A little hospital-visiting routine got going so that Thursday followed much the same pattern as Wednesday. Tara spent the morning at the hospital and Katherine did the afternoon shift.
When Tara and the O’Gradys arrived at nine a.m., Sandro was already there, his head next to Fintan’s, both of them chatting intimately. They looked so close and united that everyone felt uncomfortable at disturbing them.
‘Sorry to bother ye,’ JaneAnn said, wondering why she wasn’t jealous of Sandro.
‘No problem,’ Sandro smiled, ‘I’ve been here for hours.’
‘He couldn’t sleep,’ Fintan said.
‘The bed’s too big without him,’ Sandro said, then horror zigzagged across his little face. Had he offended JaneAnn?
But although she was mildly shocked, she couldn’t find it in her heart to hold it against him. Either of them. Somehow it didn’t seem that important, no matter what the Church’s view on the matter was…
Next to arrive was Liv, who stayed only a short time because she had to go to work in Hampshire.
‘You’ll miss
Supermarket Sweep
,’ Milo teased.
‘Watch it for me, then tell me what happens.’ She smiled, shyly.
Supermarket Sweep
had already become a fixture in the morning and
Fifteen-to-One
in the afternoon. Half an hour
twice a day when reality was suspended. Something other than craven dread to unite them.
‘We’re normalizing the abnormal,’ Liv, the behavioural expert, explained. ‘It’s a survival technique.’
‘I just thought it was because I liked Dale Winton,’ Sandro said.
‘Don’t be silly!’ Liv admonished. ‘You’re simply responding to a terrible trauma.’
In contrast to the previous day Fintan lay in lethargic apathy.
Suddenly his caustic tongue seemed far more desirable. The only time he stirred was when a nurse walked into the ward, and automatically he began struggling to roll up his sleeve. Already he inhabited the strange world of the sick person, Tara thought, stricken with exclusion, seeing the huge gulf between them, they who’d always been so close. She could never share in what he was going through, or be part of the relationship he had with his nurse. He belonged to other people now.
At one thirty, when Katherine was sitting at her desk, completely unable to decide whether to have a cheese or a chicken sandwich for her lunch, her phone rang, breaking the deadlock. Cheese! Cheese, it would be. Cheese, without a doubt. Unless, of course, it was chicken…
Desmond the porter was on the line, saying there was a ‘gentleman’ in the lobby who wanted to see her. From the heavy irony with which he said ‘gentleman’ Katherine was led to believe her visitor was anything but. Confused, she got the lift down and found Milo, grinning his head off, an
A–Z
in his hip pocket. ‘How did you get here?’ she asked in astonishment.
‘Piccadilly line to Piccadilly Circus,’ he said, the words sounding incongruous in his soft Clare accent. ‘Then Bakerloo line
to Oxford Circus. Fintan’s asleep, JaneAnn’s doing some heavy-duty praying, Timothy is reading, so I thought I’d have an adventure.’
‘Do you know this man?’ Desmond asked, looking in disdain at Milo’s mad hair, his work-worn dungarees, his big boots.
‘Yes, Desmond, thank you.’
As Desmond disbelievingly shook his head, in a exaggerated version of
it’s-always-the-quiet-ones
, Katherine turned back to Milo. ‘And you didn’t get lost or anything. Fair play.’
‘Oh, I did get lost. I went the wrong way from South Kensington, but I got off at Earl’s Court and asked a woman for directions.’
‘And she helped you?’ Katherine sighed in relief.
‘No, she didn’t. She said – I must see if I can remember the exact words. She said, “Do I look like a fucking talking map?” ’
‘Oh, Milo.’ Katherine touched his arm protectively, and barely noticed Joe Roth and Bruce passing through the lobby. ‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘Not at all!’ Milo declared. ‘I thought it was the height of hilarity. I’m getting used to this London place now – it’s all about people speaking their minds. It’s refreshing.
‘Do I look like a fucking talking map?’ he chuckled to himself. ‘A talking map? How do you like that? I never heard the beat of it. Right, now I’m off to Hammersmith to see Tara. Piccadilly or District line. And, er, I’d visit Liv if I knew where she worked.’
Katherine looked at him with indulgent amusement. ‘She’s down in Hampshire.’
‘What line is that on?’
JaneAnn prayed incessantly. She had a set of rosary beads in her hands at all times and frequently visited the chapel in the
hospital, often accompanied by Sandro. In an attempt to win her approval, he had told her many elaborate lies about his religious experiences and his visits to Catholic shrines. But it was when he’d hinted heavily that he’d actually had visions that he’d realized he’d bitten off more than he could chew.
