‘When something’s funny I go, “Ha Ha Ha,”’ said the small boy, leaning against Netta’s desk. ‘Don’t I, Mummy, I go, “Ha Ha Ha.” This is what I go like –’ He tipped his head back and reduced his eyes to tiny slits, ‘I go, “Ha Ha Ha Ha HAAAAAAAAA.”’
‘James,’ said his mother, her voice brittle with forced gaiety, ‘Mrs Lee and I have really got to have a proper chat, because she’s going to be doing my job for a while, so would you like to do some drawing? I brought your colouring book and some … some –’ she groped about in the bottom of her bag ‘– some of those lovely felt-tips you got from –’ She lifted out a brown eyebrow pencil and looked at it for a long moment. ‘Oh God,’ she said, in sudden self-disgust, ‘I didn’t even bring the pens. I didn’t bring the pens, I didn’t bring the diary, I forgot the appointments book, I … I … and there’s yoghurt all over my sleeve, look, I’ve just noticed that. Look!’ She held out her cuff towards Netta and pointed a shaking finger at the strawberry blotch. ‘How did I miss that? How could anyone miss that? You must look at me and think: “She’s useless. That woman sitting over there with yoghurt all over her shirt is a completely useless human being.”’
‘No, no –’ began Netta, wondering how to nudge the conversation forward; it had been stuck on self-flagellation for several minutes now, and her own interjections were sounding less and less believable.
‘“HA HA HA.” I go like this, look, Mummy, I go –’ James lowered himself onto the carpet, placed his hands on his stomach and rolled carefully from side to side. ‘I go like this,’ he said, his voice slightly muffled. ‘When it’s funny I roll around, look, Mummy, I roll around. Look, Mummy, look.’
There was a bleating noise from the buggy in the corner of the room and Jenny threw Netta a look of wintry despair. ‘I am so very, very sorry,’ she said throatily, as if to a bereaved relative.
‘Look! Look! Look at me!’ shouted James, hammering his feet against the leg of the desk.
Netta took the hole punch from her drawer, inserted a few pages of A4 between its jaws and pressed down very hard. There was a satisfying crunch.
‘What’s that noise?’ asked James, springing to his feet.
‘Oh, it’s my special hole-maker,’ said Netta, casually. She moved the pages slightly and made another set of perforations. ‘I need a lot of holes made in this paper. It’s a very important job.’
‘I’ll do it.’
‘It’s quite difficult.’
‘Let me. Let me do it.’
‘Brilliant,’ muttered Jenny, shoving the buggy back and forth with a vigour that seemed to shock the baby into silence.
‘You’ll need to concentrate very hard,’ said Netta, ‘because you can’t talk and make holes.’ She snapped the pages together with a bulldog clip and handed them over the side of the desk. ‘I think you should do it on the floor over there. No, even further away, right in the corner where it’s extra flat. That’s perfect.’
‘I’d actually made arrangements,’ said Jenny. ‘Looking at me I know you’ll find it hard to believe but I actually had it all organized. He was supposed to be at nursery, but it’s been closed because one of the children there’s got spots and then I couldn’t get anyone to … Oh God, I’m being boring, I can hear myself being boring …’
‘No, no …’
‘I’m boring, I know I’m boring, my children are bored by me, I even bore myself. I am a boring, boring person who has no conversation and looks like a bag person, and I’m going to tell you something that will completely amaze you, Netta: I used to be popular. I did! I had more boyfriends at college than anyone else and there was one term when I went out every single night.’ Experimentally, she stopped rocking the buggy. There was silence apart from James’s stertorous breathing as he leaned over the hole punch. ‘Where were we?’ she asked.
‘Tuesday morning,’ said Netta, pen poised.
‘Tuesday morning, so –’ she drummed her fingers against her upper lip ‘– at ten, no, wait a moment, no, they changed it, er … at ten-thirty, I think, or … no, that’s right, they changed it back, so … at ten, there’s the nutritional-support round on Ward 2. That’s the general surgical ward. It’s on the fourth floor of the Eddery Building – do you know it? It’s that hideous block by the car park.’
‘Oh, I know the Eddery Building,’ said Netta.
‘And there’s something else on Tuesday, there’s a menu discussion with the – no, hang on, that’s Wednesday, no … no, hang on, I think it’s …’ She screwed up her eyes. ‘You know, I can see the diary, I can actually visualize it, it’s on top of the washing machine. I knew when I left the house that I’d forgotten something, I knew it, but then Becky started crying and of course like the fool that I am …’
‘It’s broken,’ shouted James, holding up the bulldog clip that had become detached from the paper.
