Something Only We Know (28 page)

She wiped her nose on her sleeve. ‘Is your sister a baby?’

‘She’s older than me. She’s my big sister. Like you. She used to teach me things. She taught me how to tie my shoelaces, and how to keep my make up bag tidy. Once she made me
some puppets out of wooden spoons. And sometimes she’d mute the sound on the TV and make up silly voices for the actors. She could be very funny sometimes. I used to think she was
brilliant.’

But the girl had lost interest in me and was hanging over the basket, watching the baby.

I said, ‘Your sister’ll grow up thinking
you’re
brilliant. If you’re nice to her.’

If you don’t shut her out for years and then pretend to want to be friends again just so you can get her to do some dirty work for you and then throw her trust back in her
face.

In came the mother, mug of milk in hand. ‘Couldn’t find a clean glass,’ she said. ‘Can’t find anything clean in here right now. Never mind. You’ll have to
have it in Daddy’s mug.’

‘Daddy’s mug!’ said the girl, as if this was some great treat.

When I switched off my Dictaphone and packed away my notebook, they were sitting together again, the girl nestled into her mum’s side and the baby quiet at their feet. Behind them I could
see tiny cobweb tunnels woven palely into the folds of the curtains; the wallpaper round the light switch was dark and greasy. Which made me think of our house and its unremitting cleanliness, the
regimented cushions, the dust-free surfaces, the smearless windows. The scent of fresh pine overlaying the tension and bitterness.

‘You will let us know when it’s in the paper?’ she asked. ‘We don’t want to miss it, we want everyone to see. To see our baby’s lucky start. Haven’t we
been lucky, eh?’

‘I think you have,’ I said.

Nowadays, letting myself into the house made me nervous. I kept replaying that previous shock, the man’s voice in the kitchen, the slamming back door. This time, however,
all that greeted me was quiet. I let out a sigh of relief and chucked my keys onto the hall table with a clatter. That’s when I heard Mum calling.

She was using this breathy martyrish tone that, despite my intentions to be more patient, instantly irritated me. In fact I nearly didn’t answer. If I could have sneaked past and run up to
my room, I would have done. But the lounge door was open and I knew she’d see.

‘Jen?’

Or I could turn tail and go into town. Browse the high street, sit in a café for an hour and dose myself with carbs. My sore throat was getting worse and now I had a headache as well.

‘Jen!’

‘What?’ I said, coming into the room just a few paces. I wondered what was eating her on this occasion. A complaint against Hel or Dad, or maybe something I’d done, some
domestic crime. Failure to rinse the sink after tooth-brushing? Maybe. I’d been really rushed this morning. I might have left the toilet roll holder empty, too.

‘Jen. Help.’

It was her legs I saw first, sticking out from behind the sofa. For a daft couple of seconds I assumed she was down on the floor to clean the castors or polish the metal studs along the bottom
edge of the frame. She likes to pay attention to these details no one else notices. It gives her more to moan about.

Then as I came round and saw her properly, the penny dropped. She’d had some sort of fall. She sat half-propped against the cushion edge, her face grey and clammy, her teeth gritted. Her
skirt was ridden up on one side, exposing the top of her tights.

‘Jesus, Mum. What happened? Did you trip? Have you broken something?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Hurts. When breathe. Jaw. Arm. Feel sick.’

That’s when I guessed she was having a heart attack. I’d seen enough on TV dramas to recognise the signs.

‘Oh, God! How long have you been like this?’

‘Not. Long. Call Dad.’

‘He’s at work,’ I said stupidly.

She just rolled her eyes, as well she might.

‘OK, right,’ I said, attempting to pull myself together. ‘I’m going to make you comfortable and then call an ambulance.’

Quickly I wrenched off my coat and laid it over her, packed her round with cushions so she was more supported, then I snatched up our phone and dialled 999. At first I was anxious about saying
‘suspected heart attack’ within her hearing in case it added to her stress, but then I looked back at her ashy skin and closed eyelids and realised she was beyond caring. Fortunately
the guy on the other end of the line was soothing and clear. He assured me they’d have someone there within fifteen minutes. I prayed he was right.

Mum was trying to speak again. ‘Don. Don.’

