The Son-in-Law (30 page)

‘Nearly there, sweetheart,’ said the woman.

The hospital wasn’t far away but it seemed to take a year to reach it, even with the sirens and lights. Our driver pulled into an ambulance bay where more people met us. They transferred Gramps onto a trolley and wheeled him in, with me tagging along. One of the doctors was a woman. She was quite pretty, and she said her name was Jenny. She asked if I knew what time Gramps was taken ill.

‘Just after two fifteen,’ I said promptly.

‘Sure?’

‘I’m certain. I’d looked at my watch just before. Look, he’ll want Hannah,’ I explained anxiously. ‘My grandmother. I need to try and phone her again.’

Someone took me to a telephone behind a long desk and showed me how to get an outside line. Hannah was still out. I left a message for her to phone the hospital, which was all I could think of to do.

I felt completely alone. I stood and looked around the ward, at all the coming and going, and I knew nobody had time for me. I thought desperately about who I could phone, who would want to help me. The fact was, I couldn’t think of anyone.

Then I remembered. I was wearing my jeans, and in my pocket was . . . I dug deep into the pocket and pulled it out. Yes, the bit of serviette with Dad’s phone number scribbled on it. Worth a try.

Please God, please Mum
, I whispered to myself.
Please God,
please Mum.

I lifted the hospital phone again. My fingers kept missing the numbers. At the fourth try, I managed to dial.

It rang three times, and then I heard the best sound in the world. Dad’s voice.

•

Joseph

Akash was on fine form. As soon as they’d met in the Prince Albert, Joseph sensed momentous news.

‘Got a date tonight,’ the young man announced coyly, once they were propping up the bar.

‘Female?’

Akash ignored the remark. ‘She’s an architect.’

‘How did you meet her?’

‘At my uncle’s place. She’s even got the seal of approval from The Mob. This is our third date. She’s dragging me along to some arty French film.’

‘
Third
date? This is getting out of hand!’

‘Mate,’ declared Akash, without a hint of levity, ‘I’m in love.’

‘Those are three words I never expected to hear from you. Well, I hope she . . . hang on.’ Joseph reached into his pocket as his phone trilled. He peered at the screen, but it wasn’t a number he recognised. ‘I’d better just answer this.’

‘Go ahead,’ said Akash, sinking his nose into his glass.

‘Hello?’ Joseph could make out background sounds, but nobody spoke. ‘Hello? Joseph Scott here.’

A young voice, high with distress. ‘Dad?’

‘Scarlet!’

‘Where are . . .’ The words dissolved. ‘Where are you?’

‘In Leeds. What’s up?’

‘Um . . .’

Concerned, Joseph walked away from Akash, pressing his hand to his other ear. ‘Are you okay? What’s happening?’

‘I’m in York Hospital. Could you please come? I really need you.’

•

Joseph burst through the doors of the ward. The lonely figure was waiting for him, young and vulnerable in jeans and a sweatshirt. She hurled herself down the corridor and clung to him, her arms around his neck. Joseph suppressed his joy. Only a heartless bastard would take pleasure in Frederick’s tragedy.

‘Any news?’ he asked.

‘They’re scanning his brain.’

‘But they think it’s a stroke?’

‘They’re sure it’s a stroke. They just want to know more about it, and they’re probably going to give him some special treatment.’

Father and daughter sat close together on a lumpy sofa in the relatives’ room. Scarlet’s clothes were damp, and she shivered. Joseph took off his heavy overcoat and scarf and bundled her into them. He held her close to him while she told and retold her terrible story. He pictured her and Frederick consulting Hannah’s shopping list in the supermarket; saw them companionably eating wedges before wandering together along the slippery stones of the wall. He saw poor Scarlet, frightened and alone, shouting for help.

‘You managed brilliantly,’ he assured her. ‘Brilliantly. I’m really proud of you.’

‘He was trying to talk. It was so sad. D’you think he’s going to be all right?’

‘I don’t know. But what I do know is that it was lucky he had you with him.’

‘What exactly is a stroke?’

Joseph dredged his memory and was doing his best to explain when a figure appeared in the doorway. A stethoscope hung around her neck, and she wore scrubs. Joseph’s overall impression was of extreme youthfulness—like policemen, he thought wryly, as he stood up to meet her; even hospital doctors seemed to be getting younger.

‘Hello again!’ she said amiably to Scarlet.

