Small Acts of Kindness, page 9
When I went to Auckland the first time, I told Yaya she needed one so we could speak to each other. She said she was being two times punished – by me going away, and by me making her have this terrible thing. She never picked up when I called her. I don’t know if she was making me suffer, or just couldn’t work out what to do with it. She never rang me either. But at least I was the only number in her contacts when the hospital had to track me down. Finding Yaya’s next of kin was not a problem.
‘Right, Wordsworth, let’s start at the beginning,’ I say, like he really understands what I’m doing. And to be fair, the look he’s giving me now, it’s like he really does.
Mrs Malley’s address book has heaps of names, but some have a line through them, and the letter d with a date. In fact, Mrs M needs to do a bit more crossing out, I reckon, because the first two numbers I call (it feels nice, turning the dial on the old phone, and it makes a funny whoosh sounds as it moves back into place, like I’m in an old black and white movie or something) – Alderton, Penelope and Atkins, Jean are answered by people who tell me they’re new owners. Alderton, Penelope has emigrated to be with her daughter in Canada and Atkins, Jean, died three years ago. Adams, Susan answers though and I explain about the stroke and about how I’m trying to track down family or close friends.
‘So sorry but I don’t believe I know her.’
I tell her Mrs Malley’s first name is Mary. From Little Piddleton. And that she lives in a pretty cottage with white flowers in the front, near to the wood.
‘No. Sorry. I don’t know a Mary Malley, although I do know Little Piddleton.’
I tell Adams, Susan about Mrs M having a basset hound called Wordsworth.
‘Wordsworth. But he’s – oh, you must mean Harry’s friend? Yes, I heard she took the dog. And she was a Mary. I hardly know her though. Harry – Harriet – brought her along to help out at a jumble sale I organised a few years ago. Yes, Mary Malley. I asked if she’d mind running the toy stall and she said she’d rather do the tombola. She told me I’d done it all wrong and that she’d have only allowed tickets with a zero at the end to win, rather do than any five as well. Also she thought we should have left the raffle draw until later in the day. Mary Malley. Of course. She said we must swap numbers so I could call her if I was ever organising a fundraising event again.’
‘And you never did?’
‘Call her? No.’
Adams, Susan is almost certain that Mrs M had no children. She’s sure Harriet said as much. But she wouldn’t know about any other family or friends, she’s afraid.
‘I only met her the once. Good luck though. You’re a friend of hers, did you say?’
I’m about to say yes, but Wordsworth is watching me and my cheeks feel warm and itchy.
‘More her house sitter. I’m looking after the dog.’
NED
L
AST SUMMER, I DID the London to Brighton cycle with Bella and Toby. Hilary too. Toby’s parents must have been looking after Henry because we made quite a night of it, with a hotel on the front and fish and chips on the pier and pints in – goodness – a fair number of pubs. Between us we raised more than a thousand pounds. Toby with that stupid joke. ‘Good thing we’re staying at The Grand tonight, guys, because we’ve only gone and raised a bloody grand. Geddit?’ It wasn’t strictly hilarious, even the first time. Toby never could take his ale.
Macmillan. That’s what we were all donating to. Me because of Dad, Bella in memory of her great-uncle. And Hilary’s father was having treatment for prostate cancer at the time.
It was the first time for the others but my third. I’d done London to Paris in 2014 too.
I cannot see my legs turning because my head is facing the ceiling. But I can hear the soft purr of the machine and I can feel the motion. Left knee up, right foot down, right knee up, left foot down. Round and round. I tell my eyes to close. I would so like to be able to close off the view of strip lights and curtain rail. I’d like to picture fields and lanes and a stream of other bikes moving ahead of me, with Bella directly in front, pedalling hard in black Lycra. I’d like to will away the sanitised hospital smell and block out the words of Becky, the physiotherapist, and breathe in cowslip and sunshine and exhilaration.
Come on eyes, close. Allow me this one little fantasy.
‘That’s brilliant, Norton. You’re doing really well.’
