Being seen like this

For the next few days, Bede slept most of the time, as though his battered body and mind were forcing him to listen to reason and rest. When awake, he was as irascible a patient as Elin had feared, obviously trying his damnedest not to take it out on her, but summoning a cloud down around them both all the same. She could hardly blame him; even though the painkillers dulled the worst of the pain from his injuries, they weren’t enough for the occasional headaches, at times enough to wake him, and at others following some strange irrelevant pronouncement he couldn’t afterwards remember making.

The police were convinced it was joyriders and soon abandoned the line of enquiry that they might have been in someone’s employ. Bede veered between anger, frustration and apathy, and to cap it all, his usual safety valve of long, solitary walks was denied him.

He apologised for not being able to help around the house, but managed to make it sound like he was drawing attention to his incapacity – look what I’m reduced to; I can’t even wash up! She was reminded increasingly of the bleak weeks and months following Joe’s death; the dark tunnel they’d only recently emerged from. People – Fran, Carole, her sister – had wondered at the time why he, or both of them, hadn’t sought professional help. Faced with the memory of his hurt and anger when she’d broached the subject – the way he took it as criticism, his insistence he wouldn’t tell a stranger anything he couldn’t tell her – she intended to wait a while longer this time before suggesting he took up the offer of counselling.

By the end of the week he insisted on being taken out to the workshop. Elin was worried. Only that morning, over breakfast, he’d fixed her with a stare and said, ‘You really shouldn’t attach the red filament to that’– then frowned, looking afraid, as she questioned it and he failed to recall having spoken.

She wondered if the workshop was a safe place for him to be. Indignant at the implication of incompetence, he nevertheless agreed not to go near any machine tools and they decided to trust his instincts and sense of self-preservation. She made sure the phone was within reach on the bench, reminding herself that he wasn’t a helpless infant but an intelligent, resourceful adult who happened to have a broken ankle and wrist, and was afflicted by occasional blackouts; if he somehow contrived to fall, the very suggestion of which he took as a personal insult, he would be quite capable of finding a solution, or simply waiting if it came to it.

After a busy morning at the shop, she cycled back home for lunch in a flurry of imaginary scenarios, but as she opened the workshop door, he simply looked up at her cheerfully over his black-rimmed glasses.

‘Perfect timing. You can help me get this in place.’

He’d literally single-handedly fitted a wheel to an electric motor from an old school project and adapted it to latch into brackets he had ready to fix to the front of his wheelchair. He’d grumbled about the small wheels before realising his wrist was in no condition to propel himself anyway, and she had to smile at his response to the prospect of relying on someone to push it during the weeks before he was ready for crutches. The thought of defacing social services’ property bothered her but he assured her he’d make it good afterwards if anyone complained.

Perched on a beam, leg sticking out at a cumbersome angle, he munched the sandwiches she’d brought and directed her in fitting first the brackets, then the motor. Elin sensed him keeping his instructions tactfully light – she respected his expertise but he’d long since learned not to patronise her. He fidgeted like a little boy on Christmas Eve as she attached the makeshift controls, and she was pleased to see he was grudgingly impressed. She indulged him as he proclaimed how he’d proved conclusively that his unruly stock of old and reclaimed parts was not mere hoarding. To preserve her peace of mind, she tried not to wonder how he’d manoeuvred the clunky wheelchair across the room to rummage through it.

The finished contraption whirred like a robot in an old low-budget sci-fi film, and they both laughed as he performed a few practice laps of the limited space. As he tentatively ascended and descended the ramp and platform she’d borrowed from the village hall and rigged up for him behind the workbench, the serious concentration on his face incongruously conveyed joy at his reclaimed independence.

When she came in later that afternoon to find him with his head slumped on folded arms on the bench, he didn’t even try to deny his impromptu nap.

‘So,’ he said cheerfully, ‘shall we celebrate tonight?’

‘Celebrate?’

‘Mobility. Life going on.’ Bede ruffled Kip’s fur. The dog had only just accepted the whirring wheelchair and still eyed him with suspicion. ‘It’s music night at the Horseshoes, isn’t it?’

Elin was not only pleased by the prospect of an evening out, but relieved at the turning of another corner. One of his frequent complaints during the recent days of confinement and sleep had been embarrassment at ‘being seen like this’, and she’d dreaded weeks of self-imposed exile from the world.

‘Let’s go the whole hog and have a meal,’ she said. ‘Spare you the guilt about not washing up.’

‘Deal.’

He extended his hand and they shook in mock formality. He held onto hers for a moment longer than necessary.

As she helped him shower and change, every gesture of support, every move to help him to his feet in a clumsy stand became an excuse to linger, to share an affectionate hug and a kiss. Since the accident, he’d been unusually demonstrative, as if trying to make up for his blacker moods. Despite the circumstances, and the moods, she liked it.

