At the time, the discovery of a cache of biscuit cutters at the back of her father’s pan cupboard was merely a nice little moment, a pinch of sweet serendipity; in retrospect it was the undisputed best bit of the entire day of the surprise party. It was mid-afternoon. Her father had left for his indoor bowls match, all unsuspecting and Tammy McHugh was scouring the shops of Stoke Newington for liquorice wheels; Iris, meanwhile, was meditatively mixing a batch of dough in the quiet kitchen. A fine rain pattered on the window and she could hear the regular chunking of a spade coming from Mr Hickey’s garden. His head bobbed intermittently above the Leylandii but he kept his face resolutely turned away, and ignored a couple of tentative waves that she’d aimed in his direction. In surgery, he was always stiffly polite to her, but here, on his own ground, she was obviously viewed as an enemy consort.
After rolling out the dough, she rooted around for a baking tray. Her father used the same two pans for everything but behind them in the cupboard, amongst the casseroles and double boilers, were items unused – unthought of – since the fifties: milk strainers, measuring funnels, egg poachers with twirly wire handles, bain-mairies, Swiss Roll tins and a jingling cluster of nozzles for squeezing icing onto fancy cakes. She found the yellowed muslin bag of cutters nestling in the bottom of a jelly mould, and the touch of it was instantly familiar, the same mysterious bundle of jagged yet hollow shapes that she had pulled from her stocking when she was seven. She lifted it out and tipped the contents onto the table – a Christmas tree, a teddy bear, a crown, a hexagon and a star, now all splotched with rust and possessing the sort of lethal edges that had seemed standard in post-war children’s toys. Fingering the sharp angles of the star, she thought she could remember the last time she’d used them, another rainy day when the boys were toddlers and she had been desperate to find some activity to contain their bursting energy, to distract them even momentarily from their favourite game of clambering up the first two stairs and then jumping off them onto the hall floor, again and again and again. She had lured them into the kitchen and then hovered nervously as they’d squeezed and thumped the greying dough, envisaging at any moment a cry of pain and a severed finger rolling across the counter top.
She ran the star-shaped cutter under the tap and gave it a rub with a brillo pad; to her surprise, bright tin showed beneath the rust and it took only a couple of minutes to restore it to a usable state. She dried it carefully, and had just resumed her search for a baking tray when the doorbell rang.
Idling over his Weetabix that morning, Tom had predicted that half the guests would turn up much too early: ‘You know old people, they always give themselves an extra nine days to get somewhere just in case a volcano erupts and destroys the bus depot.’ And here on the doorstep, two and a half hours before the invited time, stood Leslie Peake, sporting a waterproof bush-hat, and carrying a bottle of wine with an ominously home-made label.
‘Not too early, am I?’ he asked, in his whistling North Welsh accent that broke the words into their constituent syllables and left clear air between each one, ‘only I took an earlier train just in case the later one was cancelled. Wouldn’t want to miss the start of the party.’ He shook the rain off his mac and followed her into the kitchen.
‘Cup of tea, Leslie?’
‘Luffly.’
She averted her eyes as he removed the hat and adjusted his hair. Leslie’s fringe ended just above his eyebrows, but it began somewhere at the nape of his neck, and several times an hour he would reposition the entire headful over the bald expanse beneath, with the action of someone settling an antimacassar.
‘So are you still in Dalston then, Iris?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Still at the surgery?’
‘Yes, still there.’
‘Not married yet?’
‘No, not yet.’ Poised with the kettle in her hand, she realized that the same demoralizing exchange would be repeated with almost every guest at the party. Iris’s life, summed up in three questions.
‘Don’t mind me if you’ve got to get on.’
She pulled herself together. ‘Thanks. I’ve still got a few things to do.’ All the sandwiches, to begin with. She decided to postpone the biscuits and get on with the egg mayonnaise.
‘It’s potato wine,’ said Leslie. ‘Home-made.’
‘Lovely.’
‘Very potent. I thought it would bring back a memory or two for your dad.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Catterick.’ He tapped the side of his nose and gave a wink. ‘It was supposed to be a dry barracks. Enough said.’
If only, thought Iris. She thought she could probably write an entire book on Ian and Leslie – The War Years. She checked in the oven to see how the quiches were coming on, and then delved into the fridge for the eggs.
‘You know, they used to call Β Block “The Still”.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes. And do you know why?’
