Original Cyn (20 page)

“Just keep in a low gear and take it steady,” Don advised. “Remember, if you go into a skid, don’t brake, turn into it.”

Cyn and Joe thanked him for everything. “My pleasure,” he said. Then he turned to Cyn and laid his hand on her shoulder. “I hope your dad is OK.”

“So do I,” she said.

They took Don’s advice and crawled along the country roads. Cyn didn’t say much because she was worrying about what was wrong with Mal and fearing the worst. Joe was quiet, too, because he was concentrating on the road.

It took them nearly two hours to reach the motorway. Surprisingly, this wasn’t nearly as treacherous as they’d expected. There was plenty of snow piled up on the hard shoulder and median strip, but the road itself was relatively clear. For once the sand trucks had gotten out in time and done their job.

“You know,” Cyn said as Joe pulled out to overtake a van, “I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to Dad. And God knows how Mum would cope. She’d be devastated. Absolutely devastated. She gives him a hard time, but she adores him.”

“Come on,” Joe said gently, “you’re jumping the gun here. Your dad is relatively young and fit. You said he’d been feeling a bit under the weather. This could turn out to be nothing.”

“But what if it turns out to be something?” She paused. “Joe, I’m really scared.”

He reached out for her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I’m here,” he said. He turned to look at her—just for a second. There was a warmth and sincerity in his expression that convinced her he really meant what he said.

They reached the King George in Edgware about eleven. Joe dropped her off at the entrance to the emergency room. They both agreed he shouldn’t come in, as this wasn’t the time to introduce him to her family. When he asked her how she would get home, she assured him that Jonny would give her a lift.

As they stood by the electronic doors, he wrapped her in an enormous hug. “Promise you’ll call me as soon as you know anything,” he said.

“Promise.” She kissed his cheek.

“Good luck.”

“Thanks.” She turned to go and stopped in her tracks. “God, I forgot. There was something you were trying to tell me back at the pub, just before the phone rang. What was it?”

“Don’t worry,” he smiled. “It’ll keep.”

The ER was the usual dingy National Health Service deal: rows of plastic seats screwed to the floor, a television blaring away in the corner, besieged junior doctors looking as if they could sleep for a month.

Barbara, Faye, Jonny and Flick had colonized some seats next to the severely dented coffee machine.

Cyn wanted to run over to her mother, but couldn’t. Despite several layers of Elastoplast on the backs of her feet, her boots were still rubbing. Instead she half jogged, half hobbled. Barbara was fiddling with a ball of tissue. She looked hunched and small. “Hi, Mum,” she said, sitting down next to her mother and putting her arms around her.

“Oh, sweetie, you made it,” Barbara said, returning Cyn’s hug. She was so distressed she didn’t seem to notice Cyn’s hiking gear. “I was so worried about you in all that terrible snow.”

“It wasn’t too bad once we hit the motorway.” Cyn turned to Jonny. “So, what’s the news?” Old traditions died hard—particularly when people were under stress. Since Jonny was the male member of the family, she expected him to be in charge.

He shrugged. “Bugger all. They’re still doing tests.” He said he was cross that the paramedics hadn’t brought Mal to the Royal, where Flick worked. “She knows all the staff there and we might have gotten more sense out of them.” He was tight-lipped and fiddling with the change in his pockets.

“Come on, Bear, sit down,” Flick said gently. “They’re doing their best. These things take time.” She turned to Cyn. “How about a cup of coffee? It’s just about drinkable.” Cyn said a coffee would be great.

“If you call chicken-soup-flavored coffee drinkable,” Faye piped up.

“Hi, Gran. You OK?”

She said she was fine. “Cyn, tell me, what do you look like? This is a hospital. There are nice young doctors here. Couldn’t you have made an effort? You look like you’ve been hiking. How are you ever going to find a boyfriend dressed like that?”

Cyn didn’t say she had already found one. It wasn’t the time or place. “I have been hiking” was all she said.

“Since when did you hike?” Faye persisted.

