Women Behaving Badly_An uplifting, feel-good holiday read Page 18

  Game, set, and match to me, thought Gabs to herself as she walked down to the carpark (normally she favoured taxis, but for her agency work, her car — a bright pink mini — was essential). As she drove off, she felt almost sorry for Mrs. Grant. The poor old trout had probably been looking forward to giving Gabs a dressing-down, but had ended up practically begging her for that apology. Gabs knew that her dislike for Mrs. Grant was equalled only by Mrs. Grant’s similar feelings towards her, and that if it had been any of the other carers, Mrs. Grant would have dealt with the complaint herself. This afternoon’s interview had been intended as a show of strength, but it had backfired badly, and Gabs guessed that her supervisor wouldn’t take her on again in a hurry.

  When she got home, she found Steph cooking supper.

  “Soufflé okay?” Steph asked, whisking egg whites in a bowl.

  “Fine.” Gabs would have preferred something more substantial, but she realised that Steph was trying to show her appreciation in the only way she knew — by cooking something complicated — and so it would have to do.

  After their meal, Steph brushed her hair and put on some lipstick.

  “He’s the one who should be doing that,” Gabs observed. “You have nothing to fear, you know.”

  “I don’t think this shade would suit Clive,” said Steph in a rare attempt at humour. She put down the lipstick. “Oh, Gabs. I’m so nervous. What on earth am I going to say?”

  “D’you want me to handle it?” After all, she’d done all the ‘handling’ so far.

  “Oh, would you? I know I’m a wimp, but I just don’t know where to begin.”

  “You’re not a wimp. You’re just too nice — that’s your trouble.”

  “But you will be — you will be…”

  “Gentle with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll do my best. Depends whether he behaves himself.”

  Clive arrived promptly at seven. He too had apparently made an effort; his hair was carefully spiked and jelled, and he reeked of cheap aftershave.

  “Well, hi,” he said when Gabs let him in. “You’re looking pretty good.”

  “This,” said Gabs firmly, “is not about me. It’s about Steph. I’m just here to support her.”

  “Why does she need support?” Clive dragged his gaze away from Gabs’ bosom.

  “You’ll see.”

  Steph was seated on the edge of the sofa, looking nervous. She greeted Clive shyly, and he gave her a dutiful peck on the cheek.

  “Okay. Sit down, would you?” Gabs said, feeling that she was dealing with a pair of tongue-tied teenagers. Clive sat.

  “Right. We’ll come straight to the point, shall we? Steph’s pregnant.”

  There followed a very long pause, during which Steph went pale and then bright pink, and Clive stared at the carpet. Then he looked up.

  “She can’t be,” he said. “Well, not by me, anyway.”

  “She is,” said Gabs. “By you.”

  “But we haven’t — we didn’t — well, she just can’t be.”

  “It was that evening in the car,” Steph whispered.

  “What evening in the car?”

  “You know.”

  “Would you like me to remind you?” Gabs asked. Since he didn’t reply, she went on to give such a detailed account of the events of the evening in question that by the time she’d finished, both Steph and Clive were crimson with embarrassment.

  “Gabs, you didn’t have to… well, go into so much detail,” Steph said through tears of humiliation.

  “Well, someone had to,” Gabs said. “Now, Clive, what are you going to do about it?”

  “How — how pregnant is she?” Clive asked.

  “About two months.”

  “Can’t she have something done?”

  “Like what?” Gabs was enjoying watching him squirm.

  “You know. An operation or something.”

  “It’s called an abortion, Clive, and as a good Catholic yourself, I’m sure you’ll understand that Steph won’t do that.”

  “My dad’ll kill me.”

  “Quite possibly. That’s not Steph’s problem. She has a dad of her own, who will probably provide the same service for her.”

  “Oh, heavens! Dad! I’d forgotten about him!” Steph said. “He’ll go mad.”

  “I’ll sort Dad out when the time comes. Now, Clive, the good news is that there’s help at hand.”

  “What kind of help?”

  “Well, it’s not what you’d call a solution, but Father Augustine is prepared to talk to you both.”

  “You’ve told Father Augustine?”

  “Yep. And he’ll have a chat with you both. It’ll be a start, at any rate.”

  “Do we have to?”

  “Bloody hell! You’re beginning to sound like Steph. And no. Of course you don’t have to. You can sort the whole thing out on your own if you’d prefer to. But I think Father Augustine would be helpful.”

  “Was he — angry?”

  “Just disappointed, I’d say.”

  “Oh.” Clive fiddled with the frayed edge of the hole in his jeans. “So what do we have to do?”

  “Make an appointment to see him.”

  “Yeah. Steph, would you…?”

  “No,” said Gabs. “I think you should, Clive. It’s about time you did something. Steph has been spewing her guts up for the past couple of weeks, not to mention all the worry. It’s your turn now.”

  “Shall I — shall I phone him now?”

  “Why not?” said Gabs, wishing now that she’d volunteered to do it for him. For then she would have had an opportunity to speak to Father Augustine herself. “Here. Take my phone; the number’s on it.”