‘Child!’ JaneAnn had gasped, clutching his collar fervently. ‘You’ll have to tell your parish priest. It’s your duty. You can’t keep this to yourself.’
Sandro had set about back-pedalling with great haste and managed to talk JaneAnn down by saying that the visions were probably just due to too much to drink. She was so disappointed that, to compensate, he upped the time spent in the hospital chapel with her.
‘With all the praying the pair of you are doing for Fintan,’ Katherine said, ‘I’d say we’re in with a fighting chance.’
‘Not at all.’ JaneAnn sniffed. ‘I wouldn’t say our prayers are having their normal impact because that chapel in the hospital is only a non-denominational one.’
‘But isn’t it all the one God?’ Tara made the mistake of asking.
JaneAnn cast her a disgusted look and murmured, ‘Learn your catechism, child. Tell her, Sandro.’
On Friday morning as they left Katherine’s flat, JaneAnn dropped a bombshell. ‘I’m dying for Sunday,’ she said, greedily. ‘A good oul’ Mass. I might even go a couple of times.’
Katherine and Tara gave each other horrified looks. Mass? Neither of them had any idea where Katherine’s local Catholic church was. For the first time in days they were worried about something other than the biopsy result. As soon as they could they went into a head-to-head outside Fintan’s ward.
‘Why don’t I just tell her I don’t know?’ Katherine suggested.
‘No.’ Tara was adamant. ‘The shock might kill her. She needs fixed points in her world right now. Finding out you’re not a bumlick would be too much for her.’
Liv came striding up the corridor, her hair streaming behind her. She looked at the anxious huddle and faltered. ‘The result of the biopsy already?’
‘No, not that bad. But bad enough. JaneAnn needs a Catholic church for Sunday Mass.’
Liv looked puzzled, ‘But what’s wrong with St Dominic’s? On Maiden Road – just around the corner from you?’
Tara and Katherine were stunned. How did Liv know? ‘You weirdo,’ Tara complained. ‘Next you’ll be telling me you go sometimes.’
‘I do.’
‘But you’re not a Catholic.’
‘So what? In my search for happiness I also frequent synagogues, mosques, Quaker meeting houses, Hindu temples, the Samaritans’ head office, psychiatrists’ couches and Harvey Nichols. And I’ve always been given a warm welcome. Except maybe in Harvey Nichols,’ she added.
‘You wouldn’t happen to know the names of any of the priests?’ Katherine chanced her luck.
‘Of course. Father Gilligan. Tell him I said hi. I must go to the ladies’. See you in a minute.’
When Liv arrived back, all the chairs around the bed were gone. Milo stood up. ‘Have my seat.’
‘No, I couldn’t.’
While Milo demurred, JaneAnn suggested, ‘Sit on Milo’s knee, then.’
Liv went tomato-red with embarrassment. ‘I’m too large.’
Milo seemed amused by this. ‘I’m large too. Plenty of room here,’ and slapped his bedungareed knee.
‘Really, I couldn’t.’
‘Go on,’ Fintan urged weakly.
‘Do,’ Tara and Katherine chorused. ‘Do, Liv, do.’
So, with a scorching face, Liv gingerly placed herself on Milo’s knee, while everyone nudged each other.
JaneAnn was later heard to mutter, ‘When God closes one door he opens another. I’ll see some good comes out of this visit if it’s the last thing I do.’
Even the most hardened atheists among them – and there was stiff competition – found themselves praying on Friday as the deadline approached.
Fintan had been told to expect the results at about four o’clock. So from two onwards all eyes were trained on the door. Whenever a person in a white coat walked in, there was a tiny but perceptible collective jump. Conversation was poor.
Finally, at ten to four, as their endurance stretched to snapping point, Dr Singh approached the bed. He seemed to recoil slightly when he saw the white-faced throng. ‘If I could have a word with my patient?’
‘No, I want them to stay,’ Fintan insisted weakly.
Dr Singh assented. ‘I’m afraid I’ve bad news,’ he said.
Katherine’s heart thudded in her chest. She couldn’t look at the others.
‘We won’t have the results today. The lab has been too busy,’ Dr Singh continued. ‘You’re going to have to wait until Monday.’
‘I reckon she’s looking for another job,’ Bruce said.
‘Nah, mate,’ Myles contradicted. ‘I reckon she’s ill.’
‘She don’t look ill,’ Bruce pointed out.
‘She don’t look too chipper neither,’ Jason replied.