It was a fine evening and they arrived at the Horseshoes to see Tamsin and Silvan sitting at a table in the garden with several of the regular crowd. They came over, offering welcome help in negotiating the uneven threshold and steps to which they’d never before given a second thought. A table was free near the performance area; joined by Tamsin’s friend Lauren, they settled around it with Bede alongside a wall, where he was out of danger of his leg being knocked. Silvan went to help Gareth set up the sound system and Brian came over with their drinks.

‘Good to see you, Eco. Hurry up and get better; we’re missing you. Just give me a wave when you want a refill. There’s a few in for you behind the bar.’

No sooner had Brian left to take their food order to the kitchen than Elin noticed Bede’s eyes narrow. She followed his gaze and her heart sank as she saw Philip Northcote crossing the pub towards them.

‘Just when I was beginning to enjoy the evening,’ Bede muttered.

‘Might as well get it over with.’ She squeezed his hand.

Philip reached their table and, ignoring the spare seat Elin indicated, stood towering over them. ‘What do you think you’re playing at now?’

‘Not too bad, thanks for asking,’ Bede replied steadily. ‘Could’ve been worse.’

‘I doubt either of us wants to waste time on pleasantries.’ Normally Bede stood a head taller than Philip, but in his wheelchair Elin thought he looked vulnerable and cornered. Despite the steely determination in his eyes, she felt protective as Philip continued. ‘I’ve wasted enough hours of my valuable time as it is, being grilled by the police and having my car, every vehicle belonging to the shoot and even my commercial fleet examined for marks that indicate knocking a bloke off his bike. I wonder why – I was away over the weekend, for God’s sake.’

‘Oh, were you? Where?’

‘A colleague’s wedding, not that it’s any of your business. I have alibis, and the police are satisfied with them. They didn’t find a thing, of course, but I can do without you making false accusations for the fun of it.’

‘False accusations.’ Bede’s eyes flashed fire. ‘I’ve had a few directed my way recently. No harm in returning the favour, hey? Oh, sorry, I forget that my time isn’t valuable. Not in the sense of distorting the local ecosystem so toffs can roam the countryside killing birds for fun. Or scheming to destroy our land for a quick fix of climate-wrecking fossil fuels. But, you know what? Perhaps there are ways of measuring “valuable” that don’t involve stockpiling wealth so you can—’

‘Give it a rest. You do realise that with every pronouncement you’re digging your own grave?’

Bede patted the arm of the wheelchair, still without relinquishing eye contact. ‘Which someone’s trying their damnedest to put me in.’

Philip took a step closer, placing a hand on the table and leaning across it. Elin tensed and looked around for Silvan. He was still chatting to Gareth; she tried to catch his eye. She turned back to intervene, but Philip got in first.

‘You want to be careful how far you take your slander.’ He held up a hand to silence Bede’s protest. ‘It won’t do you any good. I’m giving a valuable boost to the local economy and doing my share to help this country’s energy situation, however unpopular that may make me in some quarters. There are plenty of people who appreciate and support what I’m doing. I wouldn’t dream of resorting to violence, or employing someone to do it on my behalf, and it’s preposterous that you could even begin to think I might.’ He turned to Tamsin. ‘I’m surprised to see you here. Aren’t you in the middle of exams?’

‘Only got a few more. They’re days away. We’ve got to have a break now and then.’

‘Does your mother know where you are?’

Tamsin glanced in silence at Lauren, making it transparently obvious where she was meant to be.

‘I thought not,’ Philip said. ‘If you go now, there’ll be no need for me to tell her.’

‘Oh, leave her alone!’ Elin snapped. ‘Isn’t bullying a man in a wheelchair enough for you?’

‘Bullying?’ Philip gave a snort of contempt. ‘He’s quite capable of looking after himself. She, on the other hand, obviously needs a bit of guidance – more than she’s getting from her so-called friends.’

Bede laughed harshly. ‘What gives you the right to tell her what she can and can’t do? The fact that you’re shagging her mother?’

Philip lurched towards him, knocking the table against his wheelchair.

Bede gasped in pain. ‘Wouldn’t dream of violence, hey?’

Elin reached a hand out to grasp Philip’s arm. He shook her off, knocking over a full pint glass that crashed into splinters on the quarry-tiled floor. Tamsin saved a second glass, but the contents joined the cocktail spreading around their feet and soaking their legs. The whole pub froze in a moment’s stunned silence. Silvan looked across, frowning, as Brian hurried towards them.

‘Enough! What the hell’s going on?’ He looked between them, glancing at Elin with a flicker of sympathy as he did so. ‘Just sort out your bloody differences elsewhere, will you? I’ve no idea what this is about, and I don’t want to know.’ Elin seriously doubted both claims. ‘But stay away from each other while you’re in here. If there’s the slightest hint of any more trouble I’m chucking the lot of you out.’

Philip glared at Brian and made his way in stony silence back to his table, where he was greeted with muted encouragement by his cronies. Before he was out of earshot, Bede apologised profusely for the mess and his inability to help clear it up.

Elin smiled to herself. He always did have to have the last word.