  Steph and Gabs waited as Clive stuttered his way through what sounded like a very muddled conversation. When he’d finished, he looked relieved.

  “He’s ill,” he said, handing back Gabs’ phone.

  “Who’s ill?” Gabs asked.

  “Father Augustine.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with him?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  No, thought Gabs furiously. Of course you didn’t ask. Because all you’re concerned about is your own problems. The health of someone who’s offered to help you is of no consequence. She resolved to phone the presbytery herself at the earliest opportunity to find out a bit more.

  “Well, did you ask to see Father Pat?”

  “No. You didn’t say anything about Father Pat.”

  “This is not up to me!” Gabs wanted to strangle him. “This is your problem. If Father Augustine’s not available, then it will have to be Father Pat, won’t it?”

  “But Father Pat’s so fierce,” said Steph. “He’ll be furious.”

  “No, he won’t. He must be used to things like this.” Gabs thought that Steph was probably right, but there was no point in worrying her further. “It’s his job to help, and you’ve been a pillar of his church. I reckon he owes you one.”

  By the time Clive left an hour later, an appointment had been made for both of them to see Father Pat. Neither seemed to be very pleased about the arrangement, but at least it was a start, and Gabs, for one, would welcome someone else’s input, even Father Pat’s.

  Later on, when Steph had gone to have a bath, Gabs phoned the presbytery. The housekeeper answered.

  “Can you tell me how Father Augustine is, please?”

  “He’s comfortable.”

  This was hospitalspeak, and Gabs felt a frisson of alarm.

  “Why? Where is he?”

  “In the hospital.”

  “What happened? I mean, is it serious?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

  “Was it an accident?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, woman, you can at least tell me how he is. That can hardly be breaking any confidences.”

  “If you’re going to talk to me like that —”

  “I’m not talking to you
like anything! I just want to know! I’m — I’m his sister.”

  “Father Augustine is an only child. He has no sisters. And since you’ve been so rude and have also lied to me, I’m afraid I have to ring off.”

  And that was that.

  For the next twenty-four hours, Gabs fretted and fumed. She tried phoning the hospital, but had no luck. No one appeared to have heard of a Father Augustine, and Gabs realised that his real name might be quite different. As to his surname, she had no idea what it was.

  “You could try asking for the Catholic chaplain,” said Steph, who was still in grateful mode. “He’s bound to know.”

  “So he is.”

  Gabs phoned the hospital again. After a prolonged wait, in the course of which she had to press a lot of buttons and then listen to a rather piercing trumpet tune (was this really what the relatives of the sick needed to hear when they were anxiously awaiting news?), a man answered the phone.

  “Are you the Catholic chaplain?” Gabs asked.

  “I am.”

  “Well, I just want to know — do you have a priest in the hospital?”

  “I am the priest in the hospital.”

  “No, I mean a sick priest.”

  “You want a sick priest?”

  “I don’t want a sick priest; I’m looking for one. He’s — he’s a friend. I want to know how he is.”

  “Now, you know I can’t give out that kind of information. Unless of course you’re the next of kin.”

  “I could be,” said Gabs.

  “What do you mean, you could be?”

  “Well, I don’t know whether he has any family, and if he hasn’t, then I could be his next of kin, couldn’t I?”

  “My dear, it’s up to the patient to say who’s their next of kin. It’s not up to me. And it’s certainly not up to you.”

  “So you can’t tell me how he is?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “But you know who I’m talking about? I know him as Father Augustine.”

  “Not such a close friend, then.”

  “Well, no. But you know who I’m talking about?”

  “I do.”

  “Okay. Just one question, then. Is he alive?”

  The man laughed. “I think I’m allowed to say that he’s alive. Yes. I think that would be acceptable.”

  “Not — not dying then?”

  “Not as far as I know. Now, my dear, that’s really all I can tell you, and I probably shouldn’t have even told you that. If you really want to know how your — friend is, then I suggest you find his real next of kin and ask them.”

  “So that’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  Well, at least Father Augustine wasn’t at death’s door, and was therefore likely to leave the hospital at some stage. Gabs toyed with the idea of going to the hospital and trying her luck again, but decided against it. Besides, she didn’t want to embarrass Father Augustine by pitching up when he was ill in bed. That would hardly be fair. And he’d be feeling particularly vulnerable in his pyjamas.

  Father Augustine in pyjamas. Gabs sighed. Hitherto she had only seen him in his dog collar or his clerical robes, dressed for his job. But in pyjamas, he’d be just like anyone else — just a no-frills man. A no-frills and very sexy man. There was something about pyjamas that Gabs had always found particularly seductive, especially as nowadays so few men seemed to wear them. But she was quite sure Father Augustine would wear pyjamas. With stripes.

  “Any luck?” asked Steph, who was being quite sympathetic considering her views.

  “Well, I have it on authority that he’s not dead.”

  “I’ll ask about him when I go to Mass, shall I? Someone’s bound to know.”

  “Please.”

