FIVE
Wheelchair-bound, and pale and drawn as Boyd is, he's such a welcome sight. His hair is standing up in uneven silver spikes, his cheeks are bristly with a rough stubble that's trying to catch up with his goatee beard, and he looks almost as bruised and battered as she feels, but he is alive.
"It wasn't that funny," he says, sounding both concerned and reproachful.
Still clinging to his hand, Grace manages to regulate her breathing enough to say, "Remind me sometime, and I'll explain."
He shakes his head, apparently deciding the matter isn't important enough to pursue. "Christ, you're a mess."
"Thanks," she mutters.
His hand tightens around hers a perceptible fraction. "I am so sorry, Grace."
"Why?" she asks, confused. "Boyd, it wasn't your fault. Any of it. We both decided to go and look at the house, and we had no idea that..." she manages a slight shrug. It's painful, but it costs her less than continuing to talk.
"I don't think Spence, for one, sees it that way."
"I've spoken to Spence," she tells him. Pauses to catch her breath. Changes the subject. "How's the leg?"
"Full of stainless steel and titanium, apparently. Getting through airport security is going to be a bundle of laughs from now on."
It's so like him. She can't help but chuckle, even though it makes her wheeze again. He watches her with his brows drawn down as she works on steadying her breathing. When she's sure talking is again a viable option, she says, "You just missed Dawn. She's not happy with either of us."
"Oh, God. I'm to expect an irate visitor tomorrow am I? Another one."
She doesn't dare tell him just how angry her daughter had been. Relieved, of course, and tearful, but very, very angry. Understandable, but emotionally draining. "I'd do my best to protect you, but..."
A hesitant tap on the door of the side room where she's lying in solitary state makes them both look round. A young face appears, its expression far from happy. "Mr Boyd? Sister's heading this way, and I need to get back to A and E."
"This is Louis," Boyd explains. "He's a porter."
"Junior porter," the young man says, "and I really, really need this job, so..."
Grace gives Boyd's hand a squeeze. It's not much, but it's all she can manage. "Go," she says. "Before you get caught and we both end up in Sister's bad books."
"Grace – "
"Go on," she repeats. "I haven't got the strength to referee, and I know what you're like."
He seems on the verge of arguing, but after a moment he visibly subsides. "Saving me from myself?"
"Always," she says, releasing his hand. As the porter comes forward to wheel him away, she mouths, "I love you."
He blinks, as if it was the very last thing he was expecting, and then he smiles. A gentle, genuine smile that tugs at her heart.
Grace misses him immediately. After the pain and stress and exhaustion of the last twenty-four hours, seeing that smile was exactly what she needed. Staring up at the ceiling, she fights against the wave of nausea that's come with moving her head to look at him, to speak to him.
It doesn't pass. Slowly, her fingers find the call button left beside her good hand.
"Doctor Foley?" It sounds like the young nurse she met very late last night, the one who sat with her and so very gently washed away the dried blood and mud covering her.
"Molly?" Grace asks, unsure. It still hurts to open her eye.
"It's me. What's wrong?"
Her voice cracks as she whispers, "I feel terrible. Really sick and dizzy."
There's a rustle of paper. "You're due your medication. I'll get it for you. If you think you're going to be sick, press the button straight away, all right?"
"I will."
As concussed as she is, any change in position or elevation sets off the nausea, and with the damage to her ribs, the chest drain, and the bruising and swelling just about everywhere else, she can't turn herself to the side to vomit.
She has no intention of telling Boyd that last night, when they brought her to the room and tried to settle her, the transfer made her throw up and, stuck on her back, she choked. It was more than a little scary.
Boyd. She just wants to hug him. To curl up against him and feel the solid, reassuring warmth of him. Molly returns, injecting the contents of two syringes into her cannula.
"Are you comfortable?" she wants to know, gently checking the chest tube.
"I'm chilly," admits Grace. "Can I have another blanket?" It hurts so much to talk.
"Of course."
Within minutes she's tucked in for the night, the call button easily within reach. It feels surreal.