Scarlet too had got to her feet, Joseph’s overcoat trailing on the ground. ‘Hi. This is my dad,’ she murmured. ‘Dad, this is . . . um, a doctor. I think.’

The newcomer smiled. ‘Jenny Jones, medical registrar.’

‘Any news?’ asked Joseph.

‘He’s stable—asleep at the moment. A CT scan has established that there’s been at least one stroke. He’s been given thrombolysis to break down the clot, which we’re hoping will limit the damage. We’ll do another scan in about twenty-four hours. We’ll keep him in, obviously. He may be with us for some time.’

Joseph put his arm around Scarlet. ‘How d’you think he’ll do long term?’

Dr Jones shook her head noncommittally. ‘It’s very hard to say at this stage. It looks like this isn’t his first stroke; there may have been a series of small ones.’

Scarlet interrupted, ‘Can we please see him? I don’t want him to wake up and be alone.’

The doctor was about to reply when she was distracted by some conversation further down the ward. ‘Relative of Frederick Wilde?’ she called to someone Joseph couldn’t see. ‘Come this way—there are other family members in here.’

Joseph heard the tap-tap of female footsteps, and knew whose they must be. He couldn’t escape. He was trapped. A second later Hannah had rushed blindly into the room, her face death-white and taut with shock. At the sight of her enemy, she halted as though she’d run into a brick wall.

‘What the
hell
are you doing here?’ she demanded icily.

‘Scarlet phoned me.’ Joseph fought to keep his voice neutral. ‘She needed somebody. I wasn’t too far away, so of course I came.’

‘It’s true, I did!’ cried Scarlet.

Hannah’s gaze took in the fact that her granddaughter was swathed in a man’s overcoat. Joseph’s overcoat. She seemed ready to faint. ‘Did you honestly think Frederick would want you anywhere near him?’

‘No, but Scarlet did.’

‘How dare you show your face here? You caused this!’

‘Hannah, I—’ She stepped closer. ‘How much more damage will you do, before you’re satisfied? Will you never leave us in peace?’

‘I’ve never intended to cause any damage.’

‘Get out!’

Scarlet ran across to Hannah and took her arm. ‘I asked him to come. Don’t be angry.’

But Hannah wasn’t listening. ‘You have thirty seconds to get out of this building. After that, I call the police.’

Anger flared in Joseph. ‘For Christ’s sake, Hannah, why do you have to be so unreasonable? I came here because I care about my daughter.’

‘Really! Just as you cared for mine?’

‘Yes—which is more than can be said for you.’ Joseph’s self-control was in tatters now, his voice low and furious. ‘You know Zoe made my life a misery at the end. You know that damn well. And I got no help from you. I wish you—’ ‘Excuse me!’ Dr Jones held up a warning hand.

‘—could admit that to yourself, for all our sakes.’

‘
Excuse me!’
The doctor had a surprisingly loud voice. ‘Stop right there! I don’t know what’s gone on here, and frankly I don’t care. You’ll have to sort this out somewhere else, because we don’t have time or space for family spats. The pair of you might like to think about the effect you’re having on Scarlet.’

Ashamed, Joseph looked at his daughter. The poor child was trying to block her ears, and her eyes were screwed shut.

‘Leave,’ said Hannah. ‘Now.’

Joseph saw that he had no choice. He laid his hand briefly on Scarlet’s head as he passed her. He was halfway down the ward when he heard Hannah’s voice behind him.

‘You forgot this.’ She was holding his overcoat at arm’s length, as though it was contaminated. He reached to take it from her, but she thrust it into his arms.

‘Listen to me,’ she hissed. ‘If you care at all, you’ll disappear and let them get on with their childhoods. It’ll be the most decent thing you’ve ever done.’

Twenty-six

Hannah

They had him walking—though it wasn’t quite in a straight line; they had him talking—though he sounded drunk, more so when he was tired. They got him to perform silly little tasks, like a monkey. He was an old man in a hospital bed, pyjamas rumpled on a shrinking body, clinging to the memory of himself. He slept. He lay and stared with empty eyes and sagging mouth at mindless morning television. He slept again.

When the children visited, he made a supreme effort.

‘Scarletta!’ he’d cry, struggling to his feet as she appeared in his doorway with her elf-hair and pale watchfulness. ‘Theo! And my little . . .’ I could see him smiling fearfully at Ben, trying different names on his tongue.

‘Ben,’ I said quickly, ‘take your shoes off before you climb on the bed.’