“Since I realized there’s lots of lovely countryside that I’ve never seen.”

“So who did you go with?”

“A friend.”

Grandma Faye assumed she meant a girlfriend and gave a shrug as if to say “I give up.”

Meanwhile, Jonny wanted to carry on discussing how the coffee could have tasted of chicken soup. “There’s no chicken-soup button. It’s just tea, coffee or hot chocolate.”

“I’m only telling you what I tasted,” Faye said.

Barbara was sipping tea. “He was fine until a few hours ago,” she said. “All he had was a bit of a temperature. The next minute he was lying on the bedroom floor unconscious. I thought I’d lost him.” She paused. Her face became a frown. “You know, Mum, you’re right. The tea tastes of chicken soup, too.”

“What did I tell you?” Grandma Faye said, turning to Jonny. “See? I’m not mad. Your mother agrees with me.” With that she pootled over to a young couple sitting with a little girl whose arm was in a makeshift sling. “Excuse me,” she said, sitting herself down next to the mother, “but can’t help noticing you’ve got coffee from the hot drinks machine. Tell me, would you say it tastes of chicken soup?”

Barbara sat shaking her head. “My husband could be dying and what does my mother do? She seizes the opportunity to conduct a market research campaign.”

“I’m sure she doesn’t mean to be insensitive,” Flick said. “It’s just her way of coping with the stress.” She handed Cyn a plastic cup of coffee and turned back to Barbara. “Mal’s in good hands. I’m sure it’s nothing too serious. It might be nothing more than the flu and his temperature just shot up.”

Barbara nodded. “Maybe you’re right. At least it’s not his heart.”

Just then a young male doctor appeared, draping his stethoscope round his neck.

“Mrs. Fishbein?”

Barbara shot to her feet. “That’s me. I’m Mrs. Fishbein.”

“I’m Dr. Goldman,” he said, extending his hand and offering Barbara a warm smile. “Just to let you know that we won’t have the results of your husband’s blood tests until the morning, but I’m pretty certain this is nothing to worry about. I’ve just finished examining him and from what I can tell, this is nothing more than a rather nasty case of mumps.”

“Mumps?” Barbara fell back onto her chair, her face exuding relief tinged with disbelief. “Are you sure?”

“I’m as certain as I can be at this stage.”

Barbara turned to the rest of the family. “Did you hear that? Mal’s got mumps. Thank God. Mumps? Who’d have thought? That’s wonderful news, Doctor. Absolutely wonderful. Thank you.”

“It’s on the increase again since the rumpus over the MMR vaccine and so many parents stopped vaccinating babies. When children get it the symptoms are usually quite mild. In adults they can be far more severe. Mr. Fishbein’s neck and groin area are very swollen.”

“So why did he collapse?”

“His temperature suddenly went very high.”

“See, what did I tell you?” Flick smiled.

Faye, who had reappeared the moment the doctor arrived, looked particularly concerned. “Dr. Goldman, you said my son-in-law’s groin was very swollen. Tell me, will it affect his fertility?”

“Mum, for God’s sake,” Barbara hissed. “Mal’s in his sixties. What does it matter?”

“I’ll tell you why it matters. What if you died? Mal might want to get married again, start another family. He needs to know that everything’s in working order.”

“It’s so reassuring to know my mother spends her time thinking about my death.”

Faye shrugged. “I’m just trying to be realistic, that’s all. Accidents happen. Five years from now you might go out and get run over.”

“OK, but Mal would be nearly seventy. Do you mind telling me what woman in her right mind would want her baby and her husband in nappies at the same time?”

Unlike the rest of the family, who were used to this kind of exchange between Faye and Barbara, Dr. Goldman was looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Mr. Fishbein’s fertility could be affected. If it’s important, we could make an outpatient appointment in a few weeks to check his sperm count.”

“I assure you, that won’t be necessary, Dr. Goldman,” Barbara said, still looking daggers at Grandma Faye.