Slowly, too slowly, the nausea begins to abate and the pain begins to diminish.
Trying to ignore it all, Grace turns her thoughts back to Boyd. He looked so much better than she thought he would. It was incredibly heartening, especially after Eve's entirely honest updates.
Briefly, she wonders what will happen to them now. Whether this will derail their chances of… togetherness. It's a dreadful thought.
Just a few nights ago they shared an evening at her house. Had dinner, watched a film. Missed most of the film. God, the feel of him, his weight sprawled on top of her along the length of the sofa. The increasing passion of their kisses, the tentative exploration of wandering hands. She can vividly recall the blissful shock of his palm finding its way beneath her blouse, the very real burn of desire that wrapped around her.
Drifting on the haze of painkillers, Grace falls back in time to that moment. Buries her hands in his hair and kisses him back, her tongue tanging with his, her heart thudding with excitement in her chest. It's been so long, and oh does it feel so, so good.
When they eventually pull apart, she is angry. Why? she demands of herself now. Why did they stop? Why did he kiss her gently good night and take his leave, heading out into the damp, chilly evening?
We've wasted time, she thinks, sadly, the fog of exhaustion beginning to reel her in. We've wasted so much time and look at us now.
"It always goes back to that damned man, doesn't it?" Dawn had accused. "Every single time you've been caught up in trouble for the last ten years!"
Fading towards blessed oblivion, Grace doesn't even try to untangle the complicated mix of memories and emotions closing in on her. When the medication and the exhaustion finally overwhelm her, she surrenders easily and gratefully.
How long she's asleep, she's not sure, but all too quickly there is light and sound and movement. Morning has arrived and brought with it the interminable hospital routine of checks, meds, and food. Beyond her side room, trolleys are being wheeled, curtains are being swished, and patients are being roused.
She feels considerably better, she realises. Stiff and sore, but definitely stronger. Breathing seems to be a little easier, and for that she is infinitely grateful.
The thin partition wall that separates her from the corridor beyond has a big window set into it. The curtains are only half-closed, and she watches as a middle-aged man in a checked dressing-gown shuffles past using a walking frame. The ward is mixed, with the men's bays at one end and the women's at the other. As far as she knows, bathroom facilities are shared.
She wonders about Eve's unexpected plan, about the idea of the empty bed in her little side room being occupied not by some unknown female patient, but by the intolerant, irascible Peter Boyd. Wonders if the ward sister will allow it, and what problems it will bring if she does.
Dawn would hate it.
It's nothing to do with her.
It would be... unconventional.
Grace has never been exactly conventional. Not in so many things.
The practicalities, though...
A tap on the door heralds the arrival of a nurse she doesn't recognise. Slight, olive-skinned, and male. He approaches with an easy smile, asking, "How are we doing this morning?"
We? she thinks. She doesn't challenge him over the pronoun. "Better," she tells him. "A little, anyway."
He studies her notes for a moment, then returns them to the foot of the bed. "Let me do your obs, then you can have some breakfast."
"What day is it?" she asks. "I've rather lost track."
"Friday."
It was Wednesday, she thinks. The day they left London and drove into Surrey. Wednesday afternoon.
Feels like half a lifetime ago.
"I think," the nurse announces cheerfully, as he fiddles with the wires and tubes attached to her, "that with a little bit of luck, they'll take this drain out today. That will make you feel a bit more comfortable."
"When do you think I can go home?" she asks, though it's far from an appealing prospect.
"It'll be another couple of days at least, I'm afraid. Why, aren't you enjoying our hospitality?"
She warms to him, to his easy manner and the gentle twinkle in his eye. According to the plastic name tag on his blue uniform tunic, his name is Jose. Straight-faced, she responds, "The accommodation is splendid, but – "
" – the food is rubbish?" he finishes for her. "Yeah, everyone says that."
"My friend," she says, as he checks her blood pressure, "is on Gunning. We came in together. Do you think you could find out how he's doing for me?"
"Friend?" he says, still twinkling.
