“Sometimes you still entertain me, birthday girl,” he said with a kiss. “Good enough reason to hang about.”
* * *
At least with medical attention at ready hand, the instant Cyril exhibited symptoms of a stroke the following year, he was rushed to the infirmary and administered tissue plasminogen activator, which substantially limited the brain damage. Full recovery was doubtful, but significant recovery was on offer if he worked diligently with the on-site therapists. Learning to wash his teeth, feed himself, and go to the loo all over again was a considerable demotion after having mastered these biological rudiments as a toddler. Yet glad for a project of any sort, Cyril made an effort.
He slowly learnt to speak again, though this time round his accent reverted to a Brummie brogue, whilst his vernacular returned to the idioms of his childhood. The hard Gs at the end of his gerunds were back. He’d reproach Kay for “clarting about,” and now muttered, “I’m off to get my snap,” as he shuffled off for lunch. (To begin with, he was barely able to shift his right foot an inch forward at a time with the help of a walking frame, but he was determined not to end up in a wheelchair, and one inch became two.) When frustrated by his progress in learning to hold a fork again, he exclaimed to the therapist in exasperation, “This ain’t gettin’ the babby a frock and pinny!” Kay was taken aback at first, for he didn’t sound at all like her husband of nearly sixty years, but she was charmed in the end; his altered persona proved a welcome change of pace. He had more energy and optimism as a Brummie, and the return to his regional roots brought out his resemblance to his animated late father. Gesturing overhead in the hospital bed of their new Tier Two digs, he exclaimed in hearty surprise, “Well, go to the foot of the stairs!” And sure enough, she concurred, once he pointed it out: the water stain on the ceiling was the shape of Norway.
6
Home Cinema
“That post box is collected on weekday mornings at eleven o’clock,” Cyril said. “I don’t imagine the police will get my note until tomorrow or the day after at the earliest. Gives us time to head them off, or at least to figure out what to say. ‘Sorry, we’re scaredy cats’? And then we’re on the public record as a danger to ourselves. That won’t look good if Roy ever gets a mind to section us in some hellhole against our will and sell the house.”
“Yes, it would certainly be Roy,” Kay said with a sigh. “But it’s still only ten forty-five. Why don’t I try to intercept the postman—or postperson?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t bother. Legally, once a letter is posted it belongs to the recipient. Besides, I just toasted another pair of crumpets.”
It was the crumpet more than the legalese that persuaded her to stay put. The last of the packet, the spongy perforated pancakes were still hot enough for the butter to fully melt, and if she left to hang about the post box hers would be hard and cold when she got back. After the trauma of the night before, when they’d both edged to the very brink of the abyss, Kay was inclined to coddle herself. The police were so stretched these days. It was more than likely that a lone blue embossed envelope would get lost in the shuffle.
It’s terribly rare that public servants are negligent when you want them to be, although they often oblige when you don’t. Two days later, the front door pounded peremptorily, and what would prove the spare key from the Samsons slid into the lock. As Kay hurried to the door, a policeman walked in, and they both jumped.
The mask provided the officer an unaccountable anonymity, and the surgical gloves conveyed distaste. He was a big fellow, and although Kay had remained slender with some discipline, she sometimes experienced her size as a social handicap. The policeman was one of those towering specimens of a younger generation that had evolved effectively into a different species. He made her feel evolutionarily backward, as if in the classic Darwinian developmental sequence from ape to homo sapiens Kay was one of the hairy, hunched-over creatures two or three stages to the left. This bloke was further girded by the hardened stoicism with which one might prepare to confront decomposition. “Ma’am, we had a report of self-harm at this address.”
When she identified herself, he seemed put out that she was not collecting flies on the floor. “I’m sorry awfully,” she said. “I’m afraid this is my husband’s idea of a prank. Perhaps a tasteless prank. You see, Sunday was my birthday, and he . . .”
“Ma’am,” he said again, looming overhead. “Mind if I look round?” It was not a question. When he barged past her into the sitting room, he seemed to be sniffing the air. Regrettably, Cyril was out, which made it more difficult to demonstrate once and for all that she had not stuffed his body in a trunk.
The officer seemed rather a bully and insisted on poking about all three floors, as Kay cowered behind him blithering. Typically, the presence of law enforcement made her feel guilty, apologetic, and timorous. At once, the intruder gave rise to an indignation