‘Oh dear, let Mummy –’
‘It’s OK, Jenny. Just squeeze it like this,’ said Netta, miming to James. ‘It’s like a crocodile opening its mouth and then you put the paper in. You have to be very, very strong and clever to do it. Try using both hands.’
‘I can do it.’ He crouched over the paper again.
‘You are fantastic,’ said Jenny. ‘Do you have children? Please tell me you have children, because I can’t bear it if you’re this good with them and you haven’t even …’
‘Four girls.’
‘Four?’
‘They’re stepdaughters. My husband was a widower.’
‘So how old were they when you … took over?’
‘Eleven, eight, five and two.’
‘Oh my God. God.’ Jenny put a hand to her mouth and goggled at her. ‘God. How on earth did you manage?’
‘I –’ Netta paused to try to frame a reply; she sometimes wondered the same thing herself. It had often been hellish, the oldest girls unremittingly hostile, the youngest desperately competing for her exclusive attention, but there had been something exhilarating about being needed so much. ‘I’m not –’ There was a loud metallic snap from the corner of the office and a scream so sudden and piercing that Netta’s heart seemed to curl in her chest and then she and Jenny were on their feet and James had turned towards them with his face crimson and his hands waving a horrified semaphore and the bulldog clip dangling from his upper lip like a monstrous moustache. ‘Let Mummy, let Mummy –’ said Jenny, rocketing across the carpet with arms outstretched, but the screaming rose in pitch as she reached for the clip and he slapped her away, twisting under her grasp and diving for the door. It was half closed and he missed the gap and smacked his forehead against the handle. The door slammed shut and James sat down abruptly and lifted a hand to the blue egg already expanding on his temple. His eyes met Netta’s and his mouth opened and a vast accusatory roar of pain and outrage filled the air.
There was a good turnout to watch James being carried along the corridor by his mother; heads popped out of every office, and once the outer door had closed on the one-child Wall of Sound they swung round to look at Netta. She was, she realized, still standing with her hands clasped in front of her in an unconscious tableau of contrition. ‘Is he all right?’ asked a girl, and Netta said, ‘I hope so, she’s just going to get him checked out in Casualty,’ and then, from the room behind her, came a tiny whimper that turned into a wavering cry.
Mrs Bossy strikes again, thought Netta, unclipping the buckles on the buggy with fingers that were still clumsy with shock. She’d simply been unable to resist showing hopeless Jenny how to manage her own child (‘Pray silence for the world expert on everything,’ as Kelly was wont to announce if Netta ever tried to give her advice), and now nemesis had neatly landed her with a baby, the one age group about which she knew nothing. She teased the straps out from under Becky’s padded bottom. ‘There we go,’ she said, in the chirpy voice that babies seemed to require. Becky stared back at her, mouth half open, expression confused; after a moment she gave another, cautious wail.
‘Do you want to come out?’
Children who answered back, loudly and often, that was Netta’s forte. Becky continued to stare.
‘Come on then.’ She hefted the little bundle with its weighty head and settled her in the crook of her arm. ‘What shall we have a look at? Shall we look out of the window?’ There was nothing to see but a row of colossal bins, and even Becky seemed to find them dull. She flexed impatiently against Netta’s shoulder.
‘All right, let’s find something else.’ They checked out a print of The Haywain, and another of two little girls chasing butterflies, and then, as Becky began a half-hearted grizzle, moved across to the window in the corridor. ‘That block over there,’ said Netta, cautiously jiggling, keen not to injure another of Jenny’s children, ‘is the Eddery Building. My dad built that.’ She eyed it appraisingly. It was, she had long realized, sensationally ugly, a real sixties stump, tuberous with textured concrete – winner, in fact, of the Ugliest Structure in the West Midlands Award run by the Birmingham Evening Post a few years back; but it was also the biggest commission her father’s firm had ever received, and he had been so proud of the result that he had kept a photo of it in his wallet, to be cooed over by fellow builders.
‘You see that blue frieze around the second storey?’ asked Netta, lifting Becky a little higher and angling her in the right direction. ‘It’s made of premoulded polythene and I chose the colour. I was only eight. My dad showed me four different shades and I picked the one called “cerulean” and that’s the colour they went with. It made me feel terribly important. What do you think of it?’ Becky arched her back and mouthed briefly at a passing fist before beginning to cry in earnest. ‘All right,’ said Netta, ‘I get it. Message understood.’