He was in the rehabilitation ward when Scarlet turned fourteen. I’m afraid she didn’t get much of a birthday; I’d spent the past weeks rushing between home and hospital, and was feeling thoroughly institutionalised. I threw money at the problem and paid for her and Vienna to go to the cinema. Instead of a party, the five of us sat in Freddie’s ward, eating shop-bought cake and trying to be jolly.

‘Fourteen,’ Freddie kept murmuring. ‘Fourteen.’

Scarlet grinned at him. ‘I know!’ she said. ‘Ancient.’

When it’s somebody else’s husband—or parent—whose brain has been decimated, it’s blissfully easy to be wise. ‘It would be so much kinder if he just slipped away,’ we say blithely. Or, ‘He wouldn’t want to live like that. Can’t anything be done to end it?’ We who have grey hairs think we know all about these things. It’s a form of arrogance. When Freddie’s mother’s ninety-four-year-old heart began to falter—years after dementia destroyed her personality and dignity—I remember telling a group of colleagues that I hoped she wouldn’t be resuscitated next time she collapsed.

‘They should let her go,’ I said. They all agreed. Of course they did. We sipped our morning coffee kindly, actively wishing that another human being would die and stop cluttering the place up with her dicky heart and her incontinence pads and her soft brown eyes. We told ourselves that we were only thinking of her; but that wasn’t true. The truth was that she unsettled us. She reminded us. She made us look along our own roads, where we saw the convergence of parallel lines.

Now it was my turn. Freddie’s turn. And by God, I wasn’t letting him go. I sat beside him with my laptop, intending to get on with a backlog of work but more often researching
stroke
. I became a lay expert. I terrorised the ward, buttonholing every doctor who came within range. I’m sure they thought me a harridan—and a hard one, because I didn’t shed a single tear in public. I shed plenty at night, after the children were asleep.

Freddie came home in early April, a month after he and Scarlet set off to do the grocery shopping.

Or perhaps he never came home.

When did I lose him, really? I don’t know which part of my beloved’s mind made him Frederick. I don’t know, precisely, when that part died. He left me by degrees, so there was never a right time to say goodbye. I lost my soulmate inch by inch. I watched him suffer, diminish and shrivel away. I wonder what he or I had done to deserve that.

Sometimes I run time through my hands like rosary beads, and try to touch the moment of loss with my fingertips. I recall mislaid jackets and tea caddies and strange conversations long before the Big Stroke; a slack-jawed bafflement that I tried to deny. Yet a vital part of Freddie was still intact, even after he came home from hospital with his shattered memory, even when the occupational therapist said it wasn’t safe for him to drive. According to her he shouldn’t even make a cup of coffee by himself. She treated him like a child. Bossy girl! What did
she
know of Frederick Wilde—magnificent theatre director, witty raconteur, polymath? What did
she
know about how it feels to lose your youth and health? Nothing.

Freddie knew what was happening. He’d known for a long time. I see that now. He felt the sly slipping of his personality—his intellect, his
self
—down the vortex and into oblivion. He knew that Freddie Wilde was leaving the building. He tried to cling to his mind with sheer force of will. It must have been terrifying.

Meanwhile, Joseph Scott lay in wait on his web, biding his time like a hunting spider. The children continued to see him every couple of weeks and came home with their lips firmly buttoned. Freddie hadn’t been home five minutes before Scott was pushing the issue about the children staying overnight. His solicitor said we had to get some arrangement sorted out before the summer holidays.

‘No,’ I said to Jane. ‘We gave him an inch and he’s trying to take a mile. I’ve made my decision. It’s no.’

She sighed. ‘Well, in that case they’ll have it listed as soon as possible.’

She was right; we were back in court by the end of April. I couldn’t let Freddie be exposed to those gazes, not in the state he was in. I went alone, and sat behind Jane.

The Siberian husky was as brisk and pitiless as ever. ‘There’s no reason why they shouldn’t have contact overnight with their father,’ he said to Jane. ‘They’ve been seeing him regularly. It’s a natural progression.’

Jane argued valiantly. She put forward every possible argument, and he listened with obvious impatience. Finally he rubbed his forehead.

‘Oh dear, Mrs Whistler. Well, Dr Wilde may give evidence if you think that will help me. Step into the witness box, Dr Wilde.’

It really was like stepping into a box, an upright coffin with dead-looking wood and a reek of polish and unhappiness. Scott sat slumped in his seat, his face turned towards Dick Turpin’s grave; the man they dissolved.