Emma blinked and peered around the room. She looked at her watch, but couldn’t make out the time in the half-light thrown from a street lamp, which was wobbling like a bamboo cane in the wind and casting frenetic shadows on the window and the ornaments on the ledge. She didn’t want to turn the light on: that would make things real, and she didn’t want that. She didn’t want to be lying alone in her flat, longing for the return of the husband she’d spurned, and she didn’t want to have to think that maybe the only reason she wanted him now was because someone else did. That was too much for her. She could deal only with the here and now. And right now she wanted the man she’d married and, perhaps more importantly, wanted him to want her.
How could she lose him to nerdy Debbie? She’d really not seen that coming. This would be the second time she’d lost a man to a lesser woman.
She hauled herself upright. She could see the clock on the video recorder – 21:13. It made her think of Colin. He always got annoyed if she unplugged it to use the socket for some other device, which reset it to a flashing 00:00 that she never corrected. They’d had a row about it once: she said it didn’t matter as he rarely used the timer. The flashing irritated him, he said. It was a reminder that someone had failed to do something. Next to the machine was a stack of neatly labelled video cassettes that included not just the titles of the items recorded but a colour-coding system (blue ink for film drama, green for TV drama, red for film comedy, orange for TV comedy, black for documentary) and also timings. She’d found such attention to detail endearing, then suffocating. Now she didn’t care. It was him. And if he cared that much about the little things, imagine how much he cared about the big things, like her. Or used to, before she’d pushed him away for not being enough like a man who’d betrayed her. Ironic, she thought, that if Colin left her for Debbie, he’d be more like Rob than ever.
She was hungry but felt unable to move till he returned; she was on pause. But what if he wasn’t coming back? All his stuff was still here: of course he’d be back. And when he showed, she’d make a move, bring him back where he belonged.
She shut her eyes. The wind was howling, making the phone lines sing; she might have mistaken the sound for a cry. She opened her eyes and frowned, turning to the window. Maybe it had been a cry. She stood up and went to look out. Everything was bowing to the gale’s fury: dustbins lay on their sides, refuse zipped along the street, cars rocked from side to side and a roof tile lay smashed on the pavement. The bins for the flats were still upright, shielded behind a wall that enclosed a yard to the right of the front door. Something was lying in front of them. At first she thought it was a full bin bag, then made out a hand clutching a thigh.
She went to get her waxed jacket, then silently swore at Debbie for its absence. She could keep it, but Emma would have her husband back. She made her way cautiously down the stairs, not knowing who was out there. She didn’t want to get entangled with a drunk who’d got lost on his way home, however bad the weather.
She peered out of the small window to the right of the door that looked out on to the yard, but the outermost bin now lay rolling backwards and forwards against its handles, obscuring whoever she’d seen on the ground. She opened the front door, having to push hard against the wind. As it slammed behind her, with a crack that she wondered didn’t shatter the glass, she remembered she’d left her keys upstairs. A neighbour could let her back into the block, but she couldn’t get into her flat or drive the car, not that she’d want to in these conditions. The rain was hitting her face like hail, and her hair was whipping at her cheeks. She edged down the few steps that led to the yard, keeping a hand on the wall. She left it to inch round the fallen bin, and saw Mrs Le Boutillier, pale and grimacing.
‘Are you okay? What happened?’ said Emma, dropping to her haunches.
The old woman turned her head and spoke through gritted teeth: ‘I thought I saw Marmalade, all wet and frightened. I came to get him in, slipped and hurt my leg.’
‘Let me help you up.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘How long have you been here?’
‘Just needed to gather myself.’
Emma knew this was pride at accepting help from someone who had insulted her earlier. ‘Look, about before—’
‘I can manage.’ Mrs Le Boutillier pushed herself up on her right elbow, then sank down again with a gasp of pain.
‘You’ve really hurt yourself.’
‘I’m just bruised.’
Emma tried to lift the calf-length navy mackintosh to assess the damage, but Mrs Le Boutillier brushed her away.
‘Just help me up and I’ll be fine.’
She put an arm round Emma, who helped her into a sitting position, which provoked more wincing. From there Emma hauled her to her feet, but she couldn’t put any weight on her right leg.
‘Lean into me, I’ll be your right leg,’ said Emma, and Mrs Le Boutillier hopped a few steps towards the entrance. Every time her thigh touched Emma’s, she yelped, so Emma came round the other side and put her arm round her waist. Once at the steps Mrs Le Boutillier steadied herself with the handrail and they made their way up to the door.