‘Because it had a still in it?’
‘No!’ He was triumphant. ‘Because there were three brothers bunking there, and you know what their surname was?’
‘No what?’
‘Ginn. Harry, Si and Ronnie Ginn.’
She managed a laugh. ‘Oh, I see. I get it.’ She poured his tea and put it in front of him, and then turned back to the stove.
‘Of course, Harry was killed in Tripoli.’
‘Oh dear, was he?’
‘You know, Iris, I’m not as sweet as you must think I am.’
‘Sorry?’ She was thrown by the sudden change of subject.
‘I said I’m not as sweet as you must think I am.’ He mimed stirring a teaspoon.
‘Oh of course. Sorry.’ She placed the sugar bowl on the table.
‘You’ve just got white, have you?’
‘Oh… er.’ She turned down the heat under the pan and started to hunt around in the dry goods cupboard, wary of disarranging her father’s careful storage system.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said, easily, after a couple of minutes. ‘Don’t want to put you to any trouble. You get on.’ At least thirty seconds of silence ensued, during which Iris put the eggs into the pan and started to slice cucumber into a colander. She could feel Leslie’s eyes following her.
‘Haven’t got a biscuit, have you?’ he asked. The doorbell rang again.
‘Ginn,’ said Leslie. ‘Harry, Si and Ronnie Ginn.’ There was a chuckle round the table, and a relaxed post-anecdotal easing back of chairs, narrowing still further the tiny gangway that Iris had been left to work in. It was a quarter to five, and there were now half a dozen premature guests sitting in the kitchen, drinking tea and listening to Leslie Peake’s war stories. Only one, Auntie Kath, had offered to help Iris, but the vague air with which she was peeling the eggs, the wandering hand which hovered between the two bowls – one supposedly containing bits of shell, the other denuded eggs, the occasional cries of ‘Whoops-a-daisy’ and ‘Now, what’s that doing in there?’, augured badly for the texture of the sandwiches.
‘The Still…’ repeated the senior church warden, appreciatively.
‘So Iris –’ Leslie turned to her with the benign air of a successful host ‘– what time is your father expected?’
‘Quarter to six,’ she said, spooning mushrooms into a vol-au-vent casing.
‘Oh, we’re here in good time then,’ said Auntie Kath, complacently. ‘And when’s Tammy coming?’
‘She’s supposed to be here. Helping.’ Mrs McHugh had gone out in search of the finishing touch for her cake, a hand-built Victoria sponge in the shape of a vintage car. It was sitting in the living room in wheel-less splendour, awaiting the liquorice tyres with jelly hubcaps that the recipe specified. ‘I’m not sure you can get those any more,’ Iris had said, doubtfully, eyeing the recipe book; the photo was greenish with age and the original list of ingredients included powdered egg.
‘Och, nonsense,’ Mrs McHugh had said airily, clattering her wheeled shopping basket through the hall. That had been two hours ago.
‘Who’s Tammy?’ asked Leslie.
Aunty Kath, dreaming over the eggs, seemed to click into focus. ‘Ooh, hasn’t he told you about Tammy?’
‘He’s found himself a lady friend, has he?’ Leslie sat up keenly, and smoothed his fringe in anticipation.
‘Well, she’s –’ The doorbell rang again and Iris put down the spoon and went to answer it.
‘Hi, Mum.’ The boys clumped in, dripping, their arms laden with bags. ‘Pissing down out there.’
‘We’ve brought the glasses, Mum,’ said Robin.
‘Thanks,’ she said, distractedly, looking along the road. There was no sign of Mrs McHugh, but to her dismay she could see the Woodentop gait of Dov Steiner jerking into view, and behind him what looked like the entire indoor bowls team, clustered beneath a couple of gigantic golf umbrellas. They were dreadfully early – the match wasn’t supposed to finish for at least another three-quarters of an hour; furthermore, she realized, they must have her father with them, unless they’d run away and left him. A grumble of thunder rattled the glass in the fanlight above the door.
‘What do you want us to do?’
‘Oh, er…’ She tried to marshall her thoughts. ‘You could open out the dining-room table, and arrange all the plates and cutlery and glasses on it.’
‘OK.’
‘And get the drink out of the fridge.’
‘OK.’
‘And you could ask people to move out of the kitchen. Politely.’
