There was a minor hiccup when George was changing out of his work clothes. He was about to remove his shirt and trousers when he remembered what they were hiding, and felt that horror-film lurch you got when the mirrored door of the wardrobe swung shut to reveal the zombie with the scythe standing behind the hero.
He turned off the lights, pulled down the blinds and showered in darkness singing “ Jerusalem.”
As a result he walked downstairs feeling not only clean but proud of having taken such rapid and effective action. When he reached the dining room there was wine and conversation and Jacob pretending to be a helicopter and George was finally able to loosen his grip a little.
His fear that Jean, being Jean, would make some well-meant but inappropriate comment, that Katie, being Katie, would rise to the bait and that the two of them would proceed to fight like cats proved unfounded. Katie talked about Barcelona (it was in Spain, of course, he remembered now), Ray was complimentary about the food (“Cracking soup, Mrs. Hall”) and Jacob made a runway out of cutlery so his bus could take off and got quite heated when George said that buses did not fly.
They were halfway through the blackberry crumble, however, when the lesion began to itch like athlete’s foot. The word
He could feel it growing as he sat at the table, too slowly perhaps for the naked eye to see, but growing nevertheless, like the bread mold he once kept in a jam jar on the windowsill in his bedroom as a boy.
They were discussing wedding arrangements: caterers, photographers, invitations…This part of the conversation George understood. Then they began discussing whether to book a hotel (Katie and Ray’s preferred option) or hire a tent for the garden (the preferred option for Jacob who was very excited by the whole tent concept). At this point George began to lose focus.
Katie turned to him and said something like, “When will the studio be finished?” but she could have been speaking Hungarian. He could see her mouth moving but was unable to process the noise coming out of it.
The accelerator was being pressed to the floor inside his head. The engine was screaming, the wheels were spinning and smoke was pouring off the tires, but he was going nowhere.
He was unsure what happened next, but it was not elegant, it involved damage to crockery and ended up with him exiting rapidly through the back door.
7
There was a clatter of plates and Jean turned to find that George had vanished.
After about five seconds of stunned silence Jacob looked up from his bus and said, “Where’s Grandpa?”
“In the garden,” said Ray.
“Right,” said Katie, her jaw hardening.
Jean tried to head her off. “Katie…”
But it was too late. Katie stood and marched out of the room to hunt her father down. There was a second short silence.
“Is Mummy in the garden as well?” asked Jacob.
Jean looked at Ray. “I’m sorry about this.”
Ray looked at Jacob. “Bit of a fiery lady, your old mum.”
“What’s
“Gets cross, doesn’t she,” said Ray.
Jacob thought for a few moments. “Can we get the submarine out?”
“Come on, then, Captain.”
When Ray and Jacob reached the landing Jean went into the kitchen and stood by the fridge, from where she could see Katie without being seen.
“And water sprays out of the sprayer,” shouted Jacob from upstairs.
“I don’t care what you think, Dad.” Katie was marching up and down the patio waving her arms around like a mad person in a film. “It’s my life. I’m going to marry Ray whether you like it or not.”
Precisely where George was, or what he was doing, it was hard to tell.
“You have no idea. No idea. Ray is kind. Ray is sweet. And you’re entitled to your own opinions. But if you try and stop this we’ll just do it ourselves, OK?”
She seemed to be staring at the ground. Surely George wasn’t lying down?
When he ran out of the room, Jean assumed he’d spilled custard on his trousers or smelt gas and Katie had simply jumped to conclusions. Which was par for the course. But clearly something more serious was happening, and it worried her.
“Well?” asked Katie from the far side of the glass.
There was no answer that Jean could hear.
“Jesus. I give in.”
Katie vanished from the window and there were footsteps down the side of the house. Jean whipped open the fridge door and grabbed a carton of milk. Katie burst through the door, hissed, “What is wrong with that man?” and strode down the hallway.
Jean replaced the milk and waited for George to reappear. When he didn’t, she put the kettle on and went outside.
He was sitting on the patio with his back against the wall and his fingers pressed to his eyes, looking for all the world like that Scottish man who drank cider and slept on the grass outside the magistrates court.
“George?” She bent down in front of him.
He took his hands away from his face. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Is something wrong?” asked Jean.
“I just…I was finding it hard to talk,” said George. “And Katie was shouting a lot.”
“Are you OK?”
“I don’t feel terribly well, to be honest,” said George.
“In what way?” She wondered if he had been crying but this seemed ridiculous.
“Having a bit of trouble breathing. Had to get myself some fresh air. Sorry.”
“This wasn’t about Ray, then?”
“Ray?” asked George.
He seemed to have forgotten who Ray was, and this was worrying, too.
“No,” said George. “It wasn’t about Ray.”
She touched his knee. It felt odd. George didn’t like sympathy. He liked Lemsip and a blanket and the room to himself. “How are you feeling now?”
“A little better. Talking to you.”
“We’ll ring the doctor and get you an appointment tomorrow,” said Jean.
“No, not the doctor,” said George, rather insistently.
“Don’t be silly, George.”
She held out her hand. He took it and slowly got to his feet. He was shaking. “Let’s get you inside.”
She felt uneasy. They had reached the age when things went wrong and didn’t always get better. Bob Green’s heart attack. Moira Palmer’s kidney. But at least George was letting her look after him, which made a change. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d walked arm in arm like this.
They stepped through the door and found Katie standing in the middle of the kitchen eating crumble from a bowl.
Jean said, “Your father’s not feeling very well.”
Katie’s eyes narrowed.
Jean continued: “This has nothing to do with you getting married to Ray.”
Katie looked at George and spoke through a mouthful of crumble. “Well, why didn’t you bloody say?”
Jean ushered George into the hallway.
He let go of her hand. “I’ll go and lie down upstairs, I think.”
The two women stood waiting for the dull click of the bedroom door above their heads. Then Katie dumped