Of course I’m doing well. The machine you’ve placed on the bed and strapped my feet into is turning automatically. It is plugged into the electric socket at the wall. None of the effort is mine.
‘There’s a lot of research about the benefits of the cycling motion for patients of . . .’
Please. I don’t want to know this now. I want to feel. Close. Eyes close.
Above me, the line of electric light is harsh and white.
‘. . . and in fact, in the last hospital where I worked, they found . . .’
Come on, eyes. Please.
They close. My eyes. They actually do it. I told them to close and they closed. I closed my eyes. And the brightness of the ceiling light turns into the dancing red-black of the inside of my eyelids. My legs are still cycling and I let my brain play its film. Left knee up. Right foot down. Right knee up. Left foot down. Round and round.
London to Brighton. Or London to Paris. French villagers came out to clap and call encouragement. ‘Allez,’ they shouted. Round and round went my legs.
‘Good stuff, Norton. We’ll keep this going for a few more minutes. And over time you can build up the time to keep those muscles active.’
Spin classes in the gym. More Bella’s thing than mine, but good now and then, for working up a sweat. I’d ache after, too, though not as much as after the bike ride.
Left knee up. Right foot down. Left foot down. Right knee up. Round and round. When I was still me, I didn’t know how much I loved what my body could do. I just did it. Round and round. Pedal, pedal, pedal.
How old was I when I learned to ride? Four or five, I suppose, with Dad holding onto the back of my bike – I can picture it now, shiny red and so grown up – and then not holding it, but running along beside me. Our street was wide and straight, with palm trees on either side. If he and Mum had stayed together, I’d have grown up American, I suppose. ‘I’m doing it, Dad. Watch me! I’m doing it.’
Dad in cut-offs and a white T-shirt. ‘Awesome stuff, little man. Keep going.’
‘Perfect, Norton. And we’ll keep going just a little longer.’
I never wanted to stop. Even though it made me very tired. I wanted to keep on pedalling and pedalling and pedalling. ‘One more minute,’ I’d beg, when Dad said it was time to stop. I remember once, keeping going until I could pedal no more. The feel of my father’s shoulder beneath my cheek, as he carried me back home with my bike beneath his other arm. And that night, in bed, I could still feel my legs moving.
Left knee up. Right foot down. Left foot down. Right knee up. Round and round.
A knocking. I think about opening my eyes. They do not open.
‘Excuse me. Is this Norton Edbury’s room, please? The charge nurse said to come, but I don’t want to interrupt.’
Softly spoken.
The thoughts in my head shift like a projection caught in the light. From the tanned blond of my father to the closely cropped grey of Maxwell.
Becky tells him it’s fine, please come in, because this is the last thirty seconds, and Maxwell says what an interesting machine and that he’s read about the therapeutic benefits but never actually seen one, and Becky agrees and says how nice to meet him and says goodbye to me.
Open, I tell my eyes. And they do, but only the tiniest bit, and then they close again, so I don’t catch a view of him. Just the briefest impression of a shape above me. I can fill it in though. Kind eyes. A face that wrinkles in all the places where my mother’s does not. An expression that will be concerned, but calm.
‘Oh Ned,’ Maxwell says. ‘Just look at you.’
MRS M
I
CANNOT BELIEVE WHAT I am hearing myself say to the consultant. The shame. A word I have never once, in all my life, uttered before this moment. A wicked word. And to a doctor. What must he think of me?
What is worse is that I do not even know I’m going to say it until I hear it coming out of my mouth. That’s the most awful thing about it. I’m listening to what he’s saying and I’m thinking that he reminds me rather of Dr Bryans. Old Dr Bryans, of course, not young Dr Bryans. Thick hair and understated spectacles, and a very fetching handkerchief in his pocket. So few men wear them these days. Red with white spots, and silk rather than a cheaper alternative. One can always tell. Roger preferred a cotton handkerchief. Unfussy, he said. He thought silk was for, well, those types who preferred handbags to briefcases, he said. I told him that he needn’t be so vulgar and that silk was perfectly masculine. He always preferred a simple square fold, which is what this doctor is wearing. Personally, I’ve always rather liked a two point but Roger was so terribly set in his ways.
