TEN
It's a young male doctor, tall and bespectacled, who arrives an hour after breakfast and finally grants Boyd his freedom. A paper bag of initial medication is provided, with strict orders to see a GP as soon as possible to get a repeat prescription. Boyd reins in his impatience and makes the expected responses at the expected junctures.
The doctor leaves and while Grace is being attended to by Lisa, Boyd calls his uncle's house in Forest Gate. Rob, like Clara, does not hold with new-fangled mobile telephones. Pick-up from the hospital duly arranged, Boyd adds another request, says his goodbyes, then starts packing his few loose possessions into the leather hold-all Susan brought in to the hospital. When he's done, he settles into the chair by his bed and waits for Grace to be once again revealed.
When she is, he says, "Is there anything you need, before I go? Anything I can get for you?"
"I don't think so." She's quiet, a little distant. He guesses it's some kind of coping mechanism, guesses that she's as ambivalent about him being discharged as he is.
They talk sporadically about nothing in particular, both of them preoccupied for their own reasons. It's awkward, but not at all antagonistic.
Rob and Clara arrive faster than Boyd expects. The former hands him a small plastic bag and waves off his attempt to exchange it for a couple of crisp twenty-pound notes. "No need, boy. Happy to help."
Grace is talking to Clara. It gives Boyd the opportunity he needs to empty the plastic bag and sort out the contents. Once he is satisfied, he interrupts their conversation with, "Grace?"
She looks at him expectantly. "Mm?"
He holds up the new phone. Cheap, no-frills, pay-as-you-go thing. "Until we can get yours sorted."
"So you can check up on me?" she asks, but she's smiling.
"Naturally," he tells her. "And so you can call that daughter of yours."
"Thank you." It's soft, but very heartfelt.
"I'll take your bag to the car," Rob tells him, nods to Grace and departs.
The moment's coming. Boyd knows it is. To Clara, he says, "Wait in the corridor, will you? I won't be a minute."
For once, Clara doesn't argue. She says farewell to Grace and slips from the room.
Up on his crutches now, Boyd moves to stand next to Grace's bed. Looking down at her, he says, "I'll call you later, all right?"
"Okay."
"I hate leaving you like this."
"I know." She manages another small smile. "It's fine. I'm a big girl. I can cope on my own."
He glances at his bed. "I expect you'll have another roommate pretty soon."
"I don't think they'll let me have another gentleman to stay."
"They bloody better not." Boyd leans down – not easy on crutches – and kisses her softly. "I'll see you soon. Be good."
She snorts. "I would say the same thing to you, only it's a lost cause."
"'Bye, Grace."
It hurts even more than he expected. Leaves him with a hollow ache in his chest as he says his goodbyes and thank yous to the staff, and heads from the ward, Clara at his side.
They find their way out of the hospital and into the sunshine. Everything seems much bigger and brighter than it should. Beside him, Clara is trundling the empty wheelchair that he's saddled with. She talks a lot, but says very little.
"I'll cut through Raynes Park and get straight onto the A3," Rob says, as they get into the car – a battered old Renault that was once a smart navy blue.
"When did you last renew your licence?" Boyd asks, as his uncle aims the car in the general direction of the main road.
"Last year, you cheeky bugger. Just because you're Old Bill..."
"Yeah, yeah," Boyd waves him off. "I know, I know. Heard it all before."
"She'll be all right, you know," Clara says as they leave the hospital behind them. "Grace. She'll be all right."
"Yeah," he says. He doesn't want to talk about it. Doesn't want to talk about anything, in fact. He closes his eyes, knowing it will stop any further conversation. By the time they reach the A3, he is close to dozing.
He doesn't think he sleeps, but the next time he opens his eyes in a squint they are close to Guildford, and Rob is whistling quietly and tunelessly along to the radio.
They reach Farnham and bypass it, turning onto ever-narrowing roads until they finally drive through Capthorne, the small village where Boyd spent most of his young life, turn into Church Lane and pass St Mark's and its half-overgrown graveyard. On the left they pass a small white house set back from the road behind an unclipped hedge and an impressive lavender border. It belongs to Clara's only neighbour.
The Rectory isn't much further down the lane, isolated from most of the village. The current building is mainly Victorian, but the very oldest parts of it are late Elizabethan. A symmetrical grey stone building surrounded by trees and mature shrubbery, with an overgrown hedge and a crumbling garden wall to the front. Home.