“Fine. For now, though, we’ll keep him in overnight for observation. I’m pretty sure we can let him go home tomorrow. I’ll make sure he has plenty of painkillers. Then all he will need is lots of rest, fluids and Tylenol to keep his temperature down. By the way, have you and your family all had mumps?”

“I have,” Barbara said, “and my children had it when they were little. Mum, what about you?”

Grandma Faye waved a dismissive hand in front of her. “Of course. When I was growing up in the East End we got everything—whooping cough, scarlet fever, diphtheria, typhoid. Only the strong survived.”

“Mum, I know for a fact you did not get typhoid or diphtheria.” Barbara turned back to Dr. Goldman. “Thank you for everything. I can’t tell you how relieved we all are.” He shook her hand again and reassured her Mal would be fine. She asked if they could see him.

“Absolutely. He’s still in a cubicle. The porter will be along in a minute to take him up to the ward.”

As everybody set off toward Mal’s cubicle, Barbara noticed Cyn was limping. “What on earth happened to you?”

“It’s nothing. Just a few blisters.”

“You sure? I mean, if it’s more serious, you could ask one of the nurses to take a look.”

Cyn reassured her she was OK. As they carried on toward the cubicle, Grandma Faye held back. Cyn watched her go over to Dr. Goldman. He was pushing coins into the coffee machine. She tugged at his sleeve. “Dr. Goldman?”

“Yes?”

“Tell me, do you have a girlfriend?” Cyn’s ears pricked up. She spun round and went limping over. She had to rescue the poor man. “Actually, I do,” he said, coloring up.

“I see,” Grandma Faye said, clearly disappointed. “So, is it serious?”

“We’re engaged.”

“Oh, congratulations.” She nodded in Cyn’s direction. “This is my granddaughter, Cynthia. Don’t be put off. She usually dresses much nicer than this. Try to imagine her without the sweater and muddy boots. Anyway, she would love to meet a nice Jewish doctor. I don’t suppose you have any colleagues you could introduce her to?”

“Gran,” Cyn cried. “Please. That’s enough.” She grabbed her grandmother’s arm and mouthed an apology at Dr. Goldman. He seemed amused more than embarrassed.

“I was only trying to help,” Grandma Faye said to Cyn as Cyn dragged her toward Mal’s cubicle.

Everybody piled into the tiny curtained-off cubicle. Mal was lying back on a pile of pillows, drip in arm, looking distinctly puffy about the face. But more than anything he looked exhausted. He raised his hand a few inches in greeting. “It seems it’s going to be a while yet before you get to spend all the life insurance money.” He grinned at Barbara.

“Behave,” she scolded gently. She bent down and kissed him on the forehead. “I’ve been climbing the walls with worry. We all have.”

“Really?”

“Of course.”

“That’s nice.” A contented smile formed on Mal’s face.

Everybody could see he was struggling to keep his eyes open, so they each gave him a quick kiss, wished him better and said good night.

The next day, Mal came home with, in his own words, “testicles the size of melons.” “Every time he needs the loo, it’s a major production,” Barbara said on the phone to Cyn. “His bits and pieces are so swollen and heavy he can hardly walk. The poor man needs a sling.”

“Wow, thanks for sharing that,” Cyn said.

Chapter 16

When Cyn phoned Joe on Sunday morning to let him know her dad was going to be OK, he couldn’t have been more delighted or relieved. “I hated seeing you so worried,” he said.

She thanked him for getting her to the hospital.

“No problem. I was just glad to help. So, how are the feet?”

She told him they were getting better, but she was still having to wear several layers of Elastoplast to stop her shoes rubbing.

“Ouch. Sounds really uncomfortable . . . By the way, I wanted to say again that the other evening—the bit before the phone rang—was one of the most wonderful I can ever remember.”

“Same here. I’m so sorry it ended the way it did.”

“Will you stop being such an idiot?” he laughed. “There is absolutely nothing to apologize for.” She loved the way he called her an idiot. He said it with so much affection.

“Sorry,” she said.

“And will you stop saying sorry?”