This doctor’s name is Mr Douglas. He has a Scottish accent but he seems capable. He doesn’t use too much medical jargon as so many doctors seem to.
‘Normal to be extremely tired and not to feel like yourself after something like this. The scan shows that the stroke has caused damage to three small areas of the left frontal lobe. Our team will help you to work out how you’ve been affected and what strategies and therapies we can best bring in to help you adapt. Brains are remarkable things, remember, and good recoveries are possible at any age, though it’s important to be patient and to realise that . . .’
Very like old Dr Bryans, except without those eyebrows. Harriet always said how terribly sweet he was, it being her first job, and he never scolded her when she brought in the wrong notes or double-booked his patients.
‘. . . very likely that some activities such as moving and speaking might feel a bit different. I hope you understand?’
Yes, I do understand. Everything is going to feel a bit different. It does feel different. And he is quite right. I have been very tired and there are a lot of things in my – you know – that I can’t – not really. And I’m still not completely sure that – well, anything. And I know I’m going to say a thing. And what it’s going to be – I think – before I say it – is, ‘Thank you,’ or ‘Yes, I see, doctor,’ or ‘Much obliged, Dr Douglas.’
But that is not what I say. I smile. I think I do. My face still feels so odd. But I believe I smile. And I open my mouth to say something. The right thing. The thing that a lady such as myself knows to say. And what comes out is the other word. The awful word. The nasty, shameful word.
I smile at the consultant – or such is my intention. And I say very clearly, ‘Wanker.’
KIKI
‘W
ORDSWORTH SAYS HELLO. Well, you know, he doesn’t say it – imagine that – but he, you know, is sending you the look he does with his eyes. You know, this one.’ I’m doing a really good impression but she doesn’t smile. She just stares, kind of at me, but kind of through me.
‘And he says you don’t need to worry about him, because I’m taking care of him. Which is what I wanted to talk to you about. Unless there’s anybody else that you think should be doing it? I’ve been walking him too. So unless you – you know – don’t want me to, he’s fine.’
She doesn’t reply, just stares, so I carry on.
‘Like I say, if there’s no one else that you need me to call then I’m happy to keep the house safe. I mean just say otherwise. But I thought it would put your mind at rest to know someone’s keeping an eye. You don’t have to, like, pay me or anything. It’s quite nice anyway, you know, nicer than the pub.’
Yaya always told me I talked too much. ‘Chatter, chatter, chatter, little Kiriaki.’ Sue says it too. Well, what she says is it’s OK to allow the odd silence in a conversation. But Mrs Malley still isn’t saying anything. Her hand is over the sheet on her chest, with a cannula in it. She’s looking at me though, like there’s something she wants to say. It’s like she’s trying to move her lips. I wait. But she’s still not speaking so it’s me who talks again.
‘Was there something you wanted to – sorry, I – I mean, don’t feel you have to, honestly. It’s nice, your cottage. Lovely. But the hospital have been asking about any family or friends you want us to get in touch with. What’s that?
‘“House”? Was that it? Don’t worry. I know it’s hard to talk. Your brain has had a really big shock. You just need to concentrate on getting yourself better. That’s what I’m telling you, that I’ll keep the house safe. I’ve been keeping the door locked, too. I know you had it open, but I don’t think that’s the best idea. I mean, I’m not saying—
‘Here. Let me sort out your pillow a bit. That’s better. And, look, I brought in a nightie. I hope you don’t mind that I went into your drawers to get it. I just thought it would be nicer. And some slippers too. I don’t expect you’ll need those for a while yet, but I’ll give them to the nurses.’
She doesn’t nod or smile or say thank you or anything. So I tell her about the flowers.
‘I brought some flowers, too. From that wooden wheelbarrow in your garden. Except the hospital don’t allow them so I had to give them to a woman who was coming out of the exit. She said they’d look pretty in her kitchen. It was a shame though. I should have realised, maybe. It was the same when I went to see Yaya – my grandmother. Except her flowers were just from the bus stop.
