Wednesday
The taxi driver was chatty, smiling, breaking off only to pick up his radio. “Don, you got time for Mrs. J, needs picking up from the GP in Church Lane in five?”
Nat opened her mouth, wanting to ask something only not sure what, but Don was leaning forward to pick up the handset, clicking through to answer. “Sorry, on a run to the hospital, Linda,” he said, smiling back at Nat between the seats. “No can do.” Nat couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken a taxi. Jim always used to drive her. She was relying on this guy not having been the grumpy bloke on duty last night, taking calls, but that seemed to her a pretty safe bet. A careful driver, hands on the wheel, talking to himself more than to her because he didn’t bother to seek her out in the rearview mirror.
Casually Nat steered him around to other fares, regular bookings, mentioned the pub. Eventually mentioned Beth. “My friend recommended you.” Cautiously.
“Sure, Miss Monday nights, I do that run sometimes. Haven’t seen her in a while, come to think of it. She on holiday?”
Nat made a noncommittal sound, then quickly, running out of caution, “Where was it you used to take her?” Hearing herself use the past tense.
Slowly Don made the turn. Nat watched him in the rearview mirror, but he didn’t seem suspicious, not flicking a look back at her. “Up Brandon,” he said promptly.
“Brandon,” she repeated, nonplussed. She knew the name, but it meant nothing to her. She’d never been there.
“Eight-, ten-mile fare?” he said. “Halfway to Harlow. She’d always get me to drop her at the church, I used to joke with her, was she seeing the vicar, she’d always look so done up, high heels.” Chuckling. “The vicar, imagine that. Brandon vicar’s about seventy, but they’re randy bastards, aren’t they?”
The hospital loomed and Nat undid her seat belt, edging forward on the seat, suddenly eager to get out. She tipped him too generously, but he still didn’t take an interest, only quickly stashed the money away before she could change her mind.
Coming past reception she saw a sign to Clinic 1A and hesitated—1A OBSTETRICS AND GYNECOLOGY, and the words stopped her in her tracks; of course it had rung a bell, of course. They kept terminations in a separate ward, but close enough. Nat had been on the same floor as Clinic 1A. In a daze she walked on and then the name came back to her, the consultant’s name on the piece of crumpled paper. Greek. Sarafidis. What use was that now? He’d tell her nothing, like Ramsay. And she was here for Victor: she turned toward his ward.
Standing in the doorway Nat did a double take, wondering if she was in the wrong place and then steadying herself against the doorjamb when she realized she wasn’t: his bed, though, had been stripped. It suddenly felt horribly hot in the room; she smelled old flowers, disinfectant, something worse. A nurse bustled past her with a heap of laundry, then stopped and turned. Her mouth was drawn taut and Nat began to shake her head. “Is he…”
The laundry went down on the bed and the nurse came up close to her and put a hand on her arm. Blue eyes, worried creases at the sides even though she smiled, at last. “No, darling, no … no, he’s … we’re very pleased with him, as a matter of fact. He’s in the sunroom.”
Walking her down the corridor, the nurse—Lisa, her name was, on her badge—was upbeat, but with reservations. “It wasn’t a stroke, so that’s the good news. It was what we call a TIA, transient, it passes off. His speech is back to normal.”
“I know what that is,” said Nat. “It means he’s going to get better.” A bit too prickly, but the place—and Victor being here—put her on edge.
Lisa sighed. “We are just a bit worried, you know, about discharging him, at his age.” Lowering her voice, slowing as they approached a door through which sunlight flooded. “Ninety-two, and living in a … a mobile home, I mean—”
“He likes it there,” said Nat and she stopped, alarmed, and the nurse gave her a sharp look. “I mean, do the district nurses … will they not go to caravans, is that the problem?”
Lisa took her hand away from Nat’s arm, looking troubled. “Well of course they will,” she said. “It’s just … do you not get the feeling that there’s something he’s not telling us? Something he’s … anxious about. Older people, well, they often disguise problems. They don’t want … interference. They have a fear of being institutionalized, but sometimes—”
“What kind of thing?” said Nat, sharply. “Has he said anything?”