Furious speculation abounded about Katherine’s absences from work, because in her three years at Breen Helmsford she’d never even taken a day off sick before. Darren claimed to have seen her crying on the phone on Monday morning, but this information was discounted because it was so unlikely. Besides, it wouldn’t have been the first time Darren had told an outrageous lie.
Then word filtered down via Fred Franklin that on Tuesday morning she’d told ‘Call me Johnny’ that she’d be taking some time off because of a ‘personal matter’. When this news reached the rank and file, great mirth broke out. ‘Do what? A personal matter? Leave it out.’ Myles guffawed. ‘The girl’s a machine!’
‘Maybe her dishwasher broke down,’ Bruce suggested. ‘That’d probably qualify as a tragedy for Icequeen.’
On Friday lunchtime in the Frog and Fawn, Joe’s team batted possibilities back and forth.
‘She might be getting married,’ Bruce theorized. ‘Girls take shedloads of time off to organize that.’
‘Maybe she’s had a breast enlargement,’ Jason suggested, hopefully. ‘You have to rest lots after one of them.’
‘Could be she’s getting divorced,’ Myles said. ‘She looks a bit creamed, like she’s having a hard time.’
Bruce agreed. ‘Normal times the girl looks like she lives in a bleeding dry-cleaner’s, but this week her clobber’s been wrinkled to fuck.’
‘Hard to iron with new tits,’ Jason reminded them. ‘They’d sting for a while.’
‘She looks like she’s not getting much sleep,’ Bruce said.
‘That’s ’cos she has to lie on her back until her new tits are better,’ Jason said.
Myles rounded on him in wild irritation. ‘What are you going on about? Do her tits look any bigger? Well?’
‘Suppose not,’ Jason admitted sulkily.
‘What do you think is up with her?’ Myles asked Joe, who’d sat in grim silence throughout the speculation.
He shrugged, and said shortly, ‘No idea.’
Myles exchanged a what-the-hell’s-up-with-him? look with Bruce and Jason. Joe Roth was off his usual sunny form.
‘Me and Joe saw her with a bloke yesterday lunchtime,’ Bruce surprised the others by saying. ‘Some poncy pop-star.’
‘You what! Now you tell us.’ Myles and Jason were agog. ‘This changes everything. Who is he?’
‘Don’t know his name,’ Bruce admitted. ‘But I think he might have been one of Dexy’s Midnight Runners. Big bloke, wearing wanky dungarees, designer ones, natch. Looked like he’d been pulled through a hedge backwards.’
‘Definitely a pop-star,’ Myles conceded. ‘What happened to the days when our singers took pride in their appearance?’
‘Yeah. Well, Icequeen and Dexy were very cosy-looking,’ Bruce said. ‘Which backs up my theory that she’s getting married.’
‘Jesus!’ Myles was astonished. ‘Could be true. No accounting for taste.’ He glanced nervously at Joe.
Darren burst into the Frog and Fawn, agitatedly waving a piece of paper about. ‘Look at this,’ he ordered. ‘Icequeen’s paid my expenses.’
‘So what? It’s her job.’
‘But I included three copies of the bill from the Oxo Tower. Two of them were messy photocopies – I only put them in to wind her up. And she’s done a cheque for the whole lot!’
‘You lying toerag,’ Myles scorned. ‘I suppose she was crying again while she did it.’
‘On Alan Shearer’s life, she
was
crying Monday morning, and she
has
paid the photocopies.’ Darren was wounded. ‘I admit I never had a threesome with Martini and Flora, but I’m telling the truth this time.’
‘But Icequeen’s impossible to con,’ Jason said.
‘That’s what I thought,’ Darren said. ‘But, stand on me, the girl is losing it. Take a look.’
The proof was passed before all the Doubting Thomas eyes. It was undeniable.
‘Maybe she’s having a nervous breakdown,’ Myles said, awestruck.
‘It’s the silicone,’ Jason concluded. ‘Turning her brain as soft as her new breasts. Mmmmm, my ideal bird!’
‘Bloody good news for us!’ Bruce pointed out.
Immediately there was a flurry of activity as everyone searched in their wallets for receipts to swizz Katherine with. Everyone except Joe.
‘What do you mean you can’t?’ Thomas whined at Tara.
‘I mean I can’t,’ she explained. ‘They need looking after, and it’s not fair to land Katherine with all the responsibility.’
‘They’ve had you all week. It’s Saturday night and you’re coming out with me and Eddie and his new bird, and that’s the end of the matter.’
‘Thomas, I can’t abandon the O’Gradys.’
‘What about me?’ Thomas stuck his bottom lip out in a sulky-little-boy pout. ‘When do I get to see you?’