‘That’s why I know how difficult it is for you. Because Yaya had a stroke too. Not the same, of course, they’re all different. But it took her a long time to recover. Or not recover because she never really did, but it was ages before she was able to leave the hospital. That’s what I’m telling you, even if you’re here for months, you don’t have to worry about the cottage. Or about Wordsworth.’
Her lips are really moving now, but I can’t work out the sounds she’s making.
‘Sorry, Mrs Malley? No, don’t get upset, it’s bound to be a bit hard to get the words out. You know, just while your brain recovers. Is that “cat”? I don’t know anything about a— Or cap?
‘Cap? You mean – silly me, I forgot. I was just trying it on. I didn’t want to . . . I hope you don’t mind. It was just that the box was there in your spare room. “Harriet’s stuff”. I thought there might be something to tell me who I could contact for you. Because of Harriet being your best friend. But it was all scarves and things. And this. Such a lovely colour. I’ll put it back. I was just, you know, trying it on.
‘But listen to me, rabbiting on about berets when there’s something much more important to tell you. I’ve read the poem. The bucket list. And I’d be proud to help you do all those things. Because you still can. You can have those chips in a fancy restaurant and sunbathe in the nude, like it says. And the hippy festival. That’s kind of what I’m here for too. Glastonbury. I’ve always wanted to go. Sue said I’m a bit obsessed. I’d say we’d go together, except it’s impossible to get a ticket. Honestly, impossible. We could go to another festival maybe.’
I can’t tell what the look she’s giving me is, so I keep on talking.
‘And once you’re feeling a bit better, I’ll take you on that shopping trip, too, like in the poem? And go for a drive in a fast car. And maybe dye your hair. What colour did it say? Pink?
‘No, don’t try to talk any more – the nurse said you mustn’t get excited and I told Vicar I’d go and find him. I’ll let you get some more sleep now. But, like I say, don’t worry about your house or about Wordsworth. They’re both safe.
‘Here, let me give you a kiss. What’s that? I’m sorry, that sounded like—
‘Well, that was very clear. And I know exactly what you want to tell me. Fuck as in “Fuck It”. “The Old Ladies’ Fuck It List”. Don’t you worry. I’m going to help you tick off every single thing on it. You can count on me.’
NED
T
HE AIR ON MY skin is a breath of joy. This is what the world feels like. It has still been here, all the time, waiting outside of the hospital walls. It smells green. It smells like being alive. It’s not raining now but I can almost taste the rain that I heard during the night. This is the world, and I am in it.
In my mind I am throwing open my arms towards the sky. The body won’t do that, of course. It’s propped in this wheelchair, head lolling against a headrest, staring up at grey sky and red bricks and a sign that says The Sunshine Unit for Neurological and Stroke Rehabilitation, Garden of Hope.
Turnalope Place.
‘Nice to be outside, I would guess?’ Tammy is my favourite of the nurses here. She has a smile that never looks forced and her tone is never too bright. If she’s knackered, she tells me. If she’s pissed off with one of the other inmates, she grumbles.
‘Your stepfather will be back shortly. He suggested coming out here. He thought some fresh air would be good for you and we’re all loving the new garden. It’s nice for us as well as the patients.’
I don’t remember Maxwell leaving. I must have fallen asleep. Not that he’d have seen the difference, I suppose. My eyes are open now, and as Tammy wheels me in a half circle, I can see a bench beside a raised wooden planter. It is filled with bare earth and there are rows of flowers in Styrofoam, waiting beside it. An old man in cotton pyjamas is digging clumsily with a trowel in one hand, while the other arm hangs. Next to him, a younger man in blue scrubs is offering him a pink plant. A sweet pea, I think. Or a snapdragon? Maxwell will know. He loves gardening.
‘He seems nice, your stepfather. He wanted to know everything about your treatment. It’s good to have someone knowledgeable around. You’re lucky.’