“He…” Lisa frowned. “He’s … he has ideas,” she said slowly. “The kind that can be a sign of … well. He wouldn’t drink the water in his jug this morning.” Her face was pouchy, anxious. “He thought … he asked if we administer drugs without him knowing.”
“I see,” said Nat. “So you think he might be, what? Paranoid? And that’s a sign of…?” She left the question hanging. She didn’t want to say the word. Not Victor, no. Dementia. “I’m going to lose my marbles before he is,” she said stoutly. “Or you. Or any of us.” Lisa’s face closed then. “Thanks, though,” Nat said, and walked away from her through the door.
The room was long, with glass down one side and low padded chairs, a big central table with flowers.
Victor sat there bathed in sunshine and quite still, a hand on each arm of his chair, eyes closed. As she stepped up beside him, they opened, and he smiled, a proper smile, perhaps the hint of a tremble but not lopsided. “Ah, beautiful Natalie,” he said, beaming now, and he flapped a hand toward a neighboring chair. Nat pulled it up, feeling relief flood her system.
“Looks like you’re on the mend, then,” she said and the hand flip-flopped, his smile rueful.
“Well,” he said, and his voice was rusty but clear. “I do feel rather tired, but so far so good.”
She leaned forward on her elbows so she could look into his face. “The nurse said you thought they were putting things in your water,” she said, straight to the point, and Victor looked back at her quite calmly.
“I could just be old and”—he cleared his throat—“failing. In my mind. I know that.” A little shrug. “There was someone, though. Someone came in the night. There’s often someone in the corridor. I can’t see his face.” He spoke in short sentences and she could hear him getting breathless, anxious; she began to shake her head and he stopped, breathed.
“All right,” she said. “This someone. Let’s look at it another way. Why? What does he want?”
“I saw something,” he said, his light eyes quite clear and searching. “I saw a man coming up from the river. He knows I saw him—he had—” There was a sound then, of voices in the corridor, Lisa’s comfortable voice and another, higher, anxious one.
“It’s Sophie,” said Victor and to Nat’s horror his eyes brimmed, his hand reached out toward her. She took it and he sank back into the chair. “I’ve done something wrong,” he said in an undertone, the words tumbling, and his head dipped, hiding from her. In the corridor, the advancing voices had stopped, they had lowered. Lisa, giving Sophie the same words of warning she’d given Nat.
“I should never have allowed her to marry him.” Victor’s head was shaking, side to side. “I should have been a better father.” He was talking as quickly as he was able, agitated. “If he comes, Natalie, if he comes from London to get her back, you have to—” But then he stopped, looking past her, and she saw him fight to shape his trembling mouth into a smile and then he really was smiling, he couldn’t help himself.
Sophie stood there, hesitant, in the doorway, then Rufus hurtled around her into the room. Nat looked at her, a small plump fiftyish woman with frizzy hair, hands clasped and blinking in the sunshine. The expression on Victor’s face said that wasn’t what he saw at all.
“Don’t go,” said Sophie anxiously as Nat stood to leave, and actually took hold of her to keep her there, so she sat down again, Sophie pulling up another chair beside her as Rufus hurtled the length of the room, up and down. Kids, Nat found herself thinking, curiously unbothered considering how they could drive her mad in the pub garden—she knew the look Beth would have given her, wry. And something closed up inside her: she looked away from Rufus. She felt Victor’s dry soft hand on hers, tapping for her attention.
“Your friend,” he said. “Beth. What’s the news? Has she…” There was a look in his soft bright eyes, a searching look. “Has she popped up again?”
Nat cleared her throat. “No,” she said, warily. “Nothing yet.” He continued to look at her, though, and she sighed. “I’m worried about her,” she said. “I want to find her. If … well.” She changed tack. “You used to talk to her. I know you did.” She could see Beth leaning over the table to take his glass, asking him if she could bring him another. “Not that I’m a waitress,” she’d say, looking around haughtily in case anyone took advantage. And Victor would pat the seat beside him.