"Friend," she confirms, but for the first time in God knows how long, she finds she's enjoying the little game.
"'Friend' in inverted commas?"
"Maybe."
He chuckles. "I'll see what I can do."
It's an experiment, and not a hugely appealing one, but when breakfast arrives, Grace doesn't protest as Jose raises the head of the bed slightly. She keeps her eyes tightly shut and breathes as steadily as she can. At forty-five degrees, she has to beg him to stop. She may well be nicely medicated, but even that has limits, it seems.
"How long will this last?" she croaks.
"It's a pretty nasty concussion," he replies. "I wouldn't be surprised if it's a good couple of weeks before the dizziness fades. How's the photosensitivity today?"
"Still bad," she admits, risking a peak out of her good eye and then deciding it's not worth it.
"Lie still for a few minutes, see if you adjust."
Grace wants to roll her eyes. Is immediately reminded of Boyd and feels a smile swell internally. "I'm not… exactly… going anywhere," she intones around deliberately steadying breaths.
"True." There's a grin in his voice. "I'll come back in five minutes. If you can't stay up, we'll revert to the smoothies like yesterday."
Grace hears him walk away and grimaces to herself. Not having to take slow, careful sips of disgusting fake strawberry flavoured goo and ease it down a throat too bruised to want to swallow whilst lying flat on her back is plenty of incentive to try and stay semi-upright.
Quite how she's going to deal with the swallowing part though, she's not sure. They're still giving her intravenous fluids to keep her hydrated. Gingerly, she lifts her good hand, tries to feel the state of her neck. Lots of puffiness, and pain at the lightest pressure. With a sigh, she lowers her arm again and listens to the sounds of the ward waking.
Being crabby and irritable won't help. It is what it is, and she's in the right place.
Jose returns, this time with Donna, the cheerful middle-aged healthcare assistant that Grace remembers from yesterday.
"How about trying some Weetabix?" Donna suggests. It sounds like torture, but Grace agrees. "They go soggy with the milk so that should make them easier to swallow."
It's a bit like being a child again, but slowly – very slowly – Grace manages to eat one of the two biscuits provided. When her stomach begins to churn unpleasantly, she stops, shakes her head slightly at Donna. They don't let her have the bed reclined all the way flat, but less upright than she was, Grace closes her eye and focuses on breathing. It hurts a lot less than it did, feels easier. There's a difference in her lungs, too, in the amount of air that moves in and out.
It's a bit like meditation, that slow, steady in and out. Helps her focus. Fight back the bitter edge of nausea.
"Good morning," a warm, friendly voice announces.
Grace opens her mouth to greet her visitor, and immediately loses the battle to keep the Weetabix down. Eve reacts instantly. Drops her bag, pushes Grace's good arm aside, slides one of her own arms between the mattress and Grace's back, and pushes, using her own bodyweight to roll her sideways as she snakes her free arm across Grace's waist and up over her torso, palm coming to rest on a shoulder, supporting her and preventing her from sliding any further.
"I've got you," Eve murmurs calmly, reassuringly. "Just concentrate of getting it all out."
It would be hideously embarrassing if it weren't so agonisingly painful.
Eve's brisk shout for help brings Lisa, another nurse, who tuts impatiently at "whoever thought it was a good idea to give you milk" and then between the two of them, she and Eve carefully change the sheet beneath her before Eve discreetly retreats behind the curtain while Lisa slowly, patiently wipes Grace's skin and helps her into a clean gown.
"You're sweating," remarks Lisa, concerned. "Is the pain still very bad?"
Holding her ribs with her good hand, even Grace can hear that she's panting as she says, "It's easing."
"Don't listen to her," Eve announces, stepping back up beside the bed and resting her fingers against Grace's wrist. "She's too stubborn for her own good."
"I'm fine," growls Grace, awkwardness creeping in.
"Your pulse says otherwise," Eve retorts cheerfully.
Lisa chuckles. "More painkillers it is then. The more comfortable you are, Doctor Foley, the quicker you'll heal."
