A Family Affair (28 page)

‘But I haven't done anything!' Jenny wailed.

‘You've deceived me! Isn't that enough? Lied to me about where you were going and who with. Don't tell me it's the first time, because I'm not as green as I might be cabbage-looking. And I can tell you here and now I'll be keeping a close eye on you from now on.'

Why was she like it?' Jenny wondered wretchedly as she undressed and slipped between the sheets. Why couldn't she be more like other people's mothers, let her do all the things they were happy to let their daughters do? It was almost as if she was expecting trouble. Had she been so strict with Heather? The thought nudged another one – was it because Heather had been pregnant with Vanessa when she married Steve? But no, it couldn't be that. Carrie had always been strict, in all sorts of ways. For as long as Jenny could remember, now that she came to think about it, Carrie had dominated her, tried to keep her a baby, a little girl.

I'll ask Heather about it, Jenny thought. The prospect of talking to her sister was a comfort. But it was still a long while before Jenny fell asleep.

Matthew Vezey's soirée was in full glorious swing.

As Paul had predicted, catering staff had been brought in from Bath – three ladies in black skirts and frilly white aprons – and they had set out a luxurious buffet on trestle tables in the big farmhouse-style kitchen – platters of cold ham and beef, dishes of tiny new parsley potatoes and salads, and in pride of place a whole salmon. With the strictures of rationing still all too fresh in people's minds it was an almost unimaginable feast. And as Paul had also predicted, there was enough alcohol to launch a battleship. Matthew himself was dispensing this to the undisguised disapproval of his sister Enid and his loud laughter and red face suggested that he had been taking a drink himself for every one he poured.

‘You'd never think they were brother and sister, would you?' Helen said to Paul as they moved into the genteel but faded sitting room. ‘Are you sure there's no secret scandal afoot here?'

Paul raised an eyebrow over his pint mug of Home Brewed.

‘Do you really see Enid as a scarlet woman?'

‘No. But you know what they say about still waters running deep. And opposites are supposed to attract, too. For all you know they could have been passionately in love once and unable to marry for some reason.'

‘What do you suggest?'

‘Oh – a husband or wife in the background perhaps?' But that was a little too close to home for comfort. ‘Mentally ill – locked away in a lunatic asylum,' she hurried on.

‘If Enid ever had a husband I think it's very likely he
would
end up in a lunatic asylum! I'm darned sure I would if I was married to her! But no, sorry to disappoint you, Helen, they're brother and sister all right and neither of them has ever married.'

‘If you say so.'

‘I do! They'd never get away with that sort of thing in Hillsbridge. You must have learned by now that everyone here knows everyone else's business.'

‘Mmm. I still find it hard to believe they had the same parents and the same upbringing. And how come they haven't fallen out long ago when they're so different?'

‘Matthew isn't easily upset – though if he does lose his temper – look out! No, he just lets her have her say and then does exactly as he pleases, I imagine.'

‘Like wearing that short-sleeved shirt when she'd like him in black tie.'

Matthew's outfit had been the first thing she had noticed when he had opened the door to them. She had never before seen him wearing anything other than a tweed suit with leather-patched elbows and matching waistcoat with a gold watch-chain straining across it, and a pair of highly polished but well-worn brogues. Tonight he was sporting a pale turquoise shirt, open at the neck, a pair of khaki-coloured corduroy trousers and buckled leather sandals, and in no way complemented his sister's chosen outfit of pink flounced blouse and calf-length black velvet skirt.

Now that she had met Enid, Helen could understand why the gathering had been dignified by the sobriquet ‘soirée'.

Like her living room, Enid was all faded gentility with a nod towards the fashion of the day which somehow just managed to miss the mark. Her greying hair was swept into a smooth chignon, yet her fringe, soft and bubbly, looked as if it had just come out of curlers. Her lips were a fashionable pink, but she had applied a similar colour to her cheeks in well-defined patches that made her look oddly like a middle-aged Dutch doll. Her voice was girlish, her accent as mincing as her brother's was local. Her hands, with their bright pink nails, fluttered, her small eyes darted, her bright smile tightened into a grimace of disapproval each time her glance fell on Matthew.