"We're here," Clara says unnecessarily.
Rob stops the car on the empty driveway, just under the great beech tree that Boyd used to climb as a child. On the back seat, Buster is yapping excitedly, glad to be home after his sojourn in London.
"Let's get you inside and settled," Clara says, "and then I'll make some lunch."
"Where am I?" Boyd asks, knowing she will understand.
"In your old room at the back of the house, dear. I know there are stairs, but with the downstairs loo we had put in when your father was ill, you should only have to tackle them once or twice a day."
"Fine."
Getting out of the car is difficult, but he manages with just a few choice profanities. His crutches dig into the gravel, Boyd discovers, but he grits his teeth and makes his way to the big front door and on into the wide, cool hallway that bisects the front of the house. In front of him the staircase, scene of many childhood calamities, rises to the first floor. Ignoring it, he turns right into the house's large sitting room.
It hasn't got any less cluttered since his last visit, and he wonders briefly what his father would say if he could see it now.
The sofa, his aim, is large, exceedingly comfortable, and free of all clutter except for Apollo, who eyes him thoughtfully for a few moments before swishing his tail back over his eyes and returning to the serious cat business of napping. Boyd all but collapses into the heavy cushions, abandoning his crutches on the floor.
He's knackered. Well and truly cream-crackered.
It's an unpleasant realisation, just how shattering getting himself out of the hospital, sitting in the car, and then getting himself into the house has been.
A bit like what he imagines getting old is going to be like.
And that's just bloody depressing.
He wiggles himself deeper into the cushions, props his leg on the aptly placed footstool, and closes his eyes. Five minutes, he tells himself. He'll just close his eyes for five minutes.
Significantly more than five minutes later, he wakes because of the acute pressure in his bladder. Grumbling to himself, he sits up, fumbling for his crutches. He drops one with a clatter which earns him a one-eyed glare from Apollo who shifts his tail just far enough to bestow said glare out of the depths of his thick, lustrous orange fur in order to make his feelings on being woken for a second time quite clear. Cantankerous, Boyd glowers back and struggles to his feet. Back stiff, and only just coordinated enough to managed the necessary movements, he makes his way out of the lounge and into the little bathroom created from part of his late father's study.
Biology attended to, he locates his mother in the conservatory at the back of the house. A huge, old fashioned affair with slate flooring, a large square table that serves as a craft bench, dinner table, card table or simply as a base for whatever project has suddenly taken his mother's eye, the glass room is filled with so many plants it resembles a greenhouse rather more than a conservatory. Rattan armchairs, large, comfortable and cushioned with thick pillows, are placed between the greenery. It's a tranquil oasis, the place where he spent much of his indoor time as a boy.
Clara is at the table, gluing something that looks suspiciously like lace to a canvas. Boyd doesn't ask; dotty she may be, but he is well used to her peculiar art and her tendency to meander off into dreamy contemplation of the obscure.
"Little Peter," she says, instantly aware that he's there, even though her back is to him. "Did you have a good nap?"
He sinks into the chair that has always been his favourite. "I did. Accidentally."
"I'm sure you needed it." Her voice is serene. Gracefully, she gets to her feet. Boyd almost sighs in envy. Reminds himself that time will help, time will heal.
"Rob gone?"
"Indeed. Tea?"
"Please."
Boyd rests his head back against the chair and looks up, studying the glass roof, the bits of sky he can see peeking through the light drapes that obscure much of the heat in summer, and offer protection against some of the cold in winter.
It's peaceful.
Clara reappears with a mug of tea and a plate of sandwiches. They sit together, mother and son, quietly eating and drinking. Apollo saunters in as they are finishing, scrounging a stray scrap of ham and crooning, adoring fuss from Clara. Then, treat obtained and ears satisfactorily scratched, he lightly vaults his considerable bulk up onto another of the rattan armchairs where he promptly curls up and begins another nap.
What a life, muses Boyd, watching the mountain of orange fur segue effortlessly into slumber. Grace will like him, he decides. In fact, he has a strong suspicion that Grace will fall head over heels for the obstinate feline.
Grace.
He sighs. Fishes his mobile out of his pocket.
'How are you?' he types. 'Fell asleep the moment I got here.' He presses send, and then stares at the small device, wondering how long it will be before she receives his missive. What she is doing.