“There’s Jonathan Dowd, who she went out with off and on, he’s worried about her too.” Nat hesitated. “Says there was someone she used to see on a Monday night. In Brandon? Taxi firm said they used to drop her at the church there.”
Victor sat back. On his far side Sophie was sitting up in the chair, had been distracted by Rufus, who was pressed against the glass and making shapes on it with his mouth.
“I—I don’t know…” And to her alarm Victor did seem to be wandering a little, uncertain. “Well, yes, I did know, she did talk to me about … I’m not sure if I should say. It was private, you see, a confidence.” Sophie was poised to go after Rufus, both hands on the chair’s arms.
“Was it a man she was seeing?” Nat was leaning forward, urgent. “On Monday nights?” but Victor began to shake his head, she saw a kind of panicked confusion and changed tack, onto firmer ground. “The man you saw coming up from the river,” she said, trying to keep her voice as calm as she could. The last thing she wanted, the very last thing, was to upset Victor. “What was it about him,” speaking low and even, “what was it that … alarmed you?”
His head turned, slow, and his mouth opened, but at that moment there was a colossal crash, and before they could see what it was, Sophie was up and barreling the length of the room. A nurse they hadn’t seen before appeared in the doorway and behind him Lisa again, hands up and running: at the center of the room a puddle was spreading below the table and the vase of flowers had disappeared. Sophie whisked Rufus out of the way and all Nat could see of him was his small head buried in his mother’s blouse. The male nurse hurried past them to the door, calling, “Emile!” She turned back to Victor, but he looked suddenly exhausted, eyelids trembling.
“Victor,” she said and he hardly seemed to hear her. The aproned man who pushed the trolley came back in, bearing a mop and bucket and joined the little group at the table, kneeling to retrieve glass from the floor.
More urgently. “Victor. Victor.” The eyes opened. “I’ll make sure Sophie’s all right,” she said and she was suddenly seized with a panic. How? How to keep him alive? It wasn’t within her power: he was ninety-two. “What’s going to keep her here is you, Victor. You. Stay with us.” And slowly, very slowly, he nodded, ran a tongue across his dry cracked lips.
“Her brother,” he said. “You should talk to her brother.” Then: “She wouldn’t have left him.”
“Whose brother?” said Nat, and she could see Sophie looking at them from across the room, Rufus pinioned against her. “Left who? Victor?” But he just shook his head, despairing. Nat felt in that moment that she wasn’t good for him, she was draining the strength he needed. “All right,” she said. “Rest, Victor, they’re clearing it up, it’ll all be fine.”
But crossing to Sophie she saw that it was going to be a long job: there were tiny pieces everywhere. “We’ll have to move him back out of here now,” said Lisa, a pained look on her face. The mess had put her on edge: that was the job, Nat supposed, grateful for once for the general chaos she worked in. “Health and safety,” Lisa continued. “It’s why they don’t allow flowers on the wards.” Then, seeing Sophie’s expression, “It’s all right, love,” she said with an effort. “Not your fault.”
“I’d better go,” said Nat, turning for the door, and Sophie started after her.
“No, don’t, please—I need…” She seemed suddenly so desperate that in her arms Rufus squealed and struggled and she had to loosen her grip.
“I’ll be back,” said Nat. “I will, honestly, Victor’s told me about—” She stopped there, knowing somehow that she mustn’t say anything about Sophie’s husband.
“What?” said Sophie, breathless.
“Have you got a brother?” Nat said, and Sophie stared, shaking her head.
“I’m an only child,” she said. “Mum—like me and Rufus, she had me very late. Why?”
“Nothing,” said Nat, “nothing.” She swallowed. “Don’t go anywhere, Sophie, OK? He needs you.”
As she got to the other end of the corridor she turned to look back and Sophie was still standing there, looking bewildered.
As she emerged from the hospital’s grim concourse of fast-food outlets and newsagent into the gaggle of gowned smokers lurking on the pavement outside (beside the no-smoking signs, just out of sight of the receptionist), someone called after her. When she turned, she saw Steve. He was ditching a crumpled paper bag in a bin, looking grim. For a second it was as if she was seeing him for the first time, not strong, silent, helpful Steve, but a stranger.
“What…?”