Tara wavered. She and Thomas had been getting on so badly lately that she was relieved by his insistence on being with her. ‘I really feel I have a responsibility to look after the O’Gradys,’ she tried again. But when Thomas’s face darkened with the anger of rejection, Tara gave in. ‘Oh, all right. But you’re a disgrace,’ she complained, indulgently.
He strutted, and gave her a swaggery smile. ‘I am what I am. Tek me or leave me.’ Instantly he was sure of himself again and, though she could never explain why, Tara found his bossy ways very sexy.
Thomas masterminded what Tara wore, hoping to hold his own against Eddie and his sexy new girlfriend – ‘Wear your short black skirt, aye, the right short one, your highest shoes and that V-neck top. And hold in your stomach.’
Tara paid particular attention to her hair, make-up and accessories but a bucket of blue hair mascara wouldn’t have diverted Thomas from noticing her size. As he surveyed the finished product with bitter dissatisfaction, he complained, ‘You’ve got fatter since last weekend. This is what happens when you don’t go to the gym.’ She hadn’t managed to do any exercise all week because her routine had been shot to hell with hospital visits. ‘And I bet you haven’t been sticking to your diet, either,’ Thomas accused.
He was right. There was too much food around Fintan’s bed for a woman with no willpower. Everyone brought him chocolate, buns, crisps, popcorn, sweets and grapes as they tried to fatten the sickness away. JaneAnn had more faith in a daily infusion of ham sandwiches than in a daily infusion of medication. But Fintan barely looked at the goodies that surrounded him, and no one else had any appetite either. Except for Tara who couldn’t
stop
eating. Agitatedly, incessantly, her hand crammed food into her mouth, attempting to fill the hole burnt by her corrosive anxiety.
All the same, she’d hoped that Thomas would make allowances because of her ordeal, that he might issue a special dispensation to knock off her diet until life was back to normal. But fat – what other kind? – chance. ‘It’s been a difficult time, Thomas,’ she tried.
‘Where is all this going to end, Tara?’ Thomas demanded, in exasperation. ‘In Evans, that’s where. I’m trying to help you and, to be honest, you’re being very ungrateful.’
‘I’m sorry and I am grateful.’
‘Do you think I enjoy having to police you like this?’ Thomas asked.
Yes
,
actually
, Tara thought. And immediately regretted it. He
was difficult – sometimes even brutal – but she had to keep reminding herself that
it was for her good
.
Beryl stalked into the room and Thomas turned to her. ‘Who’s a good girl?’ he crooned. ‘Oh, who’s a pretty girl?’
If only he’d be as nice to me, Tara thought, wistfully. One day she’d pull it off. If she could just manage to stop eating. ‘Will I ring a taxi?’ she asked wearily.
‘Aren’t you going to drive us?’
‘No, Thomas. What if I want to have a few drinks?’
‘A few drinks? But what about this?’ Thomas put his hand on Tara’s belly and pinched lots more than an inch.
‘Just for once, Thomas,’ she wheedled, miserably. ‘I’ve had such a horrible week…’
‘Just this once, then,’ he conceded, adding, ‘seeing as your mate might be dying.’
Astonished by his savagery, Tara suddenly realized she was sick, sick,
sick
of Thomas and his crude, roughshod ways. Of his relentless, gratuitous cruelty. Of never winning arguments. Of being insulted and hurt. All in the name of the great absolver, honesty.
‘Doesn’t it upset you?’ Her voice shook with rage and grief. ‘A young man, the same age as you, being so ill, possibly going to die?’
With a surprised, slightly gormless face, Thomas said, ‘No, it doesn’t get to me.’
Tara looked at him steadily, hoping to shame him.
‘I don’t know him well enough,’ he admitted, awkwardly, unsettled by her intensity. ‘Maybe if he was me mate, I’d be different.’
She continued to look at him. Waiting.
‘He’s not me mate,’ he protested. But without his customary crassness.
‘But you understand what I’m going through?’
Something appeared in his eyes. Not exactly compassion, just a reluctant acknowledgement that it was hard for her. It was as close as they’d been in a long time and it would have to do. He shrugged, uncomfortably. ‘I’m sorry I can’t pretend to be choked up about him. I’m only being…’
‘I know,’ Tara finished, with a trace of contempt, ‘honest.’
He flicked her an uncertain look. She was in a funny mood! Just because her mate was ill. She’d want to see what it was like when your mam abandoned you!
Before they left, Tara watched Thomas put his little brown change purse into his pocket, and she was shocked at how cringy it suddenly seemed to her.
‘Lend us twenty quid, Tara,’ he coaxed.