He doesn't have to wait long. There's a slight buzz, heralding an incoming message.
'In chair. Prefer bed. No vomiting though.'
Short, and exceptionally to the point. He's disappointed. Thinks it's more a message he would expect to send than receive, and then he remembers her nausea, her headaches. Staring at a tiny screen to type must be murder.
A second buzz pulls him out of his gloom. 'Yet.'
He laughs. Can perfectly picture the look on her face. Leaning back in his armchair again, he starts to type.
It's a short epistle, a humorous précis of his current situation that he thinks will make her laugh. Or at least raise a smile.
"I took your bag upstairs," his mother informs him, settling back at the table and picking up a ball of string and a pair of scissors. "The suitcase Rob brought from your house is in your room too. As requested, I haven't unpacked."
"Where's my telescope?" he inquires. He has visions of showing Grace the wonders of the dark night sky.
"In the dining room on top of the piano. The awkward folding wheelchair thing I've put in your father's study, out of the way. I had a hunch it wouldn't see much use."
Boyd allows a tired grin. "You know me far too well, mother."
"I do," she says serenely.
"Macrame?" he guesses, watching her fiddling with the string. "Didn't that go out of fashion over thirty years ago?"
"I'm making a peg bag," she informs him.
"Why?"
"Because I need something to put pegs in."
It's the kind logical of Clara-esque response that used to drive his father to affectionate distraction. Boyd shares the sentiment. "I meant... why don't you just buy a new one, like any normal person?"
"Haven't you heard of being environmentally friendly?"
"You've been reading The Guardian again, haven't you?" he teases. His leg is starting to ache abominably. To distract himself, he says, "Has Susie gone back to Edinburgh?"
"Tomorrow," Clara tells him. "There's nothing left she can do at the London office. She sends her love."
He grunts, picks up a book from the precarious stack next to his chair. "'Homeopathy for Beginners'."
"Put it down," Clara orders, not looking at him, "and keep your cynicism to yourself."
"Grace is interested in this sort of stuff," he says, flicking pages. "I always suspected she was a witch."
"Really?" Clara looks round, interested.
He sighs. "No, not really, mother. Metaphorically-speaking. Mind you, she's the next best thing to a genuine mind-reader you're ever likely to meet."
"Perhaps she's clairvoyant."
"Or perhaps she's just a brilliant psychologist, eh?"
"She sees straight through you," Clara says.
Boyd does not bother to argue. "I know she does. Most of the time."
"She looks to you for validation. Whether either of you realises it, or not."
"I find that hard to believe," he says, not bothering to hide his scepticism.
"Why?" Clara turns on her chair to study him. "You're an exceptional detective, with a long track record of high profile successes. She values her criminal work –"
"Forensic work," he corrects. "She's not a bloody bank robber."
"Don't be pedantic, dear. She values her forensic work, so of course she looks to a suitable source for validation. You teasing her probably hurts her more than you know."
That's an unpalatable thought. "It's just banter. It's what we do."
"All sorts of horrible things get dismissed as 'just banter', Peter. Remember that."
"I'm not horrible to her," he objects.
"That's what you used to say about your sister when you were children," Clara says, returning to her string, "and how many times did you reduce her to tears?"
"She was always crying wolf," Boyd complains. "She knew dad adored her, and she played on it."
"Maybe so, but you enjoyed tormenting her."
Too perceptive. Rather like Grace. Falling into sullen silence, Boyd puts the book back on the stack. He is wondering whether to try calling Grace when his phone buzzes again.
'New roommate has arrived. She seems very talkative.'
He will go and see her tomorrow, he decides, starts to ponder the logistics of the trip. His father's car, a pristine 'sixties Jaguar, was sold years ago. Robert has gone back to London. There is no local railway station.
Stirring, he asks, "Does Sally Mountford still live up at Highfields?"
"She does." Clara's voice takes on a glacial edge. "Don't you go sniffing round there, my lad. The past is the past."
"I wondered if she'd drive me to Wimbledon, that's all."
"'That's all', he says."
Her attitude makes him defensive. "Even if Grace wasn't in the picture, do you really think I'd be stupid enough to go there again?"
"That woman," Clara says bitterly, "is poison. Three husbands, and not one of them stayed with her for more than a couple of years. I still can't believe you were stupid enough –"
"I was sixteen," he interjects, needled.
