It would always be like this, it would never change.

And Paul had similar thoughts, cursing himself for being a fool. He should have known better than to expect her to take on a cripple. He should never have asked. What girl in her right mind would look at him twice? Yes, she’d been friendly and kind but that was her job. That was all. He must have been cracked to think there was anything more.

Kay

Kay Farrell was astonished at how much work one tiny infant generated. It wasn’t just feeding and changing her, it was everything in-between too. Sterilising all the bottles and teats, sluicing and soaking and washing and drying the nappies, washing and drying and ironing the clothes. The daily walk, the bath. Life had been full before – keeping the house and garden in order, shopping and cooking and cleaning – but now it was hard to fit everything in. The windows were overdue for a clean, the pile of mending was becoming overwhelming. She tried to tell herself it didn’t matter but it bothered her. Other women managed, why couldn’t she? Was she doing something wrong?

She was tired too. Often numb by the end of the day when Adam came home expecting a decent two-course meal and home comforts. She had been going to bed earlier and earlier but Theresa needed a feed at eleven. Her friends with children raved about how easy Theresa was. Sleeping through the night, keeping her feeds down, easily placated when she cried. When they said that, Kay found it impossible to complain. After all she wasn’t being dragged out of bed three times a night or struggling with three-month colic. But one day she did confide in her neighbour, Joanna, who was more outspoken than some of the others and had a devilish sense of humour.

‘Bugger housework,’ Joanna said.

‘Joanna!’ Kay snorted with laughter.

‘Oh, come on. Does Adam notice?’

‘Well, no, but . . .’

‘But he notices you’re tired? Headaches at bedtime?’

It took Kay a moment to grasp the reference. ‘Joanna!’ she scolded her.

‘Look, Kay, you can have an ideal home and battle on exhausted with a neglected husband or you can give yourself a chance and make things a bit easier so you’re fit company and you can enjoy Theresa.’

‘I do enjoy Theresa,’ she said defensively. Remembering the previous afternoon when Theresa had woken early from her nap and Kay had almost cried with frustration. ‘You’ve no idea,’ she carried on. ‘It’s wonderful. For heaven’s sake, Joanna, I only said I was a bit tired.’

‘Don’t be so touchy.’

‘Everyone else manages.’

‘Like who? Here, have another biscuit.’

She took one, bit into it and considered. ‘Violet.’

‘She’s got a cleaning woman.’

‘OK, well, Muriel.’

‘Her mother’s practically living there, she does half the housework.’

‘Ann-Marie.’

‘Drinks.’

‘What?’

‘On the bottle.’

Kay’s mouth fell open. ‘Seriously?’

‘Oh, Kay, you’re so naive.’

‘How do you know?’

‘You can smell it. She’s always sucking mints.’

‘Maybe she likes mints.’

‘And she fell over at our cheese and wine. Jerry had to take her home.’

‘Oh, how awful. But in the day, she drinks?’

‘Yes, Kay.’ Joanna nodded her head slowly for emphasis. ‘Soon as Jerry’s left for work.’

‘Crikey! Do you think we should do something?’

Joanna laughed. ‘Such as? And Carol and Angela are both on pep pills. You could try those. Pep you up a bit. Doctor will sort you out.’

Kay pulled a face. ‘I don’t know. What about Bev? She looks great. Two children, house is always nice. She reminds me a bit of Sophia Loren, those sort of eyes. She’s managing all right. She never looks like it’s all too much.’

Kay finished her biscuit and waited for her friend to shoot her down. But Joanna had a funny expression on her face. One that Kay couldn’t decipher. Joanna looked away.

‘What?’ Kay said. ‘What’s wrong with Bev?’

‘She’s having an affair with Ken,’ Joanna said sharply and picked up her cigarettes.

‘Oh, my God! Joanna . . . oh!’ She didn’t know what to say. ‘Oh, Joanna. And here’s me moaning on . . .’ She drew out her own packet and lit a cigarette.

‘Don’t tell anyone.’

‘No, of course not. When did . . . do they know you . . . ?’

Joanna screwed her eyes up against the smoke and shook her head.

‘What will you do?’

‘I don’t know. I’d like to sue the bugger for divorce but I need some advice. And there’s Damien to think about. It’d mean selling the house and I don’t know how I’d manage. My typing’s rusty and even if I went back to work who’d look after Damien? It’s a bloody awful mess.’

‘Wouldn’t you get maintenance?’

‘No idea. Oh, Kay, it’s so horrible. I don’t want to think about it.’

A rising cry from Theresa in her pram outside interrupted them. Kay went to fetch her in for a feed. Shortly after, the fish van arrived in the road – it was Friday – and both women went to buy fish for that evening’s meal.