‘I shut myself out. Have you got your keys?’
‘Yes, wait …’ Mrs Le Boutillier fumbled in her coat pocket. ‘Aah, Jesus fucking Christ,’ she muttered, handing them over. ‘I’m sorry, my language.’
‘It’s fine. I’ve heard worse and I’ve said worse. Okay, I’m going to need both hands to open the door. Can you get behind me, and just grab hold of my neck or shoulders?’
Mrs Le Boutillier pulled herself round behind Emma, who opened the door, and shuffled forward, towing her neighbour behind her. The door slammed.
‘Phew, that’s better. What a wind – never known anything like it. I’ll keep hold of the keys so I can let you into your flat.’
‘Yes. Good. If you can let me in and set me down, I’ll be fine. Thank you.’
They made their way up the stairs in a silence broken only by Emma’s ‘One, two, three’ and the corresponding grunts, intakes of breath and occasional curses of Mrs Le Boutillier. At points she made a kind of low gurgle, almost a growl, clearly suppressing a howl.
They reached the door and Mrs Le Boutillier leant against the frame, shallow-breathing, while Emma opened it.
‘Thank you. If you can just get me in a chair …’
As Emma helped her through the hall, she realised from the increasing stench why the old woman was so insistent on managing alone: she had clearly soiled herself.
‘Why don’t I take you to the bathroom?’
‘I’m fine. Just leave. Please.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘It’s not okay. I’m so embarrassed. I can’t … You mustn’t … Oh dear me …’ Mrs Le Boutillier was weeping.
Emma moved round in front of her. ‘Edna … Edna, I won’t tell anyone.’ It was the first time she had used her Christian name.
‘Those things you said about me. This will be your revenge on me.’
‘I don’t want revenge. I’m sorry for earlier. I was unhappy about what you told me, but you didn’t mean anything by it. And I took it out on you. What’s happening in my marriage isn’t your fault, and what happened outside isn’t yours either. Now I’m going to clean you up and get you comfortable.’
‘You really don’t have to.’
‘I’m locked out of my flat so you’d be helping me by letting me stay. Otherwise I’m just going to be hanging about in the corridor.’
‘Oh, but I can’t let you clean me.’
‘You can. It’s good for me to be useful for a change.’
Mrs Le Boutillier smiled, then sadness reclaimed her face. ‘I’d ring my Bradley, but he never picks up. Why would he? He’s heard all my stories.’
‘Come on, the bathroom.’
‘I think I might be all right to …’ Mrs Le Boutillier tested the weight on her right leg as Emma moved back to hold her round the waist, but buckled, nearly taking Emma down too.
‘Get me down … Now, please … here.’
‘Okay, okay, I’ve got you.’ Emma guided her, whimpering, to the sofa.
‘Put me down on my left side, not the right.’
Emma did so. Mrs Le Boutillier sighed and clenched her eyes shut.
‘Let me just take a look at your leg.’
‘It’s still bloody sore.’
‘We need to get your clothes off anyway before we get you in the shower.’ Emma unbuttoned the coat. ‘If you can just lift your bum up I’ll slide your skirt off.’ She undid the clasp and zip. ‘Ready? One, two, three, go!’ Mrs Le Boutillier pushed herself up, then screamed as Emma started to pull the skirt down. ‘It’s okay, nearly there,’ said Emma, working as firmly and quickly as she could, which prompted more screams and a retch.
Once the skirt was round the other woman’s knees Emma nearly gagged when she saw the source of the agony. A two-inch piece of bone was sticking out of Mrs Le Boutillier’s thigh. It had pierced her stocking and Emma had been pulling against it. She edged the skirt off altogether and draped it lightly over the woman’s thighs.
‘Okay, Edna, listen. You need to go to hospital. You’ve broken your leg.’
‘Oh, my, no. Oh, goodness, it hurts.’
‘Don’t look at it, and don’t touch it. Just lie there. I’ll call for an ambulance.’
Emma strode to the phone, but there was no dialling tone. She jabbed at the top button but it was dead.
‘Your phone’s not working. Will you be okay while I go up and use Ian’s or the Powells’?’
Mrs Le Boutillier nodded with a groan.
‘I’ve still got your keys, okay?’
Emma ran up the stairs to the two flats above and rang both bells simultaneously, then banged on the doors when there was no response. Ian Mourant finally opened his.