"And she nearly ruined your life."
"It takes two, you know," he snaps at her. "She didn't get knocked up all on her own, did she?"
Clara turns in her chair to face him again. "Don't take that tone with me, boy. Stay away from her. You know what happened that Christmas you and Mary came to stay."
He scowls. "Well, how else do you suggest I get to bloody Wimbledon from this Godforsaken backwater?"
Clara stands up. "Since I can hardly tell you to go for a walk to cool down, I'll go for one myself."
Regret hits him hard. Usually does where his mother is concerned. "Clara..."
She gives him a long, searching look as she moves to the door to the garden, but says nothing. A moment later she is walking away across the perfectly-manicured lawn.
A wave of self-loathing rolls over Boyd. It's a familiar sensation, and an unpleasant one. He looks at his phone, sighs and tucks it back into the pocket of his mutilated jogging trousers. It's too early to call Grace. Isn't it?
Buster, who has been napping under the table, stands up and stretches. He turns his head towards Boyd and growls, deep in his throat. The sound is long and low, entirely threatening.
Boyd straightens his back, sits forward, glaring. The tense standoff holds for nearly a minute before a short, sharp whistle from outside summons the faithful little dog. Buster digs his heels in, offers a deeper edge to that angry growl.
It seems the truce from hospital is over, Boyd decides, watching the small creature with distaste. Too bad. He's about to start offering threats of his own when a second whistle sounds, this one shorter and sharper than the last. Buster shakes himself, and trots outside, ever faithful to his mistress.
Boyd leers at him as he goes.
Nothing wrong with his mother's hearing, he realises, settling himself once more. He'll have to remember that when Grace gets here.
Grace.
No matter what, his thoughts always seem to circle back to her.
That was his first clue that things were changing. That maybe there was a reason the sound of her laughter was so often in his mind, that wicked, sly grin of hers always appearing in his thoughts.
Whatever it was, it spurred him into action. A weekend lunch at a quirky café followed by a walk near Epping. A few tentative dinners during the working week, out at first, then at his or hers as they slowly started to test the water. Weekend day trips out of London. All of it thoroughly enjoyable and strangely wonderful after so much time alone.
Lust aside, it was her company away from work that he found the most special. Relaxing, easy, amusing. Just uncomplicatedly wonderful.
God, he misses her. Not even a day, and he's feeling tetchy, questioning how she really is. Text messages are all very well, Boyd thinks, mentally scowling at the phone in his pocket, but he can't see her. Can't check with his own eyes how she's doing, how she looks.
He absolutely, utterly adores her, but he doesn't quite trust her to tell him the truth if she's not feeling well.
Christ, the state of her…
The panic he felt when he first saw the damage to her face. First felt his heart lurch when she seemed to convulse with pain at a little chuckle. The horror he felt that afternoon when she broke down in tears, entirely inconsolable and unreachable – it will be a while before he can let go of that memory.
Thoroughly miserable, and with his leg now a teeth-grinding source of pain, Boyd gathers his crutches, forces himself to his feet and ventures to the kitchen. His medication is there, past due he realises. It's short work to down a dose along with a full glass of water – he can almost hear Grace in his head, pestering him not to let dehydration creep up on him.
Clara hasn't returned to the house, seemingly isn't ready to let him apologise.
With a sigh, Boyd returns to the conservatory and settles himself back in his armchair. Props his leg on a cane-topped stool with a cushion positioned beneath the bulky cast. Closes his eyes and begins to count slowly, steadily.
In, hold; out, hold. It's a breathing pattern his mother taught him as a small boy, a coping mechanism when he was frustrated. A way to relax.
It works. A little too well.
Strange light wraps around him, bends and twists, showing him indistinct shapes, familiar faces, an angry dog. Metal poles, a woman screaming, and a sudden influx of green terrify him, making him want to fight.
He can't. He's trapped, pinned in place as the voices mutter and he strains to hear them. As Grace cries and his mother frowns and Apollo flicks his tail in distaste at being roused once again.
It's chaos, and Boyd doesn't know which way to turn, even as warmth seeps into his cold bones, wrapping around him like a soft cloud. The muttering increases, and for a moment he feels reassured, even though he has no idea why, no idea what is being said.
She's falling. Grace is falling and he can't catch her.
A colossal bang fills his consciousness, makes him yell and leap forward. Something grabs his face, tickling ferociously and he roars in fury.