  “Shall I do another soufflé for supper? Or would you like a quiche?” Steph seemed to have bought more eggs. What was it with Steph and eggs? Gabs wondered. Shouldn’t it be coal?

  “Steph, please, could we have something ordinary? I’m starving. I need junk.”

  Steph looked at her pityingly. “I don’t know how you can,” she said, “especially as you’re supposed to be in love.”

  “Believe me,” said Gabs, “being in love takes it out of you.” She relieved Steph of the box of eggs she was holding and replaced them in the fridge. “What you need — what we both need — is fish and chips from the fish and chip shop. Have we any ketchup?”

  Mavis

  Clifford’s voice on the phone was breathless with excitement. “Mavis? I’ve got some news. I’ve got to have to have an operation!”

  “Why? What’s wrong with you?”

  “You know. It’s my heart.”

  “Yes, but you’ve got all those pills and that little puffer thing.”

  “Ah, but you know that test I had at the hospital?”

  Mavis certainly knew about the test. She also knew all the details, right down to which clothes Clifford had worn for the occasion and the consultant’s name. “Yes?”

  “Well, I’ve got three blocked arteries! Three! Can you imagine that?”

  Mavis tried to imagine three blocked arteries, but all she could come up with were three little tubes stuffed with butter (she had always imagined cholesterol to look like butter). What were they going to do? Suck the butter out? No doubt Clifford was about to tell her.

  “Yes,” Clifford continued. “And I’ve got to have a triple bypass operation!”

  Mavis knew very little about bypass operations — they always sounded to her like some kind of traffic complication — but she knew that lots of people had, and survived, them, so she took Clifford’s news calmly.

  “Oh dear,” she said, hoping that that was the right response.

  “You don’t sound very worried,” Clifford said.

  “Well, neither do you.” The awful cliché about ‘the wonderful things they could do these days’ flashed through Mavis’s mind.

  “I’d be worried if it were you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask me all about it?”

  “Of course.” Mavis sat down and made herself comfortable. This was going to take time. “Please tell me what they’re going to do.”

  “Well,” said Clifford, “they kind of switch off your heart, and a machine takes over, and then they take veins from somewhere else…”

  The account went on and on. Mavis was still wondering how Clifford was going to manage without those veins — after all, didn’t one need all one’s veins? — when he finally came to a halt.

  “So, what do you think?”

  “I think…” Mavis groped around for something useful to say. “I think it’s just wonderful the things they can do these days.”

  “Yes, isn’t it? And afterwards, I shall be in intensive care for a while.”

  Intensive care, Mavis knew, would be hypochondriac heaven. Every tiny ache and pain taken seriously; all those machines ticking and buzzing; all those drips and tubes; all that attention.

  “What does Dorothy think?” she asked.

  “Well, funnily enough, she doesn’t seem particularly worried.”

  “Really?” Dorothy went up in Mavis’s estimation.

  “Yes. She’s taken the news very calmly. Of course, she came along to see the specialist with me —” (of course) “ — and asked a few questions, but she seems fine about it. To tell you the truth, I was a little bit hurt.”

  “Oh dear.” Mavis pulled herself together. “Well, I shall be very concerned indeed. And of course, I’ll miss you.”

  And the sex, she thought bleakly. She would certainly miss the sex. Was that very bad of her? For how long would Clifford be hors de combat?

  “I thought you would,” Clifford said.

  “Will I be able to visit you?”

  “Oh no. Family only, I’m afraid.”

  “Won’t you mind that? I mean, won’t you feel a bit sad that I can’t see you?”

  “Of course.” Clifford didn’t sound at all sad. “But I’m
afraid it can’t be helped. It won’t be for long, unless there are complications.”

  Ah. Complications. We mustn’t forget those. Mavis waited to be told about the complications, but apparently these could wait for another time.

  “When are you having this done?” she asked.

  “In a fortnight.”

  “So that gives you time to —” time to what? Put his affairs in order (Mavis had always rather liked that expression)? Buy new pyjamas? — “time to get ready,” she finished rather lamely.

  “Yes. And to see you. Of course I must see you before I go in.”

  “That would be nice.” Mavis immediately felt better and regretted some of her less charitable thoughts during the course of this conversation. “Could we — are you all right to go to Dennis’s?”

  “I think I could manage Dennis’s,” Clifford said. “Provided we’re careful.”

  After Clifford had rung off, Mavis sat and thought about what he had said and tried to analyse her feelings. Obviously she was concerned, but why didn’t she feel more worried? There had been a time when she had had nightmares — literally — about something awful happening to Clifford, but since his retirement he had taken such exceptionally good care of himself that she could no longer imagine anything happening to him at all. Sometimes she felt that it was more than likely that he would outlive her, not least because she couldn’t afford the expensive specialists and private hospitals favoured by Clifford and had to settle for whatever the NHS could give her.

  Meanwhile, the weather was hot and humid, Maudie had had another disastrous pie-making session (three broken dishes, and it had taken Mavis two hours to clear up the mess), and the cat, possibly mistaking her for a visitor, had ambushed her one evening when she came home from