A Spot Of Bother

70

Jean watched George sleeping.

She was thinking about the day they’d visited George’s uncle in that dreadful hospital in Nottingham, just before he died. Those sad old men sitting round the television smoking and shuffling down corridors. Was that going to happen to George?

She heard footsteps, and Katie appeared from between the curtains, flushed and panting. She looked wretched.

“How’s Dad?”

“Your father’s OK. There’s no need to worry.”

“We were so scared.” She was out of breath. “What happened?”

Jean explained. About the accident with the chisel. And now that she knew it wasn’t true, it sounded ridiculous and she wondered why she’d fallen for it herself. But Katie seemed too relieved to ask questions.

“Thank God for that…I thought…” Katie caught herself and lowered her voice in case George could hear what she was saying. “Let’s not even talk about it.” She rubbed her face.

“Talk about what?” said Jean, quietly.

“I thought he might have…Well, you know,” whispered Katie. “He was depressed. He was worried about dying. I couldn’t think of any other explanation for you being in such a state.”

Suicide. That was what the doctor was talking about, wasn’t it. Harming yourself.

Katie touched her shoulder and said, “Are you OK, Mum?”

“I’m fine,” said Jean. “Well, to be honest, I’m not fine. It’s been difficult to say the least. But I’m glad you and Jamie are here.”

“Talking of which…”

“He’s gone to the canteen,” said Jean. “Your father was asleep and he hadn’t eaten. So I sent him off.”

“Ray said the house was a mess.”

“The house,” said Jean. “My God, I’d forgotten about the house.”

“Sorry.”

“You’ll come back with me, won’t you,” said Jean. “They’re keeping your father in overnight.”

“Of course,” said Katie. “We’ll do whatever’s best for you.”

“Thank you,” said Jean.

Katie looked at George. “Well, he doesn’t seem to be in pain.”

“No.”

“Where did he cut himself?”

“On his hip,” said Jean. “I guess he must have fallen over onto the chisel when he was holding it.” She leant forward and flicked the blankets back to show Katie the dressed wound, but his pajama trousers had been pushed a little too far down and you could see his pubic hair so she quickly flicked the blanket back again.

Katie picked up her father’s hand and held it. “Dad?” she said. “It’s Katie.” Dad murmured something incomprehensible. “You’re a bloody idiot. But we love you.”

“So, is Jacob here?” asked Jean.

But Katie wasn’t listening. She sat down on the other chair and started to cry.

“Katie?”

“I’m sorry.”

Jean let her cry for a while, then said, “Jamie told me about the wedding.”

Katie looked up. “What?”

“About you wanting to call the wedding off.”

Katie looked pained.

“It’s OK,” said Jean. “I know you’re probably worried about bringing it up. What with your father’s accident. And everything being arranged. But the very worst thing would be to go ahead just because you didn’t want to cause a fuss.”

“Right,” said Katie, nodding to herself.

“The most important thing is that you’re happy.” She paused. “If it makes you feel any better, we’ve had our doubts all along.”

“We?”

“Your father and I. Ray’s obviously a decent man. And Jacob clearly likes him. But we’ve always felt that he wasn’t quite right for you.”

Katie said nothing for a worryingly long time.

“We love you very much,” said Jean.

Katie interrupted her. “And it was Jamie who told you this.”

“He said you rang him.” Something was clearly going wrong, but Jean wasn’t sure what.

Katie stood up. There was a steely look in her eye. She said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” and disappeared through the curtains.

She seemed very angry indeed.

Jamie was in trouble. Jean could tell that much. She sat back and closed her eyes and let out a long breath. She didn’t have the energy for this. Not now.

Your children never really grew up. Thirty years on and they still behaved like five-year-olds. One minute they were your best friend. Then you said the wrong thing and they went off like firecrackers.

She leant forward and took George’s hand. You could say what you liked about her husband, but at least he was predictable.

Or used to be.

She squeezed his fingers and realized she hadn’t got the faintest idea what was going on in his head.