“OK, sor—” Now she was laughing.

“Look, changing the subject,” she went on, “we need to work out how we’re going to handle the next therapy session. Like I said the other night, I think we have to come clean and tell the group that we’ve been seeing each other.”

“I know. And I’ve also got to sort out the Clementine situation. It’s all getting very complicated, and what makes it worse is that it’s all going to have to wait because I’m going to miss the next couple of sessions.”

“How come?”

“The second week I’ve got an important meeting in Glasgow I can’t get out of and I’m going to miss this Tuesday’s session because I’ve decided to go to Dublin to see my mum.”

“Wow, that’s a bit sudden.”

“I know, but I’ve realized I need to talk to her about what happened to me when I was a kid. She’s not getting any younger and if I leave it any longer it might be too late. I just phoned her to ask if it was OK to come and she said yes.”

“So she was pleased you wanted to see her?”

“It was hard to tell over the phone. To be honest, she seemed a bit wary. I only ever see her at Christmas and I think she got the sense that something was up.”

Cyn told him she thought he was doing absolutely the right thing by going.

“I hope so,” he said. He paused. Then: “So, are you absolutely sure that when we tell everybody we’ve been seeing each other that Veronica will insist we leave the group? I’ve only been there two minutes. It seems a shame. They’re a funny old lot, but I was getting to like them.”

He sounded really sad, she thought. “Joe, please don’t worry about leaving. Veronica will understand. It can’t be the first time something like this has happened, and I’m sure she’ll help us find new groups.”

“But that takes time,” he said. “It was a couple of months before Veronica got an opening and I was able to join your group.” He seemed really put out at the thought of having to wait. Therapy had clearly become very important to him.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “In the meantime, you’ve always got me. I’m a great listener.”

“I know you are,” he said warmly. “You’re right, there’s no hurry.”

But she got the feeling there was.

The first thing Cyn did when she got into the office on Monday morning was phone Interflora and send flowers to Don and his wife at the Cross Keys to say thank you for all their help. No sooner had she put the phone down than Barbara rang to say that if she was planning to come and see Mal that day, she shouldn’t leave it too late. Apart from still being in pain and too weak to get up other than to stagger to the loo, he was finding it almost impossible to stay awake in the evenings beyond about six o’clock. Cyn said not to worry. She would take a couple of hours off work and get there about four.

When she arrived, the front door was open. She was greeted by a studenty-looking girl trying to maneuver herself and a black cello case through the slightly-too-narrow doorway. “You sure you can manage?” Barbara said in her faux bright, for-God’s-sake-mind-the-new-paintwork voice that only Cyn recognized. As the girl turned round to reply in the affirmative, she caused the case to swing violently to one side and take a chunk out of the door frame. “Oops,” Barbara said with wild understatement. “Not to worry.”

The next moment it had swung the other way and knocked over four empty milk bottles that began rolling down the garden path. The girl apologized and, offering Cyn a taut smile, scurried down the garden path—inasmuch as it was possible to scurry carrying a cello.

“We’ll let you know,” Barbara called out after her. Cyn retrieved the milk bottles and put them back down on the front step. “Thanks, darling,” Barbara said as she let her in. “The cellist was Hugh’s idea. I have to hand it to her, she played beautifully, but her choice of music wasn’t that great. Between you and me I can’t quite picture opening the dancing at the wedding to Klaus Huber’s
Transpositio ad infinitum
for virtuoso solo cello.” Barbara closed the door. “We’ve got another act to see, though. They’re due in half an hour. Why don’t you stay and listen? Hugh and Flick are here. I’m sure they’d appreciate your opinion.”

Cyn said she would love to stay. “So, how’s Dad?”

Barbara said his temperature was down, but he was still on painkillers. “Why don’t you pop up and see him?”

Mal was lying in bed, propped up on a pile of pillows and surrounded by newspapers and magazines. A bowl of nectarines and a barely touched cup of tea—probably cold—sat on the bedside table. He was fast asleep with his iPod headphones on. Cyn tiptoed toward him and gently took them off. He half opened his eyes and smiled at her. “Hi, sweetie.” His voice was croaky with sleep.