Enid enjoyed being the doctor's sister, Helen imagined. It conformed perfectly to all her delusions of grandeur. But Matthew did not. No doubt she nagged him ceaselessly about his clothes, his behaviour, his way of speaking, but without the slightest effect. As Paul had said, Matthew would indulge her and ignore her, going his own sweet way.

‘That chap hasn't bothered you again, has he?' Paul said unexpectedly.

‘Chap … ?' For a moment she was puzzled, wondering what on earth he was talking about, then as she realised she felt an uncomfortable flush begin in her neck. She'd hoped Paul had forgotten about the embarrassing incident when he had thrown Guy out of the surgery.

‘No, I haven't seen him since.'

‘Tell me it's none of my business if you like,' Paul said, casually conversational. ‘But I couldn't help wondering.'

‘It's none of your business,' she said lightly.

‘Sorry.'

‘It's OK. Just a bit of a sore point.' She didn't want to talk about Guy; didn't want to think about him even. It still hurt too much.

‘I shouldn't have asked.'

‘No,' she said. ‘You shouldn't.'

Into the small awkward silence a voice from behind her boomed: ‘Right, you two! So what's been going on since I left the fold?'

Matthew had seemingly abandoned the drinks table in his eagerness to be updated on the latest goings-on in the practice that had been his life for thirty years and more. Suddenly Helen was glad Paul had asked her about Guy. If he hadn't they might well have still been discussing Matthew and his sister.

‘You see, Helen? What did I tell you?' Paul said. ‘I knew this party was just an excuse for you to get the low-down on your former patients, Matthew!'

‘D'you blame me?'

‘No. OK, you old rogue, what do you want to hear about first? Flo Tranter's hypochondria – or the pretty young widow who's moved into Parsonage Lane and registered with me? No – don't tell me – the gypsy family down at Horler's Cross. The whole brood have gone down with impetigo, all fifteen of them. They're going round with purple-painted faces and frightening all the old ladies half to death. Now tell me you're not glad to be out of it!'

Helen glanced at him, at his cheerful grinning face and the wicked twinkle in his eyes. A moustache of beer foam had adhered to his upper lip and somehow it made him look a little vulnerable. She felt a sudden rush of warmth for the partner who had surprisingly become her ally. He really was rather attractive, too.

No, Helen told herself. The last thing you want at the moment is another set of complications.

She turned to Matthew.

‘I could tell you all about how poor old Cliff Button has become epileptic and how I've fixed him up with a gardening job,' she offered.

And as the three doctors chatted, the awkward moment passed.

Walt Simmons was not feeling well. Truth to tell, he thought, he felt rotten. It had started this morning when he'd had a dizzy spell whilst peeling the potatoes, but he had taken the saucepan, bowl and knife into the backyard and finished them off sitting on the wooden bench and the spell had passed. Then, when he'd tried to eat his dinner, he'd been violently sick.

‘I think I ought to get the doctor in,' Glad had said, but he had immediately protested.

‘There's no need to bother the doctor,' Walt had said. ‘I expect it's something I ate.'

‘Well, I don't like it,' Glad said. ‘It's not like you. And another thing – I'd like the doctor to have a look at your leg.'

‘Whatever for? My leg's on the mend.'

And it was. The ulcer that had wept and mattered for the best part of twenty years seemed miraculously to be healing over.

‘That's just it,' Glad said. ‘I can't understand it. After all these years. It's a funny thing, if you ask me.'

‘You don't call the doctor when something's getting better,' Walt said.

‘You look a funny colour to me.'

‘I'll be all right,' Walt said. ‘When I've had a bit of a rest.'

He settled back in his chair with his head tucked between the wing and the back and his foot resting on the little three-legged stool – no sense not taking care of his bad leg even if it did seem to be improving – and sure enough when he woke again at about three he did feel better. Not right, but better.