‘Can I use your phone?’
‘It’s down, must be the storm. Why?’
‘I need to call an ambulance. Mrs Le Boutillier fell outside and she’s broken her leg.’
‘Oh, Christ, no – have you tried the Powells?’
‘No reply.’
‘You’d better drive her round. Shall I give you a hand getting her into your car?’
‘I’ve locked the keys in my flat. We’ll have to carry her.’
‘Right. It’s just …’
‘What?’
‘They’re saying not to go out unless it’s absolutely necessary.’
‘She’s broken her bloody leg – how much more necessary could it be?’
‘Yes, yes, you’re right, sorry, I’m not thinking straight. Let me get my coat.’
Ian grabbed a mac and followed Emma back down to Mrs Le Boutillier’s flat. ‘Maybe you could run over while I stay with her and get them to send an ambulance. Or the other way round,’ he suggested.
‘We may as well get her there. It’s only five minutes’ walk.’
‘Yeah, normally, but carrying her in this weather …’
‘We’re taking her, all right?’ said Emma, firmly, as they reached the doorway. ‘And don’t say anything to freak her out, okay? Her leg’s not a pretty sight.’
‘Yeah, yeah, of course.’
Emma led the way in. ‘Okay, Edna, the phones are all down, so Ian and I are going to carry you round.’ Mrs Le Boutillier was staring blankly at the ceiling.
‘Is that smell …?’ Ian began.
‘They’ll clean her up when we get there,’ whispered Emma. ‘Now, we have to be careful of this,’ she continued, lifting up the edge of the draped skirt.
‘Ooh … aah … no …’ Ian sank to his knees as soon as he saw the bone sticking out of the woman’s thigh.
‘Take a moment, and remember what I said about not f-r-e-a-k-i-n-g people out,’ said Emma, authoritatively.
‘Sorry, not good with things like that,’ panted Ian, buckling. ‘Not sure I can … Sorry.’
Emma pulled him to his feet and he staggered out of the flat, with her help.
‘Get back upstairs,’ she said curtly, ‘I can’t deal with two invalids.’
‘Yeah, sorry, I’m just a bit squeamish, and … sorry.’ Emma sat him on the bottom step of the stairs leading to his landing, where he bent his head between his knees and breathed deeply.
Emma went back into Mrs Le Boutillier’s flat. She felt her forehead, which was damp, from rain or sweat Emma couldn’t tell. The immediate buildings around them were offices and there was no time to go banging on the doors of strangers further down the street. For one, she didn’t want to leave Mrs Le Boutillier alone, and second, any help she raised might turn out to be as useless as Ian.
‘Edna? Edna, listen …’
‘It’s all right, Maman, I’m fine, Edna’s fine. I just had a fall.’
‘Edna, it’s Emma.’
‘You think I’m a Jerry Bag …’ muttered the old woman.
‘That doesn’t matter.’
‘We did what we had to. We were occupied. Do you know what that’s like?’
‘I’m going to have to take you to hospital.’
‘We’ve no food, Maman. I thought you’d be happy.’
‘I can’t get my car keys so we’ll have to walk. I’ll carry you as best I can. Hopefully a passing driver will help us.’
‘A few smiles and a peck on the cheek for some extra meat and butter. Where’s the harm, Maman?’
‘Come on, let’s go. I’m going to do your coat back up, it’s still blowing a gale out there.’
‘Johann was nice. Only nineteen. Better here than Russia, he said. Like a holiday. But the other one, his friend. He forced himself.’
‘I’m not sure you should be telling me this.’
‘Telling you what? I never told you anything, Maman. It would have broken your heart.’
‘I’m not your maman, Edna. It’s Emma from next door. Now, I can’t carry you, and you can’t walk …’
‘I told you I fell outside in the storm, but he’d hit me.’
‘Please, stop … I don’t want to …’ Emma shut her eyes to head off a tear, hoping she was listening to delirium rather than memories.
‘No one would have done anything anyway.’
Emma opened her eyes and saw the ubiquitous shopping trolley in the hallway, an umbrella sticking out of the top. ‘Come on, let me help you up. I’ll get you down the stairs. Then we’ll figure something out with this.’
‘Get off me! Leave me alone. I just need a few days in bed!’ Mrs Le Boutillier swatted at Emma as she pulled her sideways and up, trying to keep the weight off her right leg. ‘Aah! Stop hurting me! Help! Someone, help!’ She broke into a sob on Emma’s shoulder. ‘I just want to die. The shame! The shame!’
