impossible to say.’
‘Educated guess?’
Another shake of the head. ‘A few months, at most. Frankly, he could go any time.’
Well, yes, Nick thinks, going back to the ward, but at the age of 101 that’s true even without the cancer.
Auntie Frieda’s by the bed when he gets back, sitting in the plastic chair, nursing her handbag as if she suspects somebody of planning to steal it, and running her tongue round the front of her dentures as if she thinks they might have a crack at those as well. She looks disgruntled and virtuous and mildly critical, darting fierce little assessing glances round the ward.
Nick bends down and kisses her cheek, feeling how much more loosely the skin hangs from the bone than it did even a week ago. She should be resting, trying to get her strength back after the last two months of virtually round-the-clock care. Shepherd’s right. She can’t possibly cope on her own. ‘How are you?’
‘Oh, not so bad.’
Her eyes are red-rimmed, from crying perhaps. She nods at the bed curtains. ‘I was just saying to your grandad, I don’t dislike that shade of beige.’
Nick turns aside to hide his amusement. Auntie Frieda’s enthusiasms are always couched in these negative terms: ‘I wouldn’t mind…’ ‘I don’t dislike…’ ‘I can’t say I object…’ He sometimes wonders whether her marriage remained childless because Uncle Wilf never felt sufficiently encouraged to persevere.
Grandad’s back on the bed, scaly red shins peeping from below the hem of the smock.
‘I’m dying for a fag,’ he says, unconsciously echoing the government’s latest anti-smoking campaign. ‘It’s bloody torture, this is.’ He sets up a great grumble about the hospital’s no-smoking policy, designed, Nick suspects, to deter him from too great frankness about whatever the doctor might have said. His clever grandson’s talked to the doctor and sorted things out and he doesn’t want to know about it, thank you very much – that seems to be the message.
‘You could go to the day room if you leant on me,’ Nick says.
He sees Geordie weighing the pain of the long journey against the delights of a cigarette when he gets there. ‘Aye, ho way.’
‘I don’t know,’ Auntie Frieda says. ‘You’re as bad as each other. You egg each other on.’
This is said in her ‘all men are children really’ tone. Nick can see Geordie being exasperated by it, but also, secretly, liking it – as he does himself.
‘I’m on if you are,’ Nick says.
The old man might have changed his mind after the pain of standing upright, but he grits his teeth and hangs on. Leaning heavily on Nick, shuffling along in his scuffed slippers, gasping for breath, he’s made it down the corridor, Frieda bringing up the rear with a blanket for him to sit on, and the longed-for cigarettes.
They sit at a little table with a heaped-up ash tray. A quiz show’s playing on television, blurred contestants against an improbably orange backdrop, but the day room’s empty except for a woman in a pink quilted dressing-gown with a shaved patch on her head, who sits at another table chain-smoking and staring blank-eyed at the screen.
‘Are you going to have one?’ Geordie asks Nick.
‘Yeah, I’ll join you,’ Nick says.
Geordie lights up, closing his eyes as he inhales. ‘Puts me back behind the bike shed, this does. Do you know I’ve gone a bit dizzy?’
A disgusted tsk from Frieda.
‘So what did he have to say, then?’ Grandad asks, fortified by his second drag.
‘Not a lot.’ Nick’s feeling his way.
‘Did he say when I can go home?’
‘No.’
Nick hears Auntie Frieda’s caught-in sigh of relief. She can’t cope, he thinks again. It’s asking too much. Grandad thinks of her as a young woman still. She’s his daughter, after all – how can she not be young? He doesn’t seem to see the reality of a woman in her seventies in failing health.
‘Did he mention the bayonet wound?’ Geordie
‘Educated guess?’
Another shake of the head. ‘A few months, at most. Frankly, he could go any time.’
Well, yes, Nick thinks, going back to the ward, but at the age of 101 that’s true even without the cancer.
Auntie Frieda’s by the bed when he gets back, sitting in the plastic chair, nursing her handbag as if she suspects somebody of planning to steal it, and running her tongue round the front of her dentures as if she thinks they might have a crack at those as well. She looks disgruntled and virtuous and mildly critical, darting fierce little assessing glances round the ward.
Nick bends down and kisses her cheek, feeling how much more loosely the skin hangs from the bone than it did even a week ago. She should be resting, trying to get her strength back after the last two months of virtually round-the-clock care. Shepherd’s right. She can’t possibly cope on her own. ‘How are you?’
‘Oh, not so bad.’
Her eyes are red-rimmed, from crying perhaps. She nods at the bed curtains. ‘I was just saying to your grandad, I don’t dislike that shade of beige.’
Nick turns aside to hide his amusement. Auntie Frieda’s enthusiasms are always couched in these negative terms: ‘I wouldn’t mind…’ ‘I don’t dislike…’ ‘I can’t say I object…’ He sometimes wonders whether her marriage remained childless because Uncle Wilf never felt sufficiently encouraged to persevere.
Grandad’s back on the bed, scaly red shins peeping from below the hem of the smock.
‘I’m dying for a fag,’ he says, unconsciously echoing the government’s latest anti-smoking campaign. ‘It’s bloody torture, this is.’ He sets up a great grumble about the hospital’s no-smoking policy, designed, Nick suspects, to deter him from too great frankness about whatever the doctor might have said. His clever grandson’s talked to the doctor and sorted things out and he doesn’t want to know about it, thank you very much – that seems to be the message.
‘You could go to the day room if you leant on me,’ Nick says.
He sees Geordie weighing the pain of the long journey against the delights of a cigarette when he gets there. ‘Aye, ho way.’
‘I don’t know,’ Auntie Frieda says. ‘You’re as bad as each other. You egg each other on.’
This is said in her ‘all men are children really’ tone. Nick can see Geordie being exasperated by it, but also, secretly, liking it – as he does himself.
‘I’m on if you are,’ Nick says.
The old man might have changed his mind after the pain of standing upright, but he grits his teeth and hangs on. Leaning heavily on Nick, shuffling along in his scuffed slippers, gasping for breath, he’s made it down the corridor, Frieda bringing up the rear with a blanket for him to sit on, and the longed-for cigarettes.
They sit at a little table with a heaped-up ash tray. A quiz show’s playing on television, blurred contestants against an improbably orange backdrop, but the day room’s empty except for a woman in a pink quilted dressing-gown with a shaved patch on her head, who sits at another table chain-smoking and staring blank-eyed at the screen.
‘Are you going to have one?’ Geordie asks Nick.
‘Yeah, I’ll join you,’ Nick says.
Geordie lights up, closing his eyes as he inhales. ‘Puts me back behind the bike shed, this does. Do you know I’ve gone a bit dizzy?’
A disgusted tsk from Frieda.
‘So what did he have to say, then?’ Grandad asks, fortified by his second drag.
‘Not a lot.’ Nick’s feeling his way.
‘Did he say when I can go home?’
‘No.’
Nick hears Auntie Frieda’s caught-in sigh of relief. She can’t cope, he thinks again. It’s asking too much. Grandad thinks of her as a young woman still. She’s his daughter, after all – how can she not be young? He doesn’t seem to see the reality of a woman in her seventies in failing health.
‘Did he mention the bayonet wound?’ Geordie
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