‘He’s next on my list, Mum. As soon as the paramedics arrive.’ I didn’t want to tie up the phone in case the ambulance needed to ring us. Was that the right thing to do?
Or would refusing make her worse? Chat to her, keep her calm, the man had said – what else, what else? I could try her with a sip of water. No, because of anaesthetics – I could half
remember an episode of
Casualty
where they fed a man aspirin to help his heart, so was that an idea? Oh, my mobile! Idiot! I could ring Dad on that and leave the land line clear. And Hel,
I needed to call her too . . .

Next thing I was tipping my handbag upside down so the contents scattered across the carpet. Mum’s hand came up to claw at her shoulder, as if she was trying to take off something
tight.

‘I’m calling Dad,’ I said.
Do not cry
,
do not cry
, I told myself.
Do not cry yet.

It wasn’t until the paramedics were lifting her onto a stretcher that I managed to make contact with my dad. He’d been away from his office when I first rang, his personal mobile
switched off, and his secretary had to go and fetch him. I managed to get the story out coherently and in a way that I hoped would stop him going straight into panic mode. But I could hear his
distress and confusion loud and clear as he took in the news, and that nearly set me off. None of us had seen this coming.

I got him to take in the key points: that he was to meet us at the Countess hospital, that he needed to update Hel on the situation, that I was going with Mum in the ambulance so I
wouldn’t have my car with me. I said, ‘They did an ECG so they know what’s going on. She’ll be all right now the medics are on top of it,’ which was a bald lie because
I hadn’t a clue how she was doing. Very badly, I suspected.
Her lips are blue, Dad. She couldn’t seem to get her breath. I think she’d wet herself. I’m
frightened.

And then I dropped everything to follow the stretcher out of the house, shutting the door behind me on the handbag, duster, coat, cushions strewn across the floor. The debris of a disaster.

They put the sirens on. It was half an hour up to Chester if the roads were clear. Mum lay with an oxygen mask over her mouth and nose, her eyes wide and pleading. They’d
sprayed something under her tongue and then she’d been told not to speak. I sat beside her and held her hand. Tried not to look at the IV line feeding in painkillers, tried to stop myself
thinking the worst. Made myself imagine – for something to occupy my brain – what the ambulance must look like from the outside, to car drivers and their passengers. They’d be
speculating, and crossing themselves physically or mentally, saying, ‘Thank God that’s not me. I thought I was having a bad day but at least I’m not that poor sod in there.’
Or perhaps they’d just gaze after us in a ghoulish way, spectators at a drama without any sense of human connection. There was a boy at school used to shout, ‘They’re coming to
take me away, ha-ha!’ whenever he heard a distant siren. And I remembered Mum once saying that too many people were being desensitised by television and computers and that they needed to
switch off their screens and get out into the community more, say hello to their neighbours. At the time Helen had been surfing YouTube on her phone and I’d been watching
Britain’s
Got Talent
, and we’d both just waved her away.

I looked down at her and saw properly and close up the grey roots showing, the papery skin under her eyes. When had she got so old? Because somewhere in my mind I still maintained as my default
image the mum I’d had as a little kid, a woman coming up to forty, buzzing with energy, powering through the daily chores. I think she’d been more balanced in her attitude to housework
then, fussy but not obsessive. You could put something down without having her bark at you for leaving clutter. Occasionally she’d even sing as she worked, if only underneath the drone of the
hoover. And in those days she’d done a lot of baking. I’d come home and there’d be a delicious rack of cooling cakes waiting in the kitchen. My small fingers poking the jam tarts
before they were ready, picking chocolate chips off the top of muffins. Those cakes were the end-of-the-day, shoes off, satchel down, children’s TV, home, love. But then Hel got sick and
there was the business with Dad’s secretary, and everything in the house went chill. Not Mum’s fault. But I hadn’t understood. I’d backed off, lost myself in school life,
where everything was a laugh and family was a drag, an embarrassment not to be mentioned. There were no more cakes for a good long while; the tins sat in the drawer under the oven, unused.

I thought,
If Mum gets better and the hospital let her go, I’ll bake her a Victoria sponge and ice it WELCOME HOME. Helen can help me. Dad can clean the house ready. Actually,
we’ll do anything, anything if she just pulls through
.