‘I’m going to slide you along …’
‘I’ve disgraced myself! I do apologise.’
‘It’s fine, honestly,’ said Emma, relieved to be talking in the present.
‘I can’t move. Where are you taking me?’
‘The hospital. Come on, it’s not far. I’ll help you.’
She hooked her arms under Mrs Le Boutillier’s shoulders and walked backwards through the hall, dragging the woman behind her. She opened the door with one hand, then grabbed the shopping trolley and hurled it on to the landing. The old woman hissed as her right foot bumped over the doorframe.
Shutting the door behind her, Emma kicked the trolley down the stairs. Ian had disappeared.
‘The stairs are too difficult so I’m going to try to ease you down the banister.’
Mrs Le Boutillier grimaced. Emma took her down a few steps to where the gap between the stairs and the landing began to widen. She then laid her over the banister as carefully as she could so that her feet were off the steps and, descending first to take her weight, slid her down.
The woman’s eyes were bulging and her face reddening, so Emma tried to hurry to minimise the discomfort. She heard a faint splatter above the wind and looked down to see that Mrs Le Boutillier had vomited. She emitted a low gasp and shut her eyes. They were now at the bottom of the stairs. Emma held Mrs Le Boutillier steady to stop her falling off the banister as she pulled the trolley towards her with a foot, then leant down to grab it.
She brought the older woman upright. ‘Edna? Are you okay?’ Her head was lolling. Emma took movement as a positive sign. ‘I’m going to try to keep your left leg straight to take all the weight off your right.’ She pulled the umbrella out of the trolley and used a stowed plastic rain hat to tie it to her neighbour’s left thigh. She took the belt off Mrs Le Boutillier’s raincoat and completed the splint by tying the brolly to her calf, then put Mrs Le Boutillier’s left leg into the shopping trolley, leaving the right outside.
‘Okay, Edna, here we go,’ said Emma, stroking the woman’s hair. She leant forward and pulled Mrs Le Boutillier behind her, wrapping her free arm around her.
‘It’ll be a bit windy, but it looks like the rain’s stopped.’ Emma pushed the door open, blocking it with her foot, and hauled the woman out behind her. The wind made every step a lunge, and by the time they’d reached the gate Emma’s left arm was feeling the strain of holding Mrs Le Boutillier in place. If she leant too far forward her back was in agony, but if she stood upright her passenger would lean over to the side.
As they set off, the streets were deserted, save for refuse and a lone dustbin that rolled along and smashed into a parked car. The way ahead was increasingly hazardous. There was zero chance of meeting a passer-by on foot unless they were also making for the hospital, and she couldn’t see a single moving vehicle. She heard a smash and turned as far as she could behind her to see that some scaffolding had come down. She blocked out the terror and pulled forward against the gale.
The streetlights juddered, and every time she passed one, she worried that it would come down. The General Hospital lay ahead and to the left, but she decided to cross Parade Gardens rather than run the gauntlet of lights, roof tiles and television aerials.
Twenty feet into the park she knew she’d made a mistake: fallen branches of varying sizes were catching under the wheels of the trolley, and the trees were whipping around violently. She decided to leave the path and walk across the grass, bringing them nearer to one of the hospital entrances. The wheels of the shopping trolley were locking. Emma felt herself sinking to her knees. She bent forward as far she could and lifted Mrs Le Boutillier and the trolley on to her back, gritted her teeth and staggered forward. Her foot caught in something and she tripped forward, then crashed sideways into a raised flower bed, jarring her hip as she tried to stop the two of them toppling over.
The road was in sight now, so she bent forward again, took the strain and lurched towards it. Inexplicable strength flowed from within and she found herself stepping into the road, not thinking to check for traffic. A car hooted and swerved round her. She reached the pavement. A&E was on the other side of the building, but she just wanted to get inside, so she dragged herself to the door twenty feet up the road and collapsed on the floor of the ENT reception area, where Mrs Le Boutillier startled a security guard with a tortured scream.
Moments later, a doctor and three nurses were lifting her on to a stretcher, and Emma was helped to a chair, where she sat in a daze, clutching her side as a nurse said they should probably check her out.
‘How do you feel?’ asked the nurse.
‘Good,’ Emma replied. ‘I feel good.’