There was a feeding bottle in the cloth bag that Jenny had left on the desk, and Netta settled the baby on her lap and watched the frantic suction of the first few mouthfuls, and felt the gradual soft slump of infant contentment against her arm. Becky’s gaze began to rove dreamily, and she curled a hand around one of Netta’s fingers and started to beat a sleepy rhythm with a foot. The skin of her hand was so fine that there was no friction from her touch; Netta rubbed a thumb across the knuckles and it was like stroking air.
The knock on the door was perfunctory and the man was halfway to the desk by the time she’d looked up. ‘It’s Mrs Lee, isn’t it?’ he said, extending a hand. ‘Craig Gebbard, hotel services manager. Oh, you can’t shake hands,’ he added, spotting Netta’s grip on the bottle. ‘Lovely baby.’
Craig Gebbard. Netta felt as if the building had just dropped half a foot, throwing her chair askew, jolting her angle of vision. Craig Gebbard. She’d last seen him nearly a quarter of a century before but the wide white face was the same, and the thick-lidded eyes and the wiry hair and the slightly disproportionate build – long legs, short body – that had always made his waistband appear too high. And the gust of anger that swept through her at the sight of him was the same as well. He seemed, she realized, to be waiting for something; Netta retrieved his last remark and unglued her lips.
‘Yes, she is lovely, isn’t she? She’s not mine.’
‘She’s Jenny Haddon’s?’
‘That’s right. I’m Jenny’s locum.’
‘For her extended maternity leave?’
‘Yes. That’s right.’
He nodded, briskly, small talk out of the way. ‘Now, have you got a moment?’
‘Er … yes, I suppose so.’
‘Mind if I …?’
Netta shook her head and watched him arrange a folder on the desk and carefully hitch up the knees of his trousers before sitting; Craig Gebbard, classroom wag, who’d thought it so hilarious to imitate Glenn’s walk, to deride his speech, to steal his sandwiches, Craig ‘Plateface’ Gebbard, whose snickering adolescent wit had shaped Glenn’s time at school and, indirectly, her own. She had, long ago, in the margins of notebooks, imagined a variety of post-educational encounters with this man, but they had involved pieces of wood with nails in and paid heavies threatening to do him and his family over. They had featured him breaking rocks in a quarry or labouring as chief turd-sweeper at Cruft’s, not sitting opposite her in a moderately expensive suit and a silk tie.
‘Now,’ he said formally, opening the folder to an annotated list of names and taking a pen from his pocket, ‘I’m here to apologize on behalf of the hospital for any inconvenience or … staining… you may have suffered in the lift this morning.’
‘Oh, right. That.’ She wrenched her mind back to the opening incident of the day, the quick trip to Personnel that had turned into such a prolonged and messy saga. ‘I was lucky really,’ she said. ‘I was right at the back. How is he, that doctor?’
‘Better I think. We will, of course, cover any dry-cleaning bills incurred –’
‘No, he only got my shoes. I just had to wipe them off.’
‘– and I’ve been instructed to offer you compensatory vouchers for redemption in the hospital shop to the value of twelve pounds.’
‘I really don’t need anything.’
‘Are you sure?’ She nodded, and he made a note and offered her a brief, professional smile; he’d had his teeth whitened, she noticed. ‘Thank you for being so understanding. If you have any enquiries –’ he took out a card and placed it on the desk ‘– just phone me.’ He started to get up.
‘Craig,’ she said, and there must have been an odd intensity to her voice because he sat down again.
‘Yes, Mrs Lee?’
She paused, unsure of what to say. There was no hint of recognition in his eyes; if she wanted to cross-examine him on his past behaviour, then she’d have to first of all explain who she was and then remind him of a few choice memories. And in any case how, precisely, was she intending to punish this colourless, unobjectionable adult for his past crimes? Report him to teacher? Chuck his briefcase in the moat? Pin him against the wall and give him a wedgie? He was still waiting for her to speak.
‘We went to the same school,’ she said flatly. ‘Legg Hill Comprehensive.’
‘Did we?’ He pulled a face. ‘God – to be honest, I hated school. I try not to think about it. It seems about a thousand years ago, doesn’t it? Anyway –’ he pointed at the card, clearly keen to change the subject ‘– accommodation, catering, cleaning services. Anything else I can help you with, just let me know.’