‘Are you a bit harassed, Mum?’ asked Robin, curiously.
‘Yes, a bit.’
‘They all turned up early, didn’t they?’ said Tom, pleased with his prescience.
‘Tom –’ she said, warningly.
‘Ooh, something serious.’ He looked at her, his expression a facsimile of sombre attention.
‘No, it’s just… there’s a man in the kitchen with a funny hairstyle. I wanted to prepare you. So you wouldn’t stare.’ He looked at her for a moment longer, then glanced at Robin.
‘We wouldn’t do that, would we, Rob?’
‘Nope.’
‘Well, good,’ she said, unconvinced. She heard a rattling noise and turned to see Dov closing the gate.
‘Hey, Mum,’ hissed Tom behind her, ‘there’s a man with a funny head coming up the path.’
The front hall of her father’s house was fairly narrow – a corridor rather than an atrium – and certainly far too small to accommodate seven members of the bowls team with Dov standing in their midst like a sentient hatstand. Her father was not amongst them and as Iris tried to disentangle the story of the afternoon there was an influx from the kitchen.
‘We’ve been given our marching orders,’ said Leslie, heading the contingent and holding a chair in front of him like a cowcatcher. ‘Where do you want us?’
Iris raised her voice. ‘Could everyone please move into the front room.’
‘Left, right, left, right,’ said Leslie, amidst laughter. There was a surge of bodies, a sudden bottleneck during which Iris was pinned against the banisters by a wall of flesh redolent of Old Spice and damp tweed and then the crush subsided into an orderly queue. From the kitchen, a number of yelping noises became audible.
Robin was actually lying on the floor, face scarlet, knees drawn up to his chest, while Tom sat with his back against a table leg. Two slices of bacon were draped over his head. ‘Hey, Mum, I’m… I’m…’ His mouth wobbled out of control again and he emitted a series of cheeps.
‘Well, thanks for your help,’ said Iris. She opened the fridge and began to take out bottles of squash and wine. ‘Grandad’s disappeared,’ she added.
It took a while for the words to register. ‘Wha?’ said Robin.
‘There was a power cut at the leisure centre and when the rest of the bowls team got out they couldn’t find him.’
‘Uh.’
‘So let’s keep our fingers crossed that he hasn’t decided to go to the cinema for the afternoon.’ She pawed through the cutlery drawer for the corkscrew and then closed it with a satisfying smash.
‘So, uh…’ Robin heaved himself up and leaned against the sink. ‘Do you want us to… to…’
‘Hey, Rob.’
‘Wha?’
Tom lifted a hand and smoothed the bacon fringe over his eyebrows. His brother jackknifed silently to the floor and Iris picked up the bottles and left the kitchen. The phone and the doorbell rang simultaneously just as she’d squeezed between the bodies and deposited the drinks on the table and she waved the corkscrew at Leslie.
‘Rely on me,’ he said, taking it with a gallant bow.
Ayesha was at the door, her swirl of stiffened hair pearly with raindrops, a silver helium balloon with ‘70’ written on it floating above her. ‘You’re the only person on time so far,’ said Iris, over her shoulder as she hurried back to the kitchen. Tom was just reaching for the phone and she snatched it from the cradle before he could get there.
‘Hello?’
‘Iris?’
‘Tammy? Where are you?’
‘I’m back at my house. Listen, dear, there’s been a wee bit of a problem – I’ve got your dad with me.’
‘Is he all right?’
‘Oh yes, he’s fine – it’s not a physical problem. It’s more psychological.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well it was just bad luck really. You see I’d popped into Woolworths for the liquorice sweeties and you know it’s just opposite the leisure centre? I thought there’d be no chance of bumping into him but would you believe there was a power cut and –’
‘I heard. The rest of the team’s just got here.’
‘Well. Your dad spotted me coming out of the shop and he was a bit puzzled because you know I’d only just rung him to say I had a bad tummy and I was going to miss bowls and have a bit of a lie-down instead and the next thing he knows, there I am dashing along the high street with my face on and all dressed up for a party. So anyway, he wanted to know what was going on.’
‘Oh. You told him, did you?’
‘I had to, dear,’ said Mrs McHugh gravely. ‘He thought there must be someone else.’
‘So what did he say?’
‘He’s not keen. Not keen at all. He says it’s all too much fuss and bother and he’s sitting in the front room with his arms folded.’