“Hi. How you doing?” She leaned over and kissed him.

He eased himself into a more upright position. “Not bad, but I’m still feeling so weak. I try getting up, but five minutes later I just want to be horizontal again. It’s so frustrating.”

“Don’t worry. You just have to go with it. You’ll soon get your strength back.”

Just then the doorbell went. They heard Grandma Faye answer it. “That’ll be Jonny,” Mal said. “He promised to take the afternoon off to help with the auditions. He’s late. Flick won’t be pleased.”

There was a thumping on the stairs and Jonny came in. He took one look at Mal’s swollen face and neck and announced, “Hey, it’s Puff Daddy.”

“Very funny,” Mal said. “By the way, I thought you were supposed to be here an hour ago.”

“Meeting with a client ran over. Don’t worry, I phoned Flick.”

Just then Grandma Faye appeared, breathless from the stairs. She was wearing a purple leotard, black Lycra pedal pushers and a purple headband. She looked like a senior citizen from
Fame
. “Wow, Gran, get you,” Cyn said.

Faye beamed at the compliment. “Laurent’s been getting me doing some gentle exercises to help my joints. I’m really getting into it. I even went out and bought a sports deodorant.” She turned to Mal. “So, how you doing?”

“How would you be if you were me? The district nurse comes every morning. In sixty-four years, my testicles have never received so much attention from a woman. The tragedy is I’m in too much pain to enjoy it.”

Everybody laughed. “I was just about to put the kettle on,” Faye said. “I wondered if you fancied another cuppa.” He thanked her and said he was fine. “I didn’t manage to finish the last one.” She went over to the bedside table and picked up his cup and saucer. Reminding him to just shout if he wanted anything, she went back downstairs.

“Actually, there is something I’d like,” Mal said. He was looking at Jonny. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”

“Sure.”

“I don’t think I’m going to be up to preparing Laurent’s case for the Home Office. Would you do it? You know the score; we have to convince them that if he returns to his country under its present regime, he would be likely to face summary imprisonment or execution for his political beliefs. It shouldn’t be difficult because his case was well documented by Amnesty International at the time of the coup there.”

Cyn watched Jonny hesitate. It wasn’t that her brother didn’t care about Laurent, he did. Jonny had been as distressed as everybody else the other night when Laurent talked about life under the military dictatorship in Tagine. It was just that he knew precious little about immigration law. Suburban conveyancing and divorce cases were his specialties. Taking on Laurent’s case meant going beyond what was familiar and predictable. Cyn knew this would make him feel anxious and insecure.

“OK, I’ll do it,” Jonny said, breezily. “No problem.”

Cyn could see the look of surprise and pleasure on her father’s face. Mal had never said as much, but he had often hinted to Cyn that he felt guilty about encouraging Jonny to join his law firm straight from university. “If he’d traveled a bit, seen some of the world, done some charity work . . . even smoked a bit of pot . . .” Then his voice would trail off, but Cyn knew what he was trying to say: if Jonny had done some of these things, maybe he might have developed a more adventurous spirit. Cyn could never bring herself to risk upsetting her dad and telling him what she knew: that Jonny’s need for security had begun when he was little, with Barbara’s illness. Maybe traveling and finding something more imaginative to do after university than joining his father’s legal practice would have helped, but probably only in the short term. Cyn suspected that her brother’s need to play it safe and not take risks were so deep-seated that whatever he had done, he would always have turned out the same.

“Good boy,” Mal said, smiling up at Jonny. “I started making some notes. I’ve got them all on disc.”

When Mal began to look tired again, they left him to sleep.

“You sure you don’t mind taking on Laurent’s case?” Cyn asked Jonny as they walked downstairs. “After all, it’s not really your thing.”