‘OK, love?’ The paramedic touched my shoulder.

All I could do was nod because my throat was too choked to speak. The ambulance leaned to one side as we turned onto the expressway. Mum’s hand was sweaty in mine.

For half an hour I hung about the hospital corridor on my own, waiting for news.

I asked one of the doctors, ‘Was I right, has she had a heart attack?’

He said, ‘She’s having one now,’ and strode off through the double doors.

On one side of the corridor was a display board with notices about the patient care contract, plus some colour photos of clogged arteries. Opposite there was a picture window onto a scrubby
garden. I went and stood looking out at the frost-blackened shrubs. The planters held only bare soil. Between two exposed twigs, a stripy spider trembled.

I thought,
I’m not ready for this. This should be happening in the future, far off, years away. Not yet. I want my mum here with me, and not-sick, telling me it’s OK. I want
someone.
I kept checking my watch and wondering what had happened to my father and sister. They should have been here by now. I couldn’t text or call them because, like an idiot,
I’d left my mobile behind in the house. Such a stupid, basic mistake.
Hurry up
,
Dad
, I willed. Every time the hospital doors opened, my heart bumped with fear. I
didn’t want to be the one the doctors came to with their bad news.

And then, oh, thank you God, Dad appeared at the far end of the corridor as if I’d magicked him by the pure force of need. He walked with the rocking gait of an overweight man, whilst my
thin sister stalked along beside him, upright and clenched.

‘Where’ve you
been
?’ I said as soon as they got close enough.

‘I had to wait for Helen to get home from the kennels.’

‘I dropped everything and rushed up here,’ she snapped back. ‘What’s the latest? Why the fuck didn’t you answer your phone?’ Her turn to accuse.

‘Nothing yet. The doctor told me to wait here and they’d tell me.’

‘And what have they said so far? What are they doing?’

‘She’s in surgery. There was a blockage in an artery and they found it using dye or something. They’re putting in a stent to keep the artery open. What is a stent? Does anyone
know?’

Dad flopped down onto one of the plastic chairs. His face was red and he was out of breath. If anyone had been due for a heart attack, you’d have thought it would be him, not my trim,
groomed mother.

Meanwhile Helen remained standing.

I said, ‘I left my phone behind. I wasn’t thinking straight.’

‘Well bloody hell, Jen. Have you any idea what it was like, not being able to get through to you?’

‘I had a few other things on my mind.’

Now Dad spoke up. ‘I want to talk to someone. Who do I talk to? I want to know exactly what’s being done to my wife.’

‘I’ve told you all I know. They said to wait—’

Far off a familiar figure was making his way up the corridor, coat slung over his shoulder. Ned.

‘He drove up behind us,’ explained Hel. ‘So we’d have another car for getting home. Because Dad might need to stay. I didn’t want to drive mine because I was too
jittery.’

‘I’m not going home,’ I said. ‘I’m staying here till we know she’s out of danger.’

But I knew this was a silly statement. None of us knew how long Mum would be in theatre, and I hadn’t brought a thing with me – no phone, no purse – only my house keys in my
pocket. I wasn’t carrying so much as a spare tissue. And I doubted Helen was much better prepared; she was still wearing her bib and name badge from work.

‘So how are we doing?’ said Ned when he caught up with us.

‘Waiting.’

He nodded. ‘I was thinking, my uncle Derek had a heart attack ten years ago, do you remember? And he’s fine. I mean, I don’t know if it was the same sort, if there are
different types. Your mum’s younger than he was. Which is good. Plus she doesn’t eat her own body weight in chips every week. Like he did, I mean. So, you know, that’s . .
.’

I felt for him, twisting on the spot. Hel was busy plucking at her cuff and Dad was staring at the doors as if he hoped he’d develop x-ray vision.

‘I said, ‘She’s only fifty-eight. Anyway, I thought it was mainly men who had heart attacks.’

Dad said, ‘If they don’t come out soon and tell us what’s happening, I’m going in.’

Through the window a flock of sparrows had landed and were hopping about the dead garden.

‘She’s been working too hard, that’s the problem,’ said Hel. ‘She got too tired and
no one noticed.
’ Daggers at me.

‘Aw, come on. You don’t have a heart attack just because you’re slightly over the top with cleaning.’