Iris felt a sour surge of triumph. ‘I knew he’d hate the idea,’ she said, and her voice was fat with satisfaction; she saw Robin shoot her a startled look. From the front room there was a burst of laughter and the doorbell rang again. The feeling of triumph dissipated and she felt suddenly wretched.
‘You know there are nearly twenty people here already,’ she said, ‘practically everyone’s turned up early and I haven’t even finished the food yet.’
There was a rattle from the door knocker and a further ring on the bell, and Robin unfolded himself from the floor. ‘I’ll get it.’
‘Well I can’t seem to budge him,’ said Tammy, ‘you know what he can be like. And between you and me I think he might be a bit –’ she lowered her voice ‘– embarrassed about introducing me to his old friends. You know, the thought simply hadn’t occurred to me but of course he’s a bit old-fashioned about all that sort of thing. Anyway I thought that maybe if you –’
‘Hang on.’ Leslie had popped his head round the door of the kitchen and, seeing her on the phone, started to mime something – something circular, about five inches high, hollow, a container of some kind…
‘Raiders of the Lost Ark,’ said Tom in a muffled voice.
‘Glasses?’ hazarded Iris.
‘That’s the one.’
‘In the bags by the stairs. They’re on hire.’ He disappeared again. The front door slammed and she could hear the shuffle of footsteps in the hall.
‘Mum,’ shouted Robin, ‘someone wants to talk to you.’
‘Tell them I won’t be a minute.’ The doorbell rang yet again and continued ringing, as if someone were leaning on the bell push. Tammy said something inaudible and Iris stuffed a finger in her free ear.
‘Sorry?’
‘I said maybe you should have a word with him.’
She hesitated, the noise drilling through her head; she could hardly remember the last time she’d had a proper conversation with her father, one that wasn’t bulging with unvoiced topics. ‘All right then,’ she said, reluctantly.
‘I’ll go and get him.’
As Iris waited, the doorbell stopped at last and then restarted immediately, stopped again, started and was finally replaced by the sound of knuckles on wood.
‘Will somebody get that?’ she called. ‘Robin?’
‘I’m not supposed to,’ he shouted back.
‘What? What are you talking about?’
‘Sorry, Iris.’ Spencer, looking damp and harassed, came into the kitchen. ‘I asked him not to.’
‘What?’ The doorbell started ringing again. ‘Why?’
‘Because it’s Callum Strang. He followed me from the surgery.’
‘But –’ She heard the snap of the letter box and the unintelligible roar of Callum’s voice.
‘What does he want?’
‘To thank me.’
‘To thank you?’
‘Yes, I gave him a free baseball hat that was kicking round the surgery and he’s very happy about it. I’m sure he’ll go soon. He’ll get bored and wander off.’
‘Do you want me to ring the police?’ shouted Ayesha.
‘Give it five minutes,’ shouted Spencer back.
The doorbell began a series of little trills of varying length, and Iris closed her eyes for a moment and imagined herself all alone in a field, sitting quietly with a book. She opened them again and looked at the phone in her hand.
‘Tom.’
‘What?’ He was still sitting on the floor, bacon on head.
She covered the receiver with her hand. ‘You’re articulate. Persuade your grandad to come to his own party.’
‘All right.’
‘Tell him that we’re all longing for him to arrive, and that Leslie’s brought home-made potato wine just like they had at Catterick and tell him –’ she took a deep breath ‘– tell him you’ve already met Mrs McHugh and you think she’s lovely – and I think she’s lovely, and I think it’s about time he introduced her to everyone.’
‘I’ve already met who?’
‘Dad’s girlfriend. She told you and Robin off for smoking in the street.’
He gaped at her.
‘She’s about four foot eleven. Tartan skirt, white hair, Scottish accent?’
‘What, her? That’s Grandad’s girlfriend?’
‘Yes.’
‘Jesus, she could talk for Europe.’
‘Yes.’
‘He probably had to snog her to get her to shut up.’
‘Tom –’
He grinned. ‘It’s all right, I won’t say that.’
She was sitting on the edge of the raised flower bed in the back garden when Spencer brought her out a glass of wine.
‘You’ve rumbled me,’ she said.
‘Ten minutes is far too long to spend wrapping up a lawnmower.’
‘Especially when it’s already wrapped and in the shed. It was just an excuse.’ She took a sip and choked. ‘Good God.’
