I was aware of everyone smiling and nodding, and then they were shaking our hands, slapping Raymond’s back. It was quite overwhelming. I’d put on my white cotton gloves, rather than use the hand gel – I reasoned that I could run them through a boil wash as soon as I got home. This occasioned a certain hesitancy in the handshakes, which was strange – surely a cotton barrier between our respective skin surfaces could only be a good thing?
‘Thanks so much for taking care of my dad, guys,’ the older brother, Keith, said, wiping his hands on the front of his trousers. ‘It means a lot, to know he wasn’t on his own when it happened, that he had people looking out for him.’
‘Hey, now,’ said Sammy, nudging him with his elbow, ‘I’m not some doddery old invalid, you know. I can look after myself.’ They smiled at one another.
‘Course you can, Dad. I’m just saying, it’s nice to have a friendly face around sometimes, eh?’
Sammy shrugged, not conceding the point but graciously allowing it to pass.
‘I’ve got some good news for you two,’ Sammy said to us, leaning back contentedly into his pillows while Raymond and I deposited our carrier bags like myrrh and frankincense at the foot of his bed. ‘I’m getting out on Saturday!’
Raymond high-fived him, after some initial awkwardness whereby Sammy had no idea why a podgy hand had been thrust in his face.
‘He’s coming to stay at mine for a couple of weeks, just till he gets confident with the walking frame,’ his daughter Laura said, finally looking up from her phone. ‘We’re having a wee party to celebrate! You’re both invited, of course,’ she added, somewhat less than enthusiastically.
She was staring at me. I didn’t mind. In fact, I actually prefer that to surreptitious, sneaky glances – from her, I got a full and frank appraisal, filled with fascination, but with no trace of fear or disgust. I brushed my hair off my face, so that she could get a better view.
‘This Saturday?’ I said.
‘Now, Eleanor, don’t you dare say you’re busy,’ Sammy said. ‘No excuses. I want you both there. End of.’
‘Who are we to argue?’ Raymond said, smiling. I thought about it. A party. The last party I’d been to – apart from that appalling wedding reception – was on Judy Jackson’s thirteenth birthday. It had involved ice skating and milkshakes, and hadn’t ended well. Surely no one was likely to vomit or lose a finger at an elderly invalid’s welcome home celebration?
‘I shall attend,’ I said, inclining my head.
‘Here’s my card,’ Laura said, passing one each to Raymond and to me. It was black and glossy, embossed with gold leaf, and said Laura Marston-Smith, Aesthetic Technician, Hair Stylist, Image Consultant, with her contact details set out below.
‘Seven o’clock on Saturday, yeah? Don’t bring anything, just yourselves.’
I tucked the card carefully into my purse. Raymond had thrust his into his back pocket. He couldn’t take his eyes off Laura, I noticed, apparently hypnotized rather in the manner of a mongoose before a snake. She was clearly aware of this. I suspected she was used to it, looking the way she did. Blonde hair and large breasts are so clichéd, so obvious. Men like Raymond, pedestrian dullards, would always be distracted by women who looked like her, having neither the wit nor the sophistication to see beyond mammaries and peroxide.
Raymond tore his eyes away from Laura’s décolletage and looked at the wall clock, then, pointedly, at me.
‘We shall depart,’ I said, ‘and meet again on Saturday.’ Once again, there was an overwhelming onslaught of salutations and handshakes. Sammy, meanwhile, was rummaging in the bags we’d brought. He held up a packet of organic curly kale.
‘What the hell is this?’ he said, incredulous. Zinc, I whispered to myself. Raymond hustled me out of the ward rather brusquely, I felt, and before I’d even had a chance to mention that the squid salad would need to be eaten promptly. The ambient temperature in the hospital ward was very warm.
12
THE NEXT DAY, WHILST waiting for the kettle to boil, my eye was drawn to a leaflet which had been discarded on top of the office recycling bag, alongside a pile of holiday brochures and well-thumbed gossip magazines. It was for a department store in town – not one I had ever frequented – and set out an introductory offer, featuring a frankly spectacular one-third reduction in the price of a ‘Deluxe Pamper Manicure’. I tried and failed to imagine what a deluxe pamper manicure might involve. How might one introduce luxury and pampering into the process of shaping and painting a nail? It was, literally, beyond my imagining. I felt a thrill of excitement. There was only one way to find out. With my animal grooming regime in mind, I would turn my attention to my talons.
I had somewhat neglected my self-improvement plans of late, distracted by Sammy’s unfortunate accident and the events which had resulted from it. But it was time to refocus on my goaclass="underline" the musician. I indulged in the sin of pride for a moment. My nails grow exceedingly fast, and they are strong and shiny. I attribute this to a diet high in the requisite vitamins, minerals and fatty acids, which are obtained from my well-planned luncheon regime. My nails are a tribute to the culinary excellence of the British high street. Not being a vain person, I merely cut them with clippers when they grow too long to allow for comfortable data input, and file down the resulting sharp corners so that they do not snag on fabric or scrape my skin unpleasantly when I am bathing. So far, so perfectly adequate. My nails are always clean – clean nails, like clean shoes, are fundamental to self-respect. Whilst I am neither stylish nor fashionable, I am always clean; that way, at least, I can hold my head up when I take my place, however unexalted, in the world.
I headed into town during my lunch break, eating my sandwich on the way in order to save time. On reflection, I wished that I had selected a less obtrusive filling; egg and cress was perhaps not the most judicious choice for a busy, warm train carriage, and both the sandwich and I were attracting disapproving looks from our fellow travellers. I abhor eating in public at the best of times, so the eight-minute journey was not a pleasant experience for anyone concerned.
I found the nail concession at the rear of the Beauty Hall, a vast chandelier-lit barn of mirrors, scents and noise. I felt like a trapped animal – a steer or a rabid dog – and imagined the chaos I’d cause if, careering wildly, I was corralled in there against my will. I clutched the leaflet tight in my fist, balled up inside my jerkin pocket.
‘Nails Etcetera’ – to what extras did the Latin term refer, I wondered? – appeared to consist of two bored children in white tunics, a breakfast bar with four stools, and a rack of polishes in every hue from clear to tar. I approached with caution.
‘WelcomeToNailsEtcetraHowCanIHelpYouToday,’ said the smaller girl child. It took me a moment to translate.
‘Good afternoon,’ I said slowly, and in an exaggeratedly modulated voice, to give her a clue as to how one ought to speak in order to communicate effectively. She and her companion were both staring, their expressions a combination of alarm and … well, alarm, mainly. I smiled in what I hoped was a reassuring manner. They were so young, after all – perhaps this was some sort of work experience and they were awaiting the return of their teacher.
‘I’d like a Deluxe Pamper Manicure, please,’ I said, as clearly as I could. There was a long, still pause where nothing happened. The shorter one was first to wake from her trance.
‘Take a seat!’ she said, indicating the nearest stool. Her companion remained transfixed. The shorter one (Casey, according to her name badge) bustled about distractedly and then perched opposite, having first set down a kidney bowl slopping with hot soapy water. She swivelled the rack of polishes towards me.