"How fucking dare – " he bellows and sits bolt upright, his eyes flying open.
Bright light assaults him. Afternoon. The conservatory door has blown shut in the wind, and one of the indoor trees is ruffled, a leafy branch very close to the end of his nose. A heavy, brightly coloured knitted blanket is covering him.
Shit.
Heart pounding, he looks around. Finds Clara sitting at the table once more. "Bad dream, dear?" she asks, unperturbed by his yelling. "Let me light a stick of incense to chase it away."
"It'll take more than that," he tells her, but for a moment he feels like a little boy again, glad of the reassurance offered by a doting parent. Forcing himself to relax a little, he says, "I'm sorry. About before. It's the pain and the stress."
"I know," she says, following through on her threat of the incense. The mixed scent of lavender and sandalwood begins to fill the big Victorian conservatory. "Douglas always used to say you felt things too much. Surprisingly perceptive of him."
"You still miss him, don't you?"
"Every single day," she says simply. "He was the great love of my life."
"I've never had that," Boyd says, the words coming unbidden. He can't unsay them, so he continues, "Not really. I loved Mary, but not the way you loved dad."
"And Jen?"
He hunches a shoulder. "Jen was a rebound thing, you told me that yourself often enough. I felt sorry for her, coping alone with a young baby."
"And all the others?" she inquires, not looking at him.
"There haven't been as many as you think," he admits. "Not that actually meant anything."
"And Grace?" This time she does look at him.
"Grace... is a new thing. And not."
"Do you know what it is you have with her which you never had with the others?" Clara says, and before he can hazard a guess, continues, "Symbiosis. That's what I had with your father, too."
"You're suggesting Grace is 'the great love of my life'?"
"I think she could be. If you open up to her. An alien concept, I know."
"It's crazy," he says, suddenly wanting to give voice to something that has been plaguing him. "How can two people who have known each other for so long suddenly... you know."
"Fall in love?" Clara shrugs. "Does it matter? Sometimes things happen that force change on the most immutable things."
She's always been a bit of a philosopher, his mother. Endearingly – often infuriatingly – eccentric, but given to deep and incisive thought. No academic qualifications to speak of, but still one of the smartest people he knows.
"I suppose," Boyd says, the words coming slow and considered, "what worries me the most is what will happen to our working relationship if... the other stuff... doesn't work."
"And you're willing to sacrifice the chance of real happiness – yours and hers – for that?"
"Yes. No. I don't know."
"Do you want her? Physically, I mean?"
"Mother!" It doesn't shock him, but it certainly takes him aback.
Clara rolls her eyes. "Darling, I know the idea of immaculate conception is precious to children, but you're old enough to face the facts of life. You and your sister were not brought by storks."
He shudders. "Thank you, mother. Please let's not have the birds and the bees conversation – you're at least forty years too late for that."
She moves from the table to sit on the rattan chair adjacent to his. "You're avoiding the question."
"Of course I bloody am," he snaps back. "What did you expect?"
"Honesty, Little Peter." She studies him for a moment. "What really got you into trouble as a child was not your wildness, it was your honesty. That's never left you. Do you want her?"
It's excruciating, and also a huge relief to say the words aloud. "I do. All the time. Where that's come from, I couldn't tell you, but one day there it was."
"But you haven't...?"
He cringes inwardly. "Oh, God. Do we really have to have this conversation? You're my mother, for God's sake."
"And you're a mature adult who shouldn't be scared to talk about sex," Clara counters.
He winces. "Please don't use that word in my hearing."
"I may be old, but –"
"Don't," he warns. "Yes, I do. No, we haven't. Can we please leave it at that?"
"But you want to? Both of you?"
He manages not to look at the floor. Just. "Yes. Now can we change the bloody subject?"
"Hm," she says. The noise could mean anything. Then, "I telephoned David Locke who does Catherine's garden for her. His boy, Tony, is out of work. He's happy to drive you wherever you want to go for the cost of the fuel and a pint or two."
"Tony Locke, the well-known shoplifter?"
"That was ten years ago, and he was barely fifteen. Don't be so judgemental, Peter. He'll drive you to the hospital tomorrow. If you so desire."
"He's not been in any trouble recently, has he?" Boyd asks.
"Not at all. He's a nice lad."
"If you say so."