‘It’s made from potatoes, apparently. Can I join you?’
She shifted up the damp wall a few inches. The light was beginning to fade, and she had been sitting watching the yellow square of the kitchen window as if it were a mute television screen. Ayesha had found an apron and was putting the vol-au-vents in the oven, Auntie Kath was washing up and Robin was doing a wholly inadequate job of the drying. In the corner, his back to the window, Tom was talking non-stop while fiddling with something shiny on the work surface.
‘What’s Tom doing, do you know?’
‘Flirting with Ayesha, mainly.’
‘No sign of my father, I suppose.’
‘Not yet. I wouldn’t worry, they’re having a riot in the front room – no one’s even touched the squash.’ He shifted round so he could look at her. ‘Are you all right, Iris?’
She nearly said ‘Fine’ and then stopped herself. ‘Not really.’ The admission, slight as it was, was liberating. ‘I’ve been jealous,’ she said, and was still surprised at the thought. It had emerged, fully formed, as she sat on the wall in the twilight.
‘Jealous of whom?’
‘Dad.’
‘Really?’ He looked at her carefully. ‘This isn’t anything to do with his new lawnmower?’
‘No.’ She managed a smile. ‘No. I mean… anyone else would be pleased, wouldn’t they, if their father had managed to start enjoying himself after years of –’ she searched for the right word ‘– grimness. But all I could think was how unfair it was.’
Spencer said nothing, and in the silence Iris could hear a soft sawing noise from a nearby garden.
‘You see, I had all these little changes planned for this year. I had a whole campaign in miniature and I was… easing myself into it. And then Dad just did it; he dived in, he altered his whole life in one go and I’ve been –’ Dumped, she thought; it was a teenage word but it seemed horribly appropriate. He’d broken her routine as well as his own, and she’d found nothing with which to replace it.
‘And because I was… jealous’ – she still couldn’t quite believe the word – ‘I didn’t let him talk about it, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of telling me. I avoided the whole topic, and because he’s not very good at real conversation he never found a way to bring it up.’ He had tried a couple of times, she winced to remember – had edged round the subject on tiptoe, and then given up when she’d failed to respond. ‘I should have been happy,’ she said. ‘For me as well as for him.’
‘You can’t be happy to order,’ said Spencer. ‘It doesn’t work that way.’
‘I know. So anyway, here I am, still in exactly the same place. And there he is…’
‘He had a bit of help, you know,’ said Spencer.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You were trying to do it from scratch. There’s a huge difference between starting something from scratch when you’re trying to do a million other things at the same time, and being swept along by someone else. Your father didn’t instigate this change. He didn’t make the first move, did he?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Iris.
‘Can’t you ask him?’
She paused. ‘No,’ she said, honestly, and he laughed. ‘We’ve only ever been able to talk about certain subjects – work, or study. Or the garden. Or the twins… There’s lots of things we’ve never talked about at all.’
‘What you need,’ said Spencer, ‘is someone who talks the entire time, to act as a go-between. Someone Scottish, maybe.’ He raised an eyebrow.
‘Maybe,’ she said, smiling a little.
Spencer leaned forward suddenly. ‘What’s going on in there?’
On the yellow screen the picture had jumped. Tom was reeling round the kitchen, frantically waving his hand.
‘Oh,’ said Iris, with a flash of insight, ‘he was using the biscuit cutter.’
‘Should I go and see if he’s all right?’
‘Gosh, he’d love that – an in-house doctor rushing to his aid. No, I’d leave it.’ Tom had doubled over, and was cradling his hand to his chest, face contorted with pain. The next stage, she knew, would be a wobbly legged stagger to the nearest chair and a whispered request for a glass of water.
‘Are you sure?’ She could feel Spencer tensed for action beside her.
‘Honestly. If it were anything remotely serious he’d be on the floor. Anyway, look – Ayesha’s coping.’ Ayesha had found the first-aid box on the windowsill and was searching through it.
‘It’s a bit like being at the cinema, this,’ said Spencer, relaxing back. ‘Drama, suspense, pretty girl, two quite staggeringly good-looking boys –’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Oh please. As I was saying… two heroes – both an absolute credit to you, may I say – one mortally injured, the other – his doppelgänger – brutally unconcerned, a heroine trying to administer succour but being held back by the unbelievable length of her fingernails, the heroes’ mother off boozing somewhere, the –’ Leslie walked into the kitchen holding an empty plate ‘– the arrival of the comic relief.’