‘Yes. Thank you.’ Feeling somehow cheated, she watched him gather up his folder and escape unscathed, and she must have shifted or tensed because Becky, who had been drowsing with the teat in her mouth, awoke with a start and began to cry; she was still crying five minutes later when Jenny and James returned. James was sporting a Power Rangers plaster and an iced lolly stuffed with E-numbers. ‘I hate you,’ he said to Netta, as clearly as his swollen upper lip allowed.
‘Oh now, James, you don’t mean that,’ said his mother, looking – perhaps – ever so slightly pleased, and winding Becky on her shoulder. ‘And there it comes,’ she said, announcing the burp.
‘I do mean it,’ said James. ‘I hate that horrible lady.’
‘I think the only thing I can do is take this very tired, cross little boy home and get my hands on that blessed diary and then –’ the phone on the desk began to ring ‘– and then I’ll call you,’ she mouthed. ‘Come on James.’
‘I hate that horrible, smelly bum lady.’
‘Well she still likes you, and she’s very sorry about your lip,’ called Netta as he disappeared round the door. She picked up the phone.
‘I’d like to speak to Mrs …’ There was a long pause. ‘This is Constable Ryan Whittaker. From the Crime Desk, Shadley Oak Police Station.’
‘Oh!’ The room seemed suddenly to flood with colour and light. ‘Have you found it?’
‘Sorry?’ There was a rattle of paper at the other end.
‘My suitcase. Has it turned up?’
‘Oh. No, it hasn’t, I don’t think. I could check. If you want.’
Some of the colour leached out again. ‘You mean you’re not phoning about the suitcase?’
‘Er, no. No, I wasn’t.’
‘Right.’ The room resumed its former utilitarian beigeness. ‘So why are you phoning?’
‘Oh. Well, you know you’re a dietitian?’
‘Yes,’ she said patiently.
‘You said about helping people put on weight?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well I’ve seen this … this thing in a magazine about putting on, er –’ she heard another burst of page rattling ‘– muscle bulk, and it says about eating protein and meat and eggs and things. But I don’t like meat, except chicken, and I saw this programme that said if you eat eggs you’ll die of a heart attack. Is that true?’
‘Um … not entirely.’ Netta glanced at the half page of notes she’d taken from Jenny that morning. Her first official appointment – Midday, bi-weekly menu discussion with catering manager, tall Asian man, surname begins with S, in his office next to the canteen OR it might have been changed to Meeting Room 3??? – was not for another half hour. ‘OK, Ryan,’ she said. ‘Let’s have a little chat about the definition of a balanced diet.’
As it turned out, the bi-weekly meeting with Raj Subramani was indeed in Meeting Room 3 but as it actually took place at eleven, rather than twelve, Netta arrived nearly an hour late. This nicely set the tone for the rest of her day, and as she trailed from one missed appointment to another, peering at inadequate signage, sliding into half-completed meetings, apologizing, always apologizing for her tardiness, her unreadiness, her jeans, she wanted to buttonhole each dissatisfied contact and sit them down and inform them in tremendous detail about her daily life in Glasgow, where tasks interleaved with oiled professionalism, where she was a byword for reliability, where she even looked efficient.
Back in the office, she did her best to organize herself for the rest of the week and then sat for a while looking out into the shadows of bin alley, tapping her pen on the desk in a pensive rhythm. All at once she felt a flush of homesickness so intense that her hand seemed to reach for the phone of its own accord. Mick answered, and she knew from the startled clarity of his ‘hello’ that she’d woken him; he always leapt into instant consciousness, the legacy of a million night calls.
‘I’ve got to go,’ he said, almost as soon as she’d spoken her name. On cue, she heard the frantic pips of the alarm clock and then their sudden cessation.
‘Where are you off to?’
‘Night shift. I was just getting some kip first.’
‘You’re not on nights till Thursday.’
‘Swapped with Neville. His son’s in a play.’
‘You’re such a soft touch.’
‘That’s me. How’s it going?’
‘Bloody awful. I hate it here, Mick, I want to come home.’
‘Just say the word,’ he said, deadpan. ‘I’ll bring the ladder engine and I’ll ring the bell the whole way.’
She felt her face relax for what felt like the first time in hours. ‘Did Kelly pack my clothes?’