Clara stands up. "I'm going to go and make a start on dinner. It's pork chops. Ring Grace."
He sighs. Can't help it. "Yes, mother."
She smiles at him fondly. "Good boy. Buster, come along with me now."
He watches them leave, stares at the plants around him without really seeing them.
Ring Grace.
The blanket he's knocked aside is very cosy, Boyd realises, as he digs beneath it for his pocket and his phone. Extracting the device, he takes a moment to straighten the thick fabric over his legs and chest, then looks to see if Grace has replied to him.
She hasn't, and the last text message he sent her was several hours ago now. Frowning, he tries not to dwell on it. Tries not to let the sudden thoughts that she doesn't want to talk to him dominate his mind. Instead, he scrolls through the contacts list and finds her number. Presses call.
He's about to end the attempt and hang up when she answers. "Hello?" Slightly breathless, rather muzzy.
"I'm sorry," he apologises, instinctively. "Were you sleeping?"
There's a beat of silence, then, "I don't know." It's slurred, as though she's a little drunk.
Alarm bells start to ring, fear prickles instantly up Boyd's spine. "Grace? Are you okay?"
"Yes," is the automatic reply.
He doesn't believe her for one second. There's no feeling to her tone, no smile in her voice, no teasing, either. "Grace, what's going on? Talk to me, please."
She seems to rally. Says slowly but clearly, "I'm okay. Just having a bit of a bad day."
His suspicion doesn't abate, but he is soothed somewhat by how sure the response is. "What's wrong? What's happened?"
There's a long sigh of frustration in his ear. "I made it to the chair," she tells him wearily, haltingly. "I even stayed upright in it until lunch. Jose wanted me to try eating there, so I did. But that old man was causing chaos again and my medication ran out before they could give me the next lot, so…" she trails off, miserably.
It's not hard to fill in the rest. "You threw up everywhere again, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"Oh dear," he murmurs soothingly. Deliberately, he hides his frustration from her. She's made so much progress in the last day or so, keeping her food down since Lisa thought to ask for the change in meds.
"It was horrible," Grace grumbles. "I hate being upright. It makes my head pound and I feel so dizzy." The last word is almost spat out, her distaste clearly audible. It makes him grin, just a little, to hear a hint of fight in her.
"God, I wish I could hold you right now," Boyd tells her, and rarely has he ever meant anything so much. She's not that physically far away from him, but the distance just now seems vast.
"I wish you could too," she replies, and there's something in her voice that hits him hard.
"I'm coming to see you tomorrow," he promises. "I've sorted a lift."
He can almost hear her frown. "You need to rest!"
"I can do that in a chair next to you just as much as I can sitting here in Clara's conservatory."
"Hm. If you say so."
She sounds like she is fading again, and that worries him. "Grace?"
"Mm?"
"What's going on?" He can hear muffled noises in the back ground.
"Tired," she mumbles, eventually. "I feel bad."
"Bad how?"
There's a clatter and then a new voice, one he recognises, says, "Mr Boyd? It's Lisa."
"What's going on?" he asks, immediately.
"Grace is having a bit of a rough day."
Impatience surges. "She told me that. That she was sick in the chair."
"Indeed," Lisa is every bit as calm as she was all the time she was looking after him. "We got her back to bed and she slept, but unfortunately when she woke up she was sweaty and running a temperature."
"What – " he begins.
"She's got a urine infection. Quite common with catheters in women, I'm afraid. We're already treating it."
Boyd's heart sinks. He doesn't know what to say. The sound of steps echoes in the background, and he has the strong impression Lisa is moving away from the bed.
"She's okay," is the reassurance offered to him. "I promise you, she's okay. She's a bit fuzzy round the edges – she's had quite a bit of pain today and she feels really unwell – but she's fine. I wouldn't lie to you."
He knows she wouldn't. "Will you call me if anything changes?"
"Of course. She's fallen asleep, and that's the best thing for her. She'll feel much better in the morning." There's a pause, then, "I don't think the new roommate is a good fit for her. I think she was… pestering Grace a bit this morning."
"I got that impression when she messaged me," Boyd admits.
There are more reassurances, another promise to let him know if anything happens, and then Lisa ends the call.
He hangs up the phone, feeling utterly forlorn.
Clara returns to the room, holding a glass of water in one hand. She sees his face and frowns. "What's the matter, darling?"