Grace opens her eyes as much as she can, studies her friend as she searches for the right words.
Eve grins at her, briskly straightens the various tubes snaking across the bed. "Don't," she orders, beating her friend to it. "I'm a doctor, I'm used to bodily fluids."
Grace sighs, defeated before she can start. "Sorry," she mutters, anyway.
"Cheer up. I come bearing good news."
Grace's heart lifts. "Boyd?"
Eve nods, looking faintly smug. "What's that old saying about the impossible we do at once, miracles take a little longer? They're moving him down here after the doctor's seen him. Between you and me, I think Gunning are quite keen to see the back of him."
"Oh dear, has he been that badly behaved?"
"I believe there was a bit of a contretemps last night over... bathroom issues."
"Bathroom issues?" Grace echoes, confused. When Eve starts to grin, she holds her good hand up. "I don't think I want to know."
"Let's just say, he thinks he's more mobile than he is, and leave it at that."
"Oh God."
"Look on the bright side, he won't be a boring roommate."
"Thank you. I think." Starting to wheeze, Grace falls back into silence.
Eve settles into the visitor's chair by her bed, says, "Spence says the investigating team will be in to speak to the pair of you today, or failing that, Monday."
"How's the land lying?" Grace asks, knowing that Eve will tell her the truth.
"I don't know much, but from the bits and pieces I have heard, it'll likely end in Boyd getting his knuckles rapped – again – and that will be the end of it."
"It wasn't his fault, you know. It was a mutual decision to go, and there was no reason to think – "
"You're preaching to the converted, Grace," Eve tells her gently. "What happened was a wild coincidence no-one could have predicted. The third man's been identified, by the way."
"Oh?"
"Barry Townsend. Nasty piece of work from Hackney. Armed robbery, GBH, all that sort of thing."
"Lovely."
"Spence will tell you more, I'm sure."
"Is he coming in to see us?"
"Later, I think. At the moment he's busy being Boyd."
"Have you seen him this morning? Boyd, I mean?"
"Briefly. He's in a foul mood, and running a bit of a fever. Could be a bit of wound infection. They've put him on IV antibiotics." Eve moves to stand up again. "I'd better go. I told Spence I wouldn't be long."
"It was nice of you to pop in."
"You're my friend, Grace. Of course I'm going to come."
It's heart-warming. Makes the world feel just a little better and brighter, even when she's alone again.
The need for a nap, despite the fact that she's not been awake that long, is overwhelming, and when Grace wakes again, it's to her own visit from a doctor.
"Doctor Dufour; sorry to wake you. How are you feeling?"
Struggling to clear her mind from the remnants of the semi-erotic dream in which both she and Boyd were very, very naked, Grace takes a moment to find an answer. "Sore," is the first word that her still sleepy mind comes up with.
Doctor Dufour, it seems, is very matter of fact. "You will be, for some time. Several weeks, in fact. Now, if I could listen to your chest, please?"
Stethoscope in hand, he advances. Gently palpates her ribs, examining the bruising before listening to her chest, asking her to take deep breaths. "Hm, there is improvement there, yes. And the drain is working well."
"When will it be removed?" Grace wants to know, eyes watering with pain.
Doctor Dufour falls silent, leafing through her notes at the foot of the bed. "I think tomorrow morning. There is a little more output still than I would like to see. No sense in taking it out only for you to need it again."
"No, I suppose not."
He looks up, studies her dispassionately. "Are you eating? Drinking?"
Grace grimaces. "I try, but it just comes back up again."
"Hm, the room is dim, the light is bothering you still?"
"Yes, I keep my eyes closed, mostly."
"Yes, yes, that's all part and parcel of concussion. Keep taking the painkillers and the antiemetics. Try to drink water. You'll just have to be patient, I'm afraid. Someone from the maxillofacial surgery team will be down to talk to you later."
That's the first she's heard of that. "Why?"
"You have damage to the bone structure around your eye. It requires repairing. And your nose is crooked – you were punched, I presume? They will fix that, too. Do you have any questions?"
