'No. You.' I never go along with his hysterics. Tantrums are personal things.
'Whatever's the matter, Patrick?' Margaret did it and set about restoring him.
'Not too close with the little bottle, dear,' he snapped. 'I need reviving, not gassing.'
'What is it?'
'Dandy Jack.' Patrick swooned backwards. 'He's been run over. Outside. I just can't tell you.' But he did, emphasizing his own reactions most of all. It seemed Dandy was sprinting to the Red Lion as usual when he was knocked down by a car. It didn't stop.
'Am I pale as absolute death?' Patrick asked fearfully of all and sundry. He peeped into his handbag mirror.
'You are pale, dear,' from Margaret.
He leaned back and closed his eyes. 'I'm positively drained to my ankle-straps.'
'Did somebody take the number?'
'Hardly, dear.' Patrick patted his cheeks. 'We were fainting like flitted flies.'
'Bloody idiot,' I said.
He glared. 'Shut your face, you great oaf, Lovejoy,' he spat. 'If you'd been through what I've just undergone -'
'You only watched,' I pointed out. 'Dandy got done.'
'How do you bear him?' Patrick cooed to Margaret. 'Uncouth ape.'
Lily came trotting after, as always typical of sacrificial desire. Hope beats eternal in the human breast but I honestly wonder what the hell for sometimes. She was more precise than Patrick had been.
'They've taken Dandy to hospital,' she said breathlessly. 'He looked really awful, blood everywhere.'
'Don't!' Patrick moaned, doing his swoon.
'Are you all right, lovie?' Lily rallied round him frantically.
'Sod him,' I said. 'The point is will Dandy be all right?'
'Charming!' Patrick instantly recovered enough to glare daggers at me.
'I don't know, Lovejoy.' Lily dabbed anxiously with a tissue at Patrick, who irritably jerked away.
'Mind my mascara!' he screeched. 'Silly cow!'
'Sorry, dear,' Lily was saying when I pecked Margaret's cheek and moved off.
'If Patrick wants to do the entire scene,' I said, 'lend him an asp.'
'May your ceramics turn to sand, Lovejoy!' he screeched spitefully after me.
'Shush, lovie! Try to rest!' from Lily.
'Why does everybody hate me so?' he was wailing as I left the Arcade. I suppose it takes all sorts.
The hospital is a few streets away. You cut alongside the ancient steps through the remains of the Roman wall. As I hurried among the crowds I couldn't help thinking that too many things were happening too quickly all of a sudden. In spite of my hurry I couldn't help pausing at Dig Mason's, the poshest of the Arcade's antiques windows.
Pride of place was given to a delightful veneered drop-sided portmanteau. It contained an entire set of dining cutlery, china service, glass tableware down to cruets and serviette rings. Everything was slightly smaller sized than normal. My heart melted.
Perfect. Dig beamed out at me through the window miming an invitation to make an offer. I gave him the thumbs down and hurried away. He'd labelled it 'Lady's travelling dining case. Complete. Victorian.' All wrong. I'd have labelled it 'Officer's mess dining portmanteau. Complete. 1914-15. World War I' and been correct. The poor sods were made to provide complete mess gear and often their own china and cutlery in the Royal Flying Corps. As I hurried along I prayed Dig wouldn't realize his mistake before I got some money from somewhere. He'd under- priced it a whole hundred per cent.
I looked among the cars but there was no sign of Janie. She must have decided to stay away in a temper. Typical. Just as you need women they get aggro. They make me mad. They lack organization. Helen was at the hospital. She came over as soon as I entered the foyer. Funny what impressions hospitals leave. All 'I can remember is a lot of prams, some children and an afternoon footballer being wheeled along with his leg in plaster.
'He's not too good, Lovejoy,' Helen said.
'I'm glad you came.'
She shot a look at me and together we climbed to the second floor. I never know who's boss nurse any more. Once it was easy - dark blue were sisters, pale blue stripes nurses and doctors in white. Now they seem as lost as the rest of us. Helen accosted a matron who turned out to be a washer-up. We made three mistakes before we stood at the foot of Dandy Jack's bed.
He appeared drained, newly and spectacularly clean and utterly defenceless. Drips dripped. Tubes tubed into and out of more orifices than God ever made. Bottles collected or dispensed automatically. It seemed nothing more than one colossal act, a tableau without purpose or message. Dandy Jack was never a divvie, but even boozy dealers deserve to live.
'Did you see the accident?' a tired young house doctor asked. I said no.
'I did. From a distance.' Helen linked her arm with mine. I think we both felt under scrutiny, somehow allowed in under sufferance.
'Did he go unconscious instantly?'
