“Is that it?” I shouted after him. “What happens now?”
But Jasper left without looking back, strutting onward toward whatever fresh drama awaited him, and soon the ward was quiet again.
At a loss about what to do next, I sank back into the chair and sat alone for a while, the old man’s hand clasped in mine. “Is it true?” I said. “Is any of it true?”
Desperate for conversation, I called up Mum.
“How’s Gibraltar?” I asked.
No sooner had I spoken than the nurse appeared and waved me out of the room, like a farmer’s wife shooing chickens away from the petunias. “No mobiles! Ruins equipment. No mobiles!”
Actually, Granddad’s machine had seemed completely unaffected, but, chastened and embarrassed, I did as I was told and took the conversation out into the corridor.
“It’s marvelous,” Mum was saying. “Just marvelous. Gordy’s been such a naughty boy. We’re in this wonderful hotel.” She broke off to speak to someone and I heard mention of my name. I imagined her rolling her eyes, deftly miming exasperation. Then she was back on the line. “How are you?”
“Fine,” I said, then (discreetly): “Got a promotion.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“I’m not a filing clerk anymore.”
“Good for you.”
“Never again.”
“Really, darling. That’s fab.”
“Mum?”
“Yes?”
“Granddad was middle-aged before he joined the BBC, wasn’t he? It was his second career. What did he do before that?”
“Before the Beeb?” She didn’t even try to keep the boredom from her voice. “Some sort of civil servant, I think. Nothing glamorous — though God knows he always acted like his shit smelt sweeter than ours. Why?”
“No reason.”
“I’ve got to go, darling. Gordy’s booked us a table somewhere. He’s looking frightfully cross and tapping his watch.”
“Mum?” I said. “I’ve been thinking a lot about Dad recently.”
An eternity of crackling. The vinyl pops and hisses of long distance.
“I’m sorry, darling, it’s a terrible line.”
“I said I’ve been thinking about Dad.”
“Got to dash. Gordy says the food’ll be fab.”
She hadn’t even remembered it was my birthday.
“Have a nice meal,” I muttered. “Have fun.”
“Bye-bye, darling.”
And then, a tiny acknowledgment that she had, after all, heard what I’d said. “Don’t brood, will you?”
The line went dead before I was able to reply.
I walked back into the ward and summoned up a contrite smile for the nurse. “You were right,” I said, once the apologies were done. “I think my granddad was in a war.”
“It always shows,” she murmured. For a moment, there was a chink of humanity, a dappling of sadness in her face before chilly and professional again, she walked away.
Heavy with half-formed fears and worries, I kissed the old man on the forehead and took my leave at last of that awful mausoleum.
In the long gray corridor which led to the exit, a red-headed man on crutches was clip-clopping ahead of me. I recognized his swaying frond of ginger hair.
“Hello there!”
He craned around to glare at me, his face puce and sweaty from his exertions. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Let you out quickly, haven’t they?”
“Turns out I’m fine.”
“You fell five stories.”
“Then I’m a bleeding miracle.” He grimaced down toward his crutches. “A limping one, anyway.”
“I’m just glad you’re OK.”
The ginger-haired man looked belligerently at me. “You still don’t get it, do you?”
I stared back, nonplussed. “I’m sorry?”
“The answer is yes.”
“What?”
“The answer is yes. For God’s sake. Have you got that? The answer is yes.” The window cleaner took a deep, rattling breath and pivoted himself away.
“What was that about?” I asked, as much to myself as to him.
Taking no notice of me and mumbling a grab-bag of expletives, he made his way unsteadily over to a beaten-up Rover on the other side of the parking lot in which his unfortunate family was waiting and probably wondering why he couldn’t have fallen just that little bit harder.
When I got home to Tooting Bec and walked through to the sitting room, Abbey was there, wearing a little black dress, surrounded by balloons and smiling sheepishly. An unsuccessful-looking chocolate cake sat on the table, decorated by a single unlit candle.
“Happy birthday!” she said.
“This is unexpected. I don’t know what to say.”
“Sit down. I’ll get you a drink.”
She sashayed through to the kitchen, from where I could hear clinking glasses, the jingle of ice, the glug of juice and liquor. She called through: “How was your day?”
“Slightly strange. You?”
“Mostly dull. Till now.”
“Thanks for all this. You really needn’t have bothered…”
She came back into the lounge, carrying two glasses of something fizzy, ice cubes bobbing on the surface.
“What’s this?” I asked as I took mine.
“Cocktail,” she beamed. “Home-made. Try it.”
I took a tentative sip — tingly, sweet, pleasantly numbing. Emboldened, I took another mouthful. Then another. It was only the presence of my landlady that prevented me from downing the thing in one.
“Wonderful. What’s in it?”
Abbey arched an eyebrow. “Trade secret.” She produced a box of matches and lit the candle on my cake. “Make a wish.”
I closed my eyes, blew out the candle and made a wish which, for a short time, came true.
“There’s more.” Abbey scampered into her bedroom and returned with a soft parcel which she thrust excitedly into my hands. “Here you are.”
“This is too much,” I protested, feeling a blush start somewhere at the bottom of my neck and gradually stain my whole face.
“I wasn’t sure of your size. I’ve kept the receipt if it’s not right.”
I tore open the paper to reveal an irredeemably hideous V-neck sweater, precisely the shade of lemon curd.
“It’s fantastic,” I lied, then lied again: “I’ve always wanted one of these.” Frankly, at that moment, Abbey looked so rapturously beautiful that she could have wrapped me a dead weasel for my birthday and I’d have thanked her for it.
She beamed, I thanked her for a second and third time and there followed a bungling couple of seconds in which I tried to kiss her on the cheek only to chicken out and offer her my hand instead.
“Aren’t you going to try it on?” she asked.
I flinched. A lurch of panic in my stomach. “What?”
A smile, almost sly. “The sweater…”
As I struggled into my birthday present, Abbey cut us both a generous slice of cake.
“Made this myself,” she said. “Could be interesting.”
“What do you think?” I asked once I had squirmed inside the pullover.
“Very nice,” Abbey said. “Very tasty.”
I think I must have blushed again. Certainly I didn’t say anything further, and as we sat in silence on the sofa eating cake, Abbey wriggled a bit closer.
“Thanks for the cake,” I said. “Thank you for my present.”
She sighed with what seemed like frustration. “Henry?”
“What?”
“You can kiss me now.”
Like an idiot, I just stared, crumbs of cake cascading from my mouth.
My mobile began to buzz. Abbey said later that she wished I’d turned it off and just leapt on her but I think some pusillanimous part of me was grateful for the distraction.
“Hello?” I said, a little wearily.
“Darling! Happy birthday!”
“Thanks,” I said. “Thanks very much.”
“Sorry I’ve not got you anything this year. I’ll give you some money when I get back. I know you used to like something to open but you’re a big boy now. You’d prefer the cash, wouldn’t you?”