‘Yes, she did and she said to tell you … hang on, there’s a note somewhere … hang on …’ She smiled then, hearing the sounds of a search, imagining him wandering round the room in his boxers; for some reason he disapproved of getting into bed with his trousers on, even for a ten-minute catnap.
‘Here, I’ve found it. “Tell Mum I’ve sent everything in her wardrobe but she’s not to wear the green-and-yellow sundress to work because it makes her look pregnant.” She’s cheeky isn’t she?’ There was a pause. ‘I like you in that dress,’ he said.
‘Do you? I bet it’s because it reminds you of holidays. Oh, now – remember to check about the visa.’
‘Oh yeah,’ he said. ‘Yeah, I’d forgotten that.’
‘And the insurance.’
‘Done that one. Ticked it off. And I’ve picked up my travellers’ cheques and my dollars,’ he added triumphantly. ‘So how’s your mother?’
‘Driving me mad.’
He tutted in mild reproof. ‘You know, Netta, she’s a wonderful w–’
‘– woman. Yes, thanks, Mick. I do need that little reminder every now and again.’
‘Yes you do,’ he said, with gravity. ‘And how’s Glenn?’
‘Carrying out some enormous project about distances. I haven’t quite fathomed it yet; he’s bought an Ordnance Survey map and a measuring wheel and –’ There was another burst of pips from the other end.
‘That’s me again,’ said Mick, ‘I’ve gotta go.’
‘I’m going to go too. Have you eaten?’
‘I’ll have something at the station.’
‘Not chips. Please, Mick.’
‘You want me to eat some green stuff?’
‘Go on. Just for me.’
‘Well … tell you what, I might have a couple of peas. Maybe three.’
As she passed the Eddery Building on the way to the main gate Netta found herself pausing to check out the cerulean frieze. Time had not been kind. The edges of the polythene had bleached and crinkled, whole sections were beginning to curl away from the wall like half-planed wood shavings and the original rich colour had weathered to the shade of an old lady’s blue rinse. She craned upwards; it was barely possible, any longer, to make out the expressions on the faces of the dancing daisies.
‘So he was in the middle of a ileo-caecal resection, patient open on the table, when he had to take a leak,’ said an immensely loud voice, approaching at speed from behind her, ‘so he went off and had a slash, completely forgot what he was doing–’ Netta staggered slightly as a shoulder clipped her own, and a phalanx of white coats swept past led by the speaker, a floridly handsome boy in his twenties, stethoscope draped round his neck like a scarf ‘– sorry – so anyway, completely forgot what he was doing, gave himself a shake, got dressed and drove home. When theatre finally tracked him down he was sitting in front of Baywatch with a double vodka.’ There was a burst of sniggering from his acolytes; all looked freshly hatched, their short coats cracking with starch, their stethoscopes poking from their pockets like new toys. The speaker glanced back over his shoulder. ‘Come on Pud,’ he shouted at someone behind Netta. She looked round.
Coming across the car park, and looking less pallid than when she’d last seen him although almost as preoccupied, was the doctor who’d been sick in the lift. He was a large young man with a round-shouldered gait and short, stiff brown hair, and he was searching his pockets for something, patting and rootling in an unfocused way – he looked, Netta thought, rather like a domesticated bear who’d lost his door key. He came to a halt a few yards from her and spent another few seconds carrying out a final and obviously pointless check before looking up at his summoner. ‘I’ve left my notebook somewhere,’ he called, his voice hoarse and rather earnest. ‘I better go back. I’ll catch you up.’
Whatever the florid boy replied was inaudible to all but his followers, but there was a burst of derisive laughter before they headed for the foyer and Netta looked back at the bear-doctor to gauge his reaction; he appeared not to have noticed and was absently patting his pockets again, his eyes scanning some mental map of where he might have dropped or misplaced or accidentally eaten or inadvertently shredded his notebook. She wanted to tap him on the shoulder and say, ‘Look, just buy a new one.’ She wanted to take the leaky biro out of his breast pocket and pull the loose thread from the bottom of his coat and adjust the tie that looked as if it had been knotted by a circus strongman. She wanted to run after that plum-faced, plum-voiced shouter and take him to one side and give him a stiff lecture on not subjecting colleagues to public humiliation. Instead she turned and walked away through the stream of incoming visitors, and tried to recall the menu for Monday nights at Monk’s Way. Cheese straws, she thought. Cheese straws, turkey roll, Angel Delight.