April 2011
Bloody Mary?” said Charles to Maria.
“I don’t drink alcohol, Uncle Charles.”
“Ah, sorry. I’d forgotten. Hm. What royal-themed alternative can we come up with for you?”
“A tomato juice would be fine.”
“How about a Virgin Mary—the nonalcoholic version?”
Maria gave him a death stare. “Why would I want a drink that trivializes the name of the Holy Mother?”
Maria really wasn’t getting into the spirit.
“Righty-ho,” said Charles. “Three Bloody Marys, one tomato juice, four orange juices.”
“I’ll give you a hand,” said Harry, heaving himself out of the armchair. Easier said than done. He dropped back as his leg protested, and tried again.
Charles pretended not to notice his difficulty and carried on into the kitchen.
The two families were watching the royal wedding on TV. Prince William was marrying Kate Middleton, and London’s habitual gray and green was overlaid with red, white, and blue. Chess and Helena had strung up Union Jack bunting, and all the children were wearing homemade crowns.
“Who was Bloody Mary again, Dad?” asked Eliza.
“England’s very first queen. A seriously scary lady.”
“Are you sure she was the first? What about Boudicca?” asked Eliza.
“Ah, the fearless Celt. A redhead, of course. So many of our great leaders have been redheads, have they not?” He winked at the children. “Boudicca was queen of a tribe, not the whole of England.”
“Why was Mary scary?” asked Chess.
“She got rather carried away when it came to religion. Burned heretics at the stake. Hundreds of the poor blighters. And my staff think I’m harsh.”
He made another attempt to get out of his chair.
“It’s OK, Harry. You stay where you are,” said Megan. “Girls, can you help Dad with the drinks? Off you go.”
Now there was just Harry and Megan, and Eddie busy with his toy cars over in the corner.
“Harry . . .”
He knew what was coming. “I know, Megan. I could be in better shape. Give me a break, though. It hasn’t been a great year so far.”
“Look, most people are too scared of you to speak frankly. But I’m your sister—”
“Scared? Don’t be ridiculous.”
Megan lowered her voice. “Maria says you’ve been losing your temper at work, bawling people out. Verbal abuse, she called it. This isn’t you, Harry. What’s going on? Is it Caitlyn’s suicide? The pills? Have you not managed to cut down?”
“This isn’t the time for this conversation.”
“It’s well overdue, Harry. How are we going to get you back on track?”
“All right, don’t nag. I’m seeing the doc this week, usual checkup. I’ll ask him to take me in hand, crack the whip.”
“Promise?”
“Yes, yes.”
“And . . . Milly and Arabella saw Katie over Easter. It sounds like she’s not so good. Maybe you should go and see her?”
Something snapped inside him. He gripped the arms of the chair and leaned toward her. “Stop bloody telling me what to do! If I want your advice, I’ll ask for it. Right now, I don’t.”
She flinched, then frowned. “Well, that’s as may be. But take a look at yourself, Harry, and think about your children. Eliza and Eddie lost their mothers, now they’ve lost a stepmother they loved. And Maria might lose Katie soon. How do you think it would be for them, losing their father too? Because that’s where you’re headed. You’re stressed, unfit; you’ve put on weight. God knows how many pills you’re popping. You’re heading for an early grave if you don’t sort yourself out.”
She paused. “Look, you’re my darling brother and I adore you, and I hate seeing you go downhill like this. Please, for all our sakes, do something about it. Get help.”
Harry’s anger was overtaken by self-pity. Look what life had done to him.
“Daddy,” said a little voice from across the room.
Eddie was too young to have understood any of that, wasn’t he? Especially the part about dying mothers?
“Yes, Eddie?”
“Can we get a hamster?”
Harry looked at Megan, and after a moment they both laughed.
“Good idea, son. Let’s get two. We’ll call them William and Kate!”
Nurse Clare was a sight for sore eyes, thought Harry as she pumped up the band wrapped around his arm. She wore a pale blue shirt and trousers, so crisp and clean, and her fair hair was pinned up into a creative bun, one with plaits and things going on to make it less sensible.
“How have you been?” she asked, keeping her hazel eyes on the blood-pressure monitor.
“Good!” said Harry. “And you, Nurse Clare?”
“Hundred and sixty over a hundred and ten.” She looked at him, her head on one side. “We’ve known each other awhile, Harry.”
“Indeed we have.” He sensed she was about to say something along the lines of Megan’s lecture last Friday.
“So . . . how are you really? Between you and me.”
He sighed. “Not great.” It was a relief to say it. “Terrible, actually.”
