This time, Morton duly paid the parkingfee at the Conquest Hospital, though he very much resented having to pay atall. It was disgusting to be charged to park in a hospital, he thought,paying for the privilege of visiting a dying relative. He’d readsomewhere a few weeks ago that some NHS trusts were now offering discounts forregular visitors and terminal patients were even lucky enough to be given afree parking permit. How generous.
Juliette tookhis hand and they made their way to the Atkinson Ward, where his father hadbeen transferred. They found him once again cordoned off by a plasticcurtain, sitting up reading The Daily Mail. He looked a differentman to the one Morton had last seen, life seemingly returning to his fragilebody.
‘Hi, Dad,’Juliette said, sounding oddly comfortable labelling Morton’s adoptive father‘Dad’. Certainly more comfortable than he did. His father looked upwith a smile and set down the paper.
‘Hello,’ hesaid cheerfully. ‘Lovely weather, isn’t it?’
Morton wascurious at what went on inside his father’s head for him to be screened offfrom the world, rigged up to more machines than your average robot and thefirst thing he has to say is a comment about the weather. ‘Shall I openthe curtain, so you can enjoy the sunshine?’ Morton asked.
‘No, thankyou,’ his father answered, waving a finger vaguely towards the curtain. Morton assumed it was something to do with the other patients. He neverhad been a great socialiser.
‘How are you?’Juliette asked.
‘Beenbetter. They tell me I have severe atheromatous in the something or otherproximal artery and something in the other one. Furring of the arteriesin layman’s terms. They’ve put me on warfarin tablets,’ his fathersaid. He pronounced ‘warfarin’ as ‘Wolverine’ and Morton imagined hisfather as the new addition to the X-Men.
‘So it’sdefinitely your heart then?’ Juliette said.
‘Yes, it was aheart attack. I’ve got to see a specialist dietician and I’ve been toldby at least two dozen doctors that a ‘lifestyle’ change is in order. Ha! A lifestyle change, at my age. I ask you. What do theythink I’m going to do, start drinking carrot juice and pumping iron at thegym? Not on your Nellie!’
Juliettesmiled. ‘Maybe just cut back on some of your…’
‘Pleasures?’his father interjected.
‘Extravagances,’Morton corrected. His father raised his eyebrows. ‘I brought you inthe bits you asked for from home.’ He lifted the bag and placed it on thebed, then instantly fretted about the assortment of bacteria and germs he hadinadvertently transferred from the floor.
‘Thank you, atleast now I can get out of this awful gown they’ve stuck me in. Would yoube able to pop back home again later and get my slippers?’
‘Yes, ofcourse,’ Morton said. He hadn’t wanted to broach the whole explosionthing and the fact that they had, to all intents and purposes, now moved intohis house. He reasoned that it would only add more stress to his ailingheart if he knew that there was a stack of washing up festering on the worktopat home.
‘How’s work?’his father asked.
‘Usual,’ Mortonsaid, not really considering that ‘usual’ couldn’t have been more of a contradictoryway of describing his current employment status.
‘Has anyonetold Jeremy?’ his father asked. ‘About my health, I mean.’
‘I phoned himlast night,’ Morton said. ‘He’s on his way home.’ He couldn’t gaugefrom his father’s voice whether or not he had done the right thing in informinghim. It would be just like his father to snap, ‘You can’t just recalla member of Her Majesty’s armed forces because of a little thing likethis. I’m fine.’
‘You did, ohgood,’ his father said, evidently pleased that The Miracle would soonreturn. ‘You’re looking very summery, Juliette,’ his father said.
‘Thanks, Ibought it this morning,’ she answered. ‘It was this or the PCSOuniform.’ His father laughed, not realising that she literally now ownedtwo outfits. Morton was actually amazed that she hadn’t made more of afuss about the loss of her colossal clothing and shoe collection, but shesimply shrugged and said she’d get some new ones on the insurance. Veryun-Juliette. It was probably shock or something. Pretty soon itwould hit her. Then she’d hit him.
After twentyminutes, the three of them had exhausted their supply of polite conversationand Morton told his father that they needed to go.
‘Make sureJeremy knows where to find me.’
‘We will,’Juliette said, pecking him on the cheek. ‘Take care.’
‘It’s not meyou should worry about, it’s the others!’ Another of his father’s greatquips.
‘He looksokay,’ Juliette said, as they left the hospital. ‘I thought from whatyou’d said he was going to be much worse than that.’
‘I thinkflat-lining is medically considered pretty bad, as things go,’ heanswered, still convinced of the inevitability of his father’s demise.
Morton wondered whether or not you couldbe fashionably late to a funeral. They were late, fashionably orotherwise. They’d left in good time and with every intention of attendingthe final service of the man they barely knew (or didn’t know at all inJuliette’s case), but Morton had suggested that they take a detour to see thedestruction the explosion had wrought. Police tape sealed off theirhouse, although it could no longer be described as a house; it was simply apile of unidentifiable, smouldering rubble. If Morton hadn’t knownbetter, he would never have believed that an entire house and all its contentscould be squashed and compacted down into the heap of nothingness in front ofhim. He then understood the term ‘razed to the ground’. Juliettehad recognised the PSCO standing guard behind the cordon, shepherding awayinquisitive neighbours and nosey rubberneckers. The PCSO had beensurprised to see Juliette among the curious crowds, until she had told him thatthe pile of wreckage used to be her home. He told her that the murmuringsamong the fire department were that Semtex might have caused theexplosion.
‘At least itmight make them investigate it if they suspect Semtex,’ Morton had said, asthey hurried to the church. He had fully expected another cover-up andanticipated ‘Gas Explosion Shock!’ as the headline in next week’s RyeObserver.
Morton found aparking spot on Tenterden High Street, just in front of the town hall and theyhurried along past the Woolpack Hotel into the side of St Mildred’sChurch. Morton couldn’t imagine a saint being named Mildredsomehow. She sounded like an