He was glad about that, not only for his own sake, but also for Glad, Heather and Steve. The three of them were going out tonight. Steve had joined the local male-voice choir and Glad and Heather had got tickets to hear them sing in a concert in the Town Hall at South Compton. He knew they would be disappointed to miss it, but he also knew they wouldn't dream of going and leaving him alone babysitting Vanessa if they thought he wasn't up to it. Glad had already said as much.

‘Heather can still go. I'll stop here with you.'

But he knew how much Glad was looking forward to the concert. She'd been very down this week, they'd had really bad news of David's girlfriend, Linda, that she had leukaemia and there was really nothing much that could be done for her, and Glad had taken it very hard. David had always been a great favourite with her – the only grandson in a family of girls. There was talk that they were going to get married, and this had upset Glad even more, knowing that David would be a widower before he was thirty, and with no chance of having children of the marriage. Going to the concert would take her mind off things, if only for a bit.

When teatime came and he managed to keep down a slice of bread and honey it gave him all the ammunition he needed.

‘There you be! I told you I was all right. You get off and enjoy the concert. I can mind the babby.'

And so they had gone, leaving Vanessa tucked up in bed and Walt in his chair, listening to the radio and looking at the evening paper which they had delivered every day except Sunday.

The truth was, though, he still didn't feel too good, and when the door had closed after them and he didn't have to pretend any more he acknowledged it to himself and even tried unsuccessfully to analyse it. He couldn't. He honestly didn't think he could remember ever feeling quite like this before – sick yet not sick, heavy yet floaty, and a pain in his stomach that might have been indigestion or a strained muscle from being violently sick and yet oddly felt like neither.

‘You be getting old,' Walt said to himself. It wasn't a thought that worried him much. The only thing was he hoped he'd live to see Vanessa grow up. In his quiet undemonstrative way he adored his great-granddaughter.

Now he shifted in his chair, jiggling his feet and shaking his hands, which had gone to pins and needles. Perhaps he'd been here too long. It would do him good to move about a bit and besides, he could do with a cup of Bengers. The fact that he still felt queasy was probably down to the fact that he hadn't kept down more than a slice of bread and honey all day. He was empty – ‘sinking' Glad called it – and that wasn't a bad description of it either.

He levered himself up out of his chair and went to the pantry, where he measured a cupful of milk into a saucepan. Back in the kitchen he lit the gas ring with a taper – Heather had bought them one of them new-fangled gas lighters with a battery which created a spark when you flicked a button, but he hadn't taken to it. Give him the old ways any day. And besides, he didn't think he'd have been able to manage that fiddly little button with his pincushion hands today even if he had wanted to.

The pain in his stomach was worse again now, shooting arrows in all directions. Walt gritted his teeth against it, spooned Bengers into the cup and headed back for the pantry with the tin. He hated muddle from things left about. ‘There's a place for everything and everything should be in its place,' his mother had used to say. He had a sudden image of her, standing in the doorway, with her hair all piled up and wearing a black satin blouse and skirt that had been her Sunday best when he was a nipper. So clear it was it almost took his breath away.

‘What are you doing here, Mother?' he asked aloud, then chuckled to himself, shaking his head. ‘You'm taking leave of your senses, Walt,' he said, also aloud, but more softly, more to himself.

It was as he went through the doorway where he'd thought he'd seen his mother standing that he heard Vanessa crying. He stood under the bannisters for a moment or two, listening, his own aches and pains and sickness forgotten. Was she just crying in her sleep? Would she quieten down in a minute? But Vanessa's sobs were getting harder with an element of hysteria in them and he could hear her calling for her mummy.

‘It's all right, my love, Grampy's coming,' he called, going along the hall and, with an effort, up the stairs. ‘Grampy's coming now.'

He switched on the landing light and almost instantly Vanessa's sobs lessened. As soon as he went into the bedroom he could see why; the little red nightlight Heather always left on for her because she was afraid of the dark was out, the bulb had gone, he supposed. Or because it had still been light when Heather had put her to bed she'd forgotten to switch it on.