Iris’s snort of laughter was interrupted by a liquid cough, just feet away.
‘Hello,’ said Callum, leaning over the wall that separated the garden from the street. The logo on his hat – ‘Hello Lamazol, Goodbye Insomnia’ – was a luminous hot-pink squiggle in the twilight.
‘Oh no,’ muttered Spencer.
‘Jus’ passing.’ He rested his can of cider on the wall as if it were a bar, and looked at them interestedly. ‘I’ve got a hat,’ he said to Iris.
‘I can see.’ It was actually a huge improvement, turning him from a freak into an averagely dishevelled wino. ‘It’s very nice.’
‘It’s fucking fantastic,’ corrected Callum. ‘Are you two married, then?’
‘Not yet,’ said Spencer.
‘Engaged?’
Iris stood and smoothed her skirt. ‘We were just about to go in, Callum.’
‘Hey, Dr Carroll. Is that blokey your dad?’
‘Which blokey?’ said Iris, startled.
‘Hiding behind the bush.’ Callum gestured towards the bottom of the garden, and an arc of cider shot across the grass. ‘With the spade.’
‘What’s he talking about?’ asked Spencer, sotto voce.
‘It’s probably just Mr Hickey,’ whispered Iris. ‘Let’s go.’
‘That’s Mr Hickey’s house?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bloody hell. So your father’s the legendary hedge mover?’
‘It’s not my father who’s responsible,’ hissed Iris, instantly partisan. ‘It’s Mr Hickey who keeps moving the hedge.’
‘Hey!’ shouted Callum, wavering along the wall towards the end of the garden. ‘Are you Dr Carroll’s dad?’
There was a rustling in the Leylandii and Mr Hickey stood up, spade in hand, his face a pale coin that rotated slowly towards Spencer.
‘Oh God,’ said Iris, with foreboding. Spencer raised a hand.
‘Hello there.’
Mr Hickey stared at him, wordlessly.
‘I think we should go in,’ said Iris.
‘No, I’d better have a word with him, he’ll think I’ve swapped sides. It’d ruin our relationship.’ He set off down the garden with Iris reluctantly following. Mr Hickey had been busy; the quiet sawing, the rhythmic thump of the spade that she had heard earlier was translated into the absence of a small cherry tree that had definitely been there that morning, and the new, nearer positioning of the much-travelled Leylandii. Along their bases, humped with fresh earth, a thin wire gleamed. As they approached him Mr Hickey stepped over it, into his own garden.
‘Hello,’ said Spencer, with the puppyish air of a Blue Peter presenter.
Mr Hickey looked at him, his lips trembling slightly as if on the verge of invective.
‘Dr Carroll’s just here for a party,’ said Iris, quickly, ‘he doesn’t know my father at all, and he didn’t even know you lived here.’
‘No,’ said Spencer. ‘I had no idea. Truly. Your own garden looks lovely – may I have a look?’
Mr Hickey moved his head very slightly, in a plane that was marginally more vertical than horizontal.
Spencer stepped over the wire and there was sudden clunk and he fell down.
There was a spade lying on the ground in front of him, and it was ballooning and receding in perfect synchrony with the pain in his head.
There was a lot of shouting and someone stood on his foot and then said, ‘Sorry, Dr Carroll.’
There was a bubble of nausea rising up his oesophagus and he half sat up and suddenly Ayesha was running across the garden towards him holding a white box with a red cross on it. Then he vomited and Ayesha suddenly seemed to be running away from him again.
Someone said, ‘Lie down, Spencer,’ and put something cold on his head.
Someone said, ‘If he’s fucking killed him I’ll fucking kill him the fucker.’
Someone said, ‘Hello, sir, you’ve had a bit of a knock.’
Someone said, ‘Look, Callum, if I give you another hat will you go away?’
He opened his eyes and there was a pot of pink antiseptic on a tray just by his head; the smell seemed to seep right into his nostrils, up through the nasal turbines and straight across the olfactory plate so that it soaked directly into his brain. He sneezed and the pain bounced off the inside of his skull like a squash ball. He lifted his hand to his head and encountered another hand.
‘You’ll knock off the dressing,’ said Iris.
‘Oh hello.’ She was standing beside him, holding a paper cup the size of a thimble.