Struggling to keep up with what he's just said, Grace simply murmurs a soft, "No, thank you." Before she knows it, the doctor is gone.
Jose appears, a syringe in his hand. He spots the look on her face and laughs. "Don't worry," he assures her. "Dufour makes everyone feel like that. He's a strange man, but he's very good at his job."
"I didn't know," she whispers, her voice cracking.
"Didn't know what, lovely?"
Grace gestures to her face. "That I need… fixing. I don't remember them telling me before."
"Oh. Well, try not to worry. You're in the best hands. Do you want to try a sip of water?"
She does, and it's wonderfully cool against the rawness of her throat.
Lisa appears, begins to move things around. "Good news," she explains. "Your new roommate is on his way down."
Her mind still in uproar from the last few minutes, Grace shifts uncomfortably on her bed, unexpectedly fearful. Just how bad does she look, she wonders. It must be an awful lot worse than she'd imagined if surgery is going to be involved. Suddenly, the idea of sharing with Boyd isn't as appealing as it was earlier.
There isn't much time to dwell on the matter, however. Noises and voices beyond her room's closed door herald Boyd's arrival. He's not shouting, but she hears him long before she sees him. No mistaking that exasperated grumble. Little wonder that the porter who arrives first looks weary and harassed. He wheels out the empty bed next to hers, and moments later wheels its replacement in. Boyd, accompanied by a rather too attractive blonde nurse, is sitting up imperiously, a plastic bag presumably containing his property held on his lap. He glowers at her, as if somehow everything is her fault, and mutters something unintelligible as his bed is brought to a none-too-gentle halt.
Like her, he is liberally festooned with wires and tubes, and the nurse bustles around his bed, connecting and tidying as she goes.
"Good morning," Grace volunteers, when it becomes clear he's not going to speak first.
A surly grunt is followed by, "Why's it so damned dark in here?"
"Concussion," she tells him. "The light hurts my eyes."
"Oh." A long, appraising look. "You look bloody awful."
"Thank you," she says. It's meant to sound dry and it does. Some of her previous worry abates. He's a pragmatic man, and plain-spoken, and in a way that's easier to deal with than endlessly dancing around the issue. "You don't look so great yourself."
The bruising is really starting to come out now, giving him impressive panda eyes, and the various cuts and grazes around his jaw and temples are dark and crusted.
A figure in dark blue appears in the doorway. Sister Cooper. Mid-forties, tall, slim. Formidable. She looks from Boyd to Grace and back. To them both, she says, "This is highly irregular. This may be a mixed ward, but we don't generally mix genders within rooms or bays. If there is any fuss, one or other of you will be moved immediately onto the main ward. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Sister." Boyd. Uncharacteristically meek. Grace wonders what he's playing at.
Icy grey eyes fall on her and she nods in agreement, adding, "There won't be any fuss."
"Good." Sister Cooper withdraws, followed by her dutiful minions.
Awkward silence. More awkward silence.
It's Boyd who breaks it with a haphazard sort of, "How are you feeling?"
"Oh, you know."
"Yes."
It's ridiculous, of course. Their sudden inability to communicate. Grace sneaks a look at him, finds him staring up at the ceiling in a blank sort of manner that suggests he really has no idea what to say.
Deciding to take the bull by its metaphorical horns, she says, "Apparently I need fixing."
"Eh?" He turns his head to look at her.
She gestures towards her eye. "Eye socket. Nose, too. I've always vaguely toyed with the idea of getting a nose-job. Now it won't cost me a thing."
"Why?"
"Well, it'll be on the NHS, won't it? It's not – "
"No," he interrupts, tone irritable. "Why the idea of a nose-job?"
"Vanity," she tells him. "Pure vanity. I wouldn't expect you to understand."
"You look fine. I mean, not at the moment. Ordinarily."
"If that's your idea of flattery, Boyd..."
He glares at her. "You know what I bloody mean."
"Fortunately for you, I do."
He grunts. There's a moment of silence, then he says, "Seeing you so beaten-up... it's killing me, Grace. I am so sorry."