To his intense shame, Boyd feels tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. Puts his head in his hands and discovers he really can't find the words.
Moving next to him, his mother asks, "Is it Grace? Did you call her?"
Not moving from his hunched position, not taking his hands away from his face, he says, "Fucking UTI."
Clara doesn't chide him for his choice of phrase, though both Boyd and his sister are well-aware that there is an unspoken boundary regarding choice language in their mother's presence, and that that particularly notorious word and its variations are well beyond it. Instead, she puts a hand on his shoulder and lets it rest there. "Oh dear. Not totally unexpected, I'm afraid."
"That's what the nurse said," he mutters. Still not moving, he continues, "Hasn't she been through enough? Why is this so damned hard for her?"
"The older you get, the harder it becomes to bounce back from injuries and illnesses," Clara says. "Is she on antibiotics?"
"Presumably. The nurse said they were treating it." Boyd makes a stoic effort to gather himself. "I'm fine. Just frustrated. Angry that there's so little I can do to help."
"She's older than you, isn't she?"
He looks up at that, searching for signs of accusation or condemnation. Finds none. "So?"
"Nothing," his mother says, taking her hand from his shoulder. "At least, nothing pejorative. All I meant was she'll find recovery hard. Frankly, I'm surprised she's doing as well as she is."
"Thank you, Florence Nightingale. When did you become a bloody doctor?"
"Being churlish won't help anyone," Clara reprimands him. Her tone is sharp as she adds, "You have your grandfather's quick temper, Peter, and perhaps that's all right, but this relentless boorishness is incredibly tiresome."
It stings, and he's well-aware that it's supposed to. Momentarily he thinks she's going to send him to his father's study for a stern talking to. He remembers those talks. Far too well. After the war and demob, his father returned to the legal profession, and eventually became a formidable QC. Generally a quiet, thoughtful man, he could nevertheless be a tough disciplinarian.
Pushing aside uncomfortable memories, Boyd gathers himself as best he can. He says, "I'm sorry. I don't mean to take it out on you. I really don't. It's just been so bloody difficult, and every time I think she's gaining ground, something knocks her back. If I was a superstitious man..."
Clara gazes at him for a moment, then she says, "Come and join me in the kitchen. You can sit at the table while I finish cooking."
He knows better than to argue. Collecting his crutches together, he rises awkwardly and makes his way after her, wincing at each step. "Anything I can do to help?"
"Not a thing," she says, but without rancour.
The kitchen at the back of the old house was thoroughly renovated a decade or so ago. Modern cupboards and appliances in place of the fixtures and fittings he remembers from his childhood. It's not in character, but somehow it works. The back door leads out onto a small paved area filled with pots of herbs.
The kitchen table was new sometime in the reign of George V, and though it is an anachronism, it fits well. Boyd settles at it, wondering how many times he and his sister sat at it doing their homework – in the days before he was packed off to boarding school.
"Sometimes," he says to Clara's back as she attends to something on the stove, "I think about jacking it all in. I've done my time. Over thirty bloody years."
"Early retirement wouldn't suit you," his mother says.
"It might, if I had the right person to share it with."
"Hm."
"I could marry her. Third time lucky, and all that."
"You're assuming she'd have you."
"You don't think she would?" It's not snide, he's genuinely curious.
"I don't know, Little Peter. I hardly know her, do I?"
"You'll like her."
"I already like her; I just don't know her very well. What about the daughter?"
He snorts. "Dawn? She can't stand the sight of me."
"I did rather form that impression."
"I'm the man who keeps dragging her mother into trouble. Allegedly."
Clara glances at him. "I wouldn't have thought Grace was the sort of woman who would allow a man to drag her anywhere."
"Quite." Boyd sighs, then manages a slight chuckle. "She's got some balls, Clara. Christ, you should see her interviewing suspects. Talk about the iron hand in the velvet glove."
"And she's not afraid to stand up to you."
"Not remotely. She's hauled me over the coals more times than I care to think about."
"Good."
It amuses him. "'Good'? Whose side are you on?"
"Yours, dear," Clara tells him. "Always. Which doesn't mean I don't think you sometimes need taking down a peg or two."
"Well, thanks." He pretends to be affronted, but he's not, not really. "I'd call her again, only they said she's asleep."
"Dinner," Clara tells him, "then perhaps a quiet hour in front of the television, and then off to bed early."