‘Hello, again.’
‘Have I said hello before?’
She smiled rather tensely. ‘A couple of times.’
‘Can I have some water?’
She gave him the thimble and he downed it in one. There was a moment’s hiatus and then he threw it back up again.
‘Oh dear,’ said Iris, and wiped his chin.
He opened his eyes and the darkened room was filled with Mrs Spelko. ‘Keep them open,’ she ordered, looming over him with an opthalmoscope. There was a dazzle of white light as her breath roared on his face and her bosom pressed him into the couch, the name badge indenting his chest like a library stamp.
‘Fine,’ she said, straightening up. His ribs creaked back into place and a pink puddle drifted across the ceiling, dancing when he blinked as if attached to his eyelids. ‘Now watch my finger. Watch it. Watch it. Up, down…’ She traced the sign of the cross over him. ‘Can you remember what happened to you?’
He thought for a while. ‘Did I fall over?’
Mrs Spelko seemed already to have left the room; Marsha, the night sister, was there instead.
‘Someone hit you with a spade.’
‘Oh.’ Now that she said it, it rang a distant bell. ‘Am I all right?’
‘We’re just waiting for your films,’ she said.
‘Films.’ He could only think of pools of oily water, the colours revolving slowly. His right foot started hurting.
For a while he was sure it was the sound of the sea, the soft slushing of waves on Brighton beach, and he thought he might be drowsing on a sun lounger next to Mark, but then he heard the words ‘Mrs Spelko’ and realized he was listening to a whispered conversation.
‘Of course, just to add to the general picture she has the bedside manner of a water buffalo. I can only imagine she was trained in communication skills by the SAS, with General Patton as a special advisor. Would you like one of these biscuits?’
‘No thank you.’
‘You’re probably wise, they’ve been in this tin for at least six months. You know, lately I’ve been wondering whether my obsession with Mrs Spelko might be a touch sexist.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, would I be as critical of a man who behaved with the same ostentation? Do I subconsciously prefer women to work quietly – to add to the growing good with unhistoric acts, so to speak.’
‘Oh. That’s Middlemarch. That’s Dorothea Brooke!’
‘That’s right! My God, well spotted. Of course Dorothea would have made a superb doctor. Very calm, very able, but without the corrosive ambition that blighted –’
Spencer opened his eyes and the whispering stopped; there was an X-ray of a skull on the lightbox opposite him, the cranium a flawless dome, the teeth a constellation of fillings.
‘Hello, Spencer,’ said Iris.
‘Hello, Spencer,’ said Vincent. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Um…’ He reached a cautious hand to his head, and found it to be roughly the same size as usual; it felt enormous. ‘A bit fuzzy,’ he said, at last.
Vincent nodded at the X-ray. ‘Did you know you had a deviated nasal septum?’
‘Playing rugby. When I was fourteen.’
‘It’s a brutal game. There’s no skull fracture, incidentally.’
‘Good.’
‘They’re keeping you in, though,’ said Iris. ‘We’re just waiting for a bed on the ward.’
‘Oh. What time is it, then?’
‘Nearly midnight.’
‘Is it?’
‘I’d better go,’ said Vincent. ‘I have to write a report on your assailant.’ He stood and formally held out a hand to Iris. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you. You know,’ he said, turning, ‘Iris is the person I told you about – the one who took the message? I recognized her voice immediately.’
‘Oh,’ said Spencer, following none of this explanation. His foot had started hurting again.
‘And I’ve discovered that she knows first aid as well. So many skills. Anyway…’ He leaned over and gently squeezed Spencer’s shoulder. ‘Look after yourself,’ he said, ‘and try to avoid socializing with patients. It’s never a good idea.’
Iris had gone rather pink.
‘What did he mean?’ asked Spencer. ‘About patients?’
‘Oh.’ She seemed to collect herself. ‘You might not remember, but Mr Hickey hit you with a spade and then Callum Strang climbed over the wall and started a fight with him and accidentally trod on your foot. That’s not broken either but it’s a bit bruised.’
‘Did –’ he struggled to remember something about the evening ‘– did your father ever turn up?’
‘Yes.’ She looked at him, her expression unreadable. ‘He arrived at the same time as the two police cars and the ambulance.’
‘Hey,’ said Spencer, closing his eyes again. ‘Great party.’