“Thought so. For a start we’ll need to up your blood-pressure medication.” She released the armband.
“Lovely. More pills.”
“Has Dr. Butts talked to you about lifestyle changes?”
“My lifestyle has a habit of changing, whether I want it to or not.”
“I understand. And sometimes we respond to those changes in ways that do us no favors. We drink too much, eat too much; exercise goes out of the window because we just don’t have the energy. I’m twice widowed, Harry. I might have some idea of what you’re going through.”
Harry had been enjoying the empathy, the opportunity for a spot of wallowing, but her words pulled him up. “You are? I’m sorry to hear that, Nurse Clare.”
“Just Clare’s fine. Look, after you’ve finished with the doctor, let’s have a chat about how I can help you with those changes. It’s all about small steps. Nobody’s going to ask you to completely give up wine or cheese. But we could devise a plan?” She gently held his wrist while she took his pulse.
“Don’t you wear that upside-down watch anymore?”
“No. And we wear trousers, not little dresses, and no more silly hats. Times have changed.”
“Haven’t they just,” he said. “So it wouldn’t be inappropriate if I asked you to give me some dietary advice over lunch, rather than in this scarily clinical environment?”
She smiled. “I finish at twelve. We can make it a long one. Healthy, of course.”
“So how did it go with Dr. Butts?” Clare asked, pouring them both a glass of water. “If you want to tell me, that is. I don’t mind if you don’t.”
“You have access to my records, so you can find out the sorry state of affairs, correct?”
“True, but I’d never nosey on a patient unless it was for professional reasons.”
“Well, my leg hurts because it has to support too much weight and I’m not doing enough exercise. If I don’t lose a couple of stone the leg reconstruction may need reconstructing. High cholesterol. High blood pressure. Regular headaches, not sure why. Stress. Also insomnia. Shall I go on?”
“There’s more?”
Harry hesitated. Should he tell her? She had such kind eyes.
“I’m addicted to painkillers. Have been for years. Dr. Butts doesn’t know about that one.”
“OK, let’s think about how we can address this.”
Their salads arrived, and she continued to question him gently about his life. She should have been a psychiatrist. Most of his problems, she said, stemmed from the way he’d dealt with events in his past. And it was likely that most of his health issues were reversible.
By the time they finished their green tea, Harry felt as if he’d already taken the first steps on her program to the renewal of Harry Rose.
They exited the restaurant into bright May sunshine.
“What are you up to now, Harry?”
“Back to the grindstone, I suppose. And you?”
“I might take a walk in Regent’s Park, as it’s such a nice day. Why don’t you come with me, if you haven’t got anything important on.”
“Work-life balance?”
“Exactly.”
Over the next few months, with Clare’s help, Harry managed to shed the excess weight. The pain in his leg eased, and Doc Butts said he might not need another op, after all. Physically, he was almost back to his old self. He even shaved off his beard.
He’d finally managed to withdraw from the painkillers, but once he’d kicked them, he realized how they’d been diverting his emotions, switching them like a set of points on a railway line. When he should have felt grief, the pills had switched him to anger and dark moods. When he should have felt guilt—well, that had ended up at the same destination.
Now that the drugs had relinquished their control, the emotional pain came rushing in. He was floored by grief, full of remorse and guilt, prone to self-pity.
Katie died the following winter and was buried in an ancient Welsh churchyard. Harry wept by the graveside, while Maria held herself together, grim-faced.
“It’s too soon, Katie was too young,” he said to Cassandra afterward as they held each other tight. “I can’t bear it.”
So many he’d loved, gone. Their lives snuffed out before their time. Katie. Ana. Janette. Caitlyn. His mother, his father. Art. Summer and Max, his and Katie’s stillborn children. Eliza’s little brother or sister that never was.
“She was at peace,” Cassandra said, gently wiping his tears away. She fished in the pocket of her skirt. “Here. She wanted me to give you this.”
He waited until he was alone, sitting on a churchyard bench overlooking the Welsh hills Katie had loved. The tears came back as he saw the familiar looping writing.
Dearest Harry
I know I don’t have long left. The love I still feel for you means I can’t let go without some final words that I hope will protect your soul, which is more important than all those worldly things you chase after. You’ve always been led by your desires, but each time you got what you thought you wanted, it didn’t lead to happiness, did it? In fact those other women brought you only grief. For my part, I forgive it all, and am praying to God that He will too. Please continue to be a good father to Maria. Finally, remember, Harry, it’s always been you.
Your ever-loving wife
Katie