"Don't start all that again," she says, though she hears her voice hitch. She clears her throat. "It's been a tough couple of days, hasn't it?"
"Yeah."
"How's your leg?"
Boyd grimaces. "Hurts like hell. Painkillers take the edge off it, but..."
"And your stomach?"
"They think it's maybe infected. It's sore. Throbs. My leg..." He stops. Seems to rally himself. "That's what they seem most worried about."
"Eve says it was a very bad break."
"Apparently so. The surgeon said..." His voice trails away.
"What?" Grace prompts. "What did the surgeon say?"
"She said... She said there's still a chance they might have to take it off. The leg. She thinks they might be able to take it below the knee, if it comes to it. That would be the best for me. For the future, you know? Best for... prosthetics."
It hits her hard. Harder than Doctor Dufour's words had. She stares at him, lost for anything to say.
Boyd hunches a shoulder in a tiny shrug. "If it starts to heal, it'll be okay. If the implants don't take, if the bone doesn't fuse round them..."
If he loses his leg, he loses everything. That's what he's not saying.
It's a lot of what ifs. Grace searches for something more positive. "What did he say you could do to help?"
Boyd looks over at her, sees through her attempt and smiles. "Behave, essentially. Absolutely no weightbearing – not that I bloody would, given how painful it is. Keep it elevated. Take the painkillers, look after myself, that sort of thing."
"Then you'll just have to do exactly as you're told."
"Mm. I will."
Slyly, she pokes at him with, "What a challenge that will be!"
There's a short bark of laughter. "Ha. Not this time, Grace. Trust me, I'll be a model patient. Whatever it takes."
It's a vow of sorts. And she understands. To Boyd, his physical prowess is a defining characteristic. "I believe you."
He reaches for the water jug on his bedside table. Fills a glass and sips. Drains it and starts again. "Why haven't you got one of these?"
Eyes closed, she fumbles for the water bottle Jose provided her with a while ago. She holds it up so he can see the straw attached to it. "I can't sit up. And I can't keep more than a couple of sips down anyway. I've got fluid on tap." She sighs, gesturing in the direction of the IV stand.
"Bloody hell."
"Surely you've had concussion before?"
There's a pause, then, "Yeah, I suppose so. Couple of days feeling very sick and sorry for myself when I fell off a horse as a kid."
"You had a horse?"
"No, my cousin did. Several, in fact. She finished up as a top showjumper. World championships, that sort of thing."
"Impressive."
Boyd scratches at his chin; she can hear the rasp of bristles being disturbed by thoughtful fingers. "I haven't seen her for years. I can't imagine she's given it all up, though." A pause fills the air, before he suddenly laughs. "I wanted to impress her friend, that's why I was riding. Totally backfired, so I went back to playing football, and running cross-country."
"I might have known it was all for a girl." There's no ire in her, only amusement.
"You know me too well."
"Perhaps. But I'd have thought you were more into rugby than football," she comments.
"Played that too," he admits. "But I really loved tennis. Played for Surrey as a junior, until my dad packed me off to boarding school in Yorkshire for being a little shit one too many times."
Curiosity burns. "What did you do?"
"Oh, lads' stuff. Tied the school gates shut, mixed up some chemicals in the science lab and smoked out the whole school… got expelled with my best mate eventually. His dad sent him to work on a farm the next day, mine put me on a train with enough threats in my ear that I did as I was told for once."
Grace chuckles at the image her mind conjures of him, and then immediately wishes she hadn't.
"So, come on, what about you?" he says.
Nonplussed, she frowns. Forgets he can't see her face as she reclines back in bed. "What about me?"
"What did you do as a kid?"
"Oh. I followed my older brothers around a lot. Wanted to play with them all the time. They taught me badminton, but I was never very sporty. Not coordinated enough."
"So, what did you do?"
She thinks back over her childhood. "I read a lot. I played outside. My grandfather was a shepherd; he used to take me out in the fields with the sheep. He taught me about the birds, the insects, the flowers. He liked the serenity of it all. He'd have hated that I ended up in London. He came here once and was utterly miserable the entire time."