He gave a shrug. “I know, but getting to grips with immigration law will give me something to think about other than this blinkin’ wedding. Plus it’s for a good cause and it’s not as if it’s going to be more than a onetime thing. I just hope I don’t bugger it up.”

Jonny carried on into the living room while Cyn popped to the loo. She was just coming out when the music started. She found herself stopping to listen. After a few seconds she began giggling. Somebody, or rather a group of somebodies, was playing “Like a Virgin.” What was more, they appeared to be playing it on Peruvian pan pipes.

She walked into the living room and stood by the door so as not to interrupt the performance. Gathered at one end of the living room, in front of the smoked-glass wall unit-cum-cocktail cabinet, were six Peruvian pipers in traditional black hats and brightly colored ponchos. Sitting at the dining table, drinking tea, eating miniature Danishes and jigging about to the music were Barbara, Flick, Grandma Faye—still in her gym gear—and Jonny. Hugh was there, too, but he wasn’t eating or jigging. He was shooting Cyn a pained look that said: “This has absolutely nothing to do with me, OK?”

Nobody seemed to notice the look. Instead they were all merrily singing along: “Like a vir-ir-ir-ir-gin, touched for the very first time.” Hugh put his head in his hands.

Faye, meanwhile, tiptoed over to Cyn and pulled her into the living room. “Come on, darling, join in. Aren’t they wonderful? They’re called The Lima Dreamers.” She lifted her hands over her head and began stabbing the air with her forefingers. “Like a vir-ir-ir-ir-gin . . .”

Cyn surveyed the scene. With the exception of Hugh, who was now sipping his tea looking like the queen at a pub karaoke night, everybody was having a ball. High on all the clapping and singing along, The Lima Dreamers were seriously into the Madonna vibe. Flick was clapping wildly, although her claps bore little relation to the rhythm of the music. Barbara was tapping her foot and knocking back the Danish. Grandma Faye was boogying in her purple leotard. Even Jonny was getting into the groove.

This was not the real world, Cyn decided. Ponchoed Peruvians did not descend on ordinary suburban houses and start playing “Like a Virgin” on pan pipes, egged on by gyrating grannies in leotards. There was no doubt in her mind that they were trapped in a Magritte painting and were about to be joined by a puffing steam train and a group of little bowler-hatted men parachuting down on their umbrellas.

The Lima Dreamers were a hit with everybody. Even, as it turned out, with Hugh, but not for artistic reasons. He’d had his eye on one of them, a cute chap in a pink and orange poncho called Gustavo, but when he’d gone to ask for his phone number it turned out Gustavo’s English was virtually nonexistent and Hugh gave up. “I know the language of love is meant to be universal, but it gets pretty boring after a while.”

Cyn approved of the Lima Dreamers, too, and could see how in an ironic way they would liven things up during dinner. After they had gone, Hugh tried to argue the case for something a bit more upmarket and restrained, but Grandma Faye made the point that this was a wedding, not a wake.

“OK,” Hugh said, summing up. “We’re agreed, then, that The Lima Dreamers will play during dinner. Later on, they will hand over to the dance band.”

Everybody nodded. “Fine,” Hugh said in a tone that exuded resigned acceptance more than excitement. He looked worn-out, Cyn thought. It was pretty obvious that Barbara and Flick had reverted to type and were far less committed to “simple elegance” than they had been at the first meeting to discuss the wedding. They were clearly having second thoughts about Hugh’s muted, classy approach to the nuptials. He seemed to be happy to back down—fed up, no doubt, with fighting a losing battle, not to mention overseeing the tussles that were surely going on between her mother and Flick, her mother and Grandma Faye, and her mother and Mal. Looking at him now, he seemed pathetically grateful just to have everybody in agreement. Pen in hand, his eyes surveyed his to-do list. He added a couple of ticks. “Right, the ceremony and the tent are sorted, as are the flowers. Everybody’s agreed we’re going with bubbles instead of confetti. The invitations should be here in a day or so. This brings us to outfits . . .”

Flick took the floor and said she had abandoned the idea of having dresses made because nobody could do them in time.