“Mum,” he said, and jerked his head back to indicate an upper floor. “Cancer. She’s not got long to go.” He shrugged, uneasy, at her questioning look. “Not nice,” he said, groping for an explanation. “It isn’t something you talk about.”
Cautiously, Nat nodded. Thinking of Sophie, thinking of her own mum, crossing her fingers inside her pocket. “Good she’s got you close,” she said, and he just nodded.
“Anyway,” he said, looking away from her, off past the ambulances ranged in front of the A and E entrance. “You want a lift, or what?”
* * *
He watched Sophie come toward him across the hospital’s canteen. She had tried to hold the tray, but it had wobbled, and a man had jumped up from a table to help her carry it. “I don’t think, darling,” he ventured once she had sat down, the good Samaritan gone back to his plate of baked beans and sausage, “I don’t think it will bear any weight, not if it’s broken. Didn’t they say that?”
“It’s just a hairline fracture, is what they said.” Her head was down as determinedly she unloaded the tray. He couldn’t help but recall her laying out her tea set for her dolls, always scrupulously fair, One for you. Always careful.
“But still…” She wouldn’t look at him, and he faltered.
On the table she set out a little carton of juice for Rufus and a pot of tea for two. To cheer her up in the queue Victor had asked for his old favorite, two poached eggs on toast, and he eyed it now. Their favorite: after her mother died he had used to make it for her every Sunday morning. He pulled it toward himself—his hands felt weak and frustratingly disobedient. He focused on the plate and the implements in his hands, not looking at her. “You haven’t said”—knife across the fork, sawing laboriously, to his surprise the eggs perfectly done—“how you broke it.” Keeping his eyes down.
“Oh, so silly, nothing really, just a silly…” She was sounding breathless, panicked, and he raised his head to look at her.
“An accident,” he said, “was it?” Looking at her, and for a second only she held his gaze, looking back at him with those limpid blue eyes, mesmerized. Sometimes, he thought, sometimes you simply have to say it. “Because if someone did this to you, then you must tell me.” What he wanted to say was tumbling too quickly out of him. “Sophie, Soph, my little…” And she bent over the teapot, her fingers trembling on the lid as she poured. He steeled himself.
“Because if he … if Richard is not kind to you, Sophie, then…” There was a scrape on the far side of the melamine-topped table as Rufus turned his chair so the back—his back—was to them. There was a gurgle as he slurped the juice, defiantly loud, his little shoulders drawn together. “Then you don’t have to stay with him.” There: it was out.
Sophie went on pouring, slow, steadier. Her cup, his cup. She pushed one across to Victor. “What was it you were saying to Natalie?” she asked, quite calm, to his face, then away. “About seeing a man with blood on him? About a girl who has disappeared? Is that it?”
Something occurred to him then, as he looked down at her poor wrist in the cast. The police occurred to him: they could involve themselves. “A girl,” Victor said tentatively, uneasy. “Beth, yes, a nice girl, lively, full of fun, she’s…” He frowned. “I think … we, Natalie and I, we think that perhaps something may have happened to her, some man she had been seeing—” He broke off. He could ask the police, What did one do if one suspected … There were helplines, he had heard them announced after radio dramas.
Delay her.
“How long can you stay?” said Victor, before he no longer dared say it. “I would like you to stay with me, Sophie, darling.” He would never have dared say it for himself, because after all he was quite content—well, almost, most of the time, almost entirely happy. “Just for a while. They say … well, there are places, and I’m not saying, forever, but just that they might release me from here, there has to be someone—” And then he did stop, distress muddling his words again, at the thought that her heart might indeed be sinking at the thought. The caravan, the noise at nights, the thin walls, the damp.
On the other side of the table Sophie seemed paralyzed. Her mobile telephone sat on the tabletop between them and with what seemed an effort of will she reached for it, pulled it toward her. “Richard says,” she whispered, “Richard says perhaps we could afford … says there are homes. We should drive you around, take you to look at one or two. The best option, he says.”
Victor couldn’t speak. He can’t say, Couldn’t you have me?
I have nothing to offer her, he thought. He just nodded.