"A shepherd? Really?"
"Really. Don't laugh," she scolds, hearing that hint in his tone. "He gave me so much knowledge. And he taught me about music, how to play the violin, to enjoy the classical works."
"The violin? Seriously?"
She wishes she could glare at him. "Grade Eight distinction, I'll have you know," she tells him loftily.
There's a pause that she absolutely could have predicted, then, "Do you still play?"
"I do. Sometimes."
"How have I never known this?" There's a genuine note of amazement in Boyd's question.
"You've never asked!"
"True."
Silence falls, this time far more comfortable than before. Then, an admission. "I still love tennis. I played in a charity tournament last month. Came second."
Her heart breaks for him. It will destroy him if the worst happens. "Hold that in your heart," she suggests. "Keep it as your motivating goal, even when it's hard. I've known you a long time, Boyd, and if there's one thing I'm certain about, it's that you can do anything that you set your mind to."
"Thank you. I – "
Whatever he was going to say is lost as a shadow falls through the doorway and an angry voice demands, "What the hell is going on here, mother?"
Dawn. Small and slight, like Grace herself, but with her father's temper. To say that she does not look happy would be an understatement of epic proportions.
"Keep your bloody voice down." It's a whiplash, delivered quietly and precisely before Grace can say a single word. "Your mother has a concussion, and she really doesn't need you barging in here shouting the odds."
"What the actual fuck?"
Grace winces more at the colloquialism than at the profanity. She lifts her hand to gesture at her daughter. "Calm down, this is a mixed ward."
Dawn advances. "That may very well be, but even I know that doesn't mean whatever is going on here."
"If you think something's 'going on'," Boyd interjects, "you clearly need your eyes tested. I'm currently about as much of a threat to your mother's virtue as the bloody Pope."
Dawn glares at him, switches her attention back to Grace. "Mum..."
"Calm down," she says again. "Come and sit."
Her daughter does as she's told, but it seems she's far from finished. "What the hell is he doing here?"
"Recovering, the same as me."
"That's not what I meant, and you know it. Have you gone mad?"
"Not as far as I'm aware, no," Grace tells her. "Please, lower your voice, darling. I know you're upset, but you're really not helping."
Dawn is an interesting character. Biased though she is, Grace has always thought so. A complex mix of both her parents, and a healthy dash of fierce individuality. She's in her thirties now, and has two failed marriages behind her. Her son Nathan, Grace's only grandchild, lives with his father in France, only visiting in school holidays. His absence, Grace believes, is part of the reason her daughter has become more and more touchy over the last few years.
"Why?" Dawn asks, a plaintive note in her voice now. "Why would you want to be anywhere near him? After... what's happened."
"It wasn't his fault," Grace tells her, not for the first time. And I love him, she adds, but silently.
"It never is, is it?!" Dawn glares at Boyd, then looks back at Grace to continue, "Whatever the disaster, it's never his fault. Look at the state of you, mum! Of course it's his fault!"
"Which part of 'keep your voice down' do you need explaining to you?" Boyd growls. "This isn't the time or place. Your mother needs peace and quiet, not – "
"Don't you dare!" Dawn bites at him, turning in her seat. "She might think you're God's gift, but I certainly don't, and I don't appreciate – "
"Stop it," Grace interrupts, her head thudding with a dull, sick ache. "Stop it, the pair of you."
"Mum..."
"Grace..."
Simultaneous. Both edging towards offended. For a moment she wonders how on earth she has ended up in such a difficult, ridiculous situation. Daughter and... whatever he is... locking horns right in front of her.
A new figure appears. Dark blue. Sister Cooper.
"Is there a problem here?"
"No," Grace assures her, before either of the other two can say a word. "No problem at all. This is my daughter, Dawn."
"Hm." Sister Cooper doesn't look convinced, but after a brief hello to Dawn, she continues on her way.
A tense, uncomfortable silence blankets the room.
cont...