"I'm not five, mother."
"No, but you are convalescing. It won't do you any harm."
She's probably right, Boyd admits to himself, watching her move around the kitchen. Elderly as she is, she still has a dancer's poise and elegance. He wonders, not for the first time, what really drew his parents together. The same sort of strange alchemy he has discovered with Grace, perhaps.
"Dinner's almost ready," Clara informs him.
They eat quietly, sitting opposite each other, and then they retire to the living room. Watch an old black and white film before Clara stands, finds a bottle of water and his night-time medication, and shoos him up to bed.
The stairs are almost more than he has the effort for, but Boyd grits his teeth and forces himself upwards, his palms slick on the handles of his crutches, and his muscles burning with the effort of hauling the weight of his body. Two thirds of the way up, he almost loses his balance. Has a terrifying moment where he genuinely thinks he's about to plummet backwards and suddenly he's back in that old house, being smacked with the jagged spindle, punched in the jaw, and kicked hard in the thigh and the hip as he fights to keep from being tossed backwards.
The memory of falling and the fear of doing so again swirl together into a sick, dark sphere that overtakes his consciousness, leaves him sweating, shaking and gasping, huddled against the wall, clutching the banister.
Clara finds him. Makes her way up to him.
"Little Peter, look at me. Look at me, darling."
Boyd follows her voice, feels her palm against his cheek. Finds her eyes, so like his, filled with concern. "Mum?" It's a strange, alien tone.
"It's me. You're safe, I promise. Sit down on the step for me," she instructs.
He does it without thinking. Immediately feels more grounded. Safer. Clara takes his crutches. Waits while he shuffles backwards up each of the remaining steps on his behind, one at a time. The bathroom is the first door on the landing. Clara disappears while he attends to nature, while he wets a flannel and scrubs his face with it, the cold water pushing away the lingering darkness. She returns with his toothbrush, extracted from the holdall. Doesn't ask what happened, doesn't press him.
"Do you want some hot cocoa?"
It's a treat she used to make him as a boy, whenever he was ill. Boyd looks at her, smiles shakily. Nods. "Please."
He hasn't drunk the stuff in decades, but just now it sounds wonderful.
Clara reaches out to him again. Gently smooths his damp hair back as he sits perched on the edge of the bath. "My poor boy," she murmurs, leaning forwards to kiss his brow. Impulsively, he wraps his arms around her. Presses his face into her and holds on tight as her arms envelop him.
Just like they did when he was five and the nightmares about the monster under his bed terrified him. She still smells the same, even after all this time. He thinks that might just be the most comforting thing of all.
His room, when he makes it down the length of the landing, is still very much the same. Though it has been redecorated, many of his childhood possessions remain. The bed is a single, not remotely big enough for two, but very comfortable; when he settles against the pillows he sighs in relief, easing his leg into a good position. It feels infinitely better than the hospital mattress.
Across from him, there are shelves filled with trophies and medals, sports accolades from his early years right through to his late teens. There are paintings on the walls, oil works that are his own, framed and hung by Clara. He studies them critically, finds that he still likes them after all this time.
Quietly, Boyd wonders what Grace will think.
Reaching for the lamp on the bedside table, his fingers encounter something soft. A stuffed rabbit. Spot is still largely velvety, despite years of being dragged here, there and everywhere as a little boy's beloved companion. Boyd smiles faintly, a host of much more pleasant memories assaulting him this time.
Something else is on the table, something that definitely isn't a relic of his youth. A collection of small rocks, all different colours, different sizes. Staring, he shakes his head. Resists the urge to roll his eyes.
Healing crystals. Presumably.
Clara returns and wordlessly, he points, raising a sceptical eyebrow.
"Don't take that tone with me boy," she orders, handing him a steaming mug.
"Did I open my mouth to even begin protesting?"
"You didn't need to, it was written all over your face."
The cocoa smells wonderful. Exactly like his childhood. "How can I 'take' a tone with you when I'm not even speaking?"
"You are speaking," Clara points out.
"I wasn't then."
"But you were going to."
Dear God! "Oh, for – " Boyd gives up. It's like arguing with Grace. Maybe worse.
"They won't hurt you, and you never know, they might even help. Now good night, my boy, sleep well. I love you." And with that, his mother sweeps out of his room, switching off the main light and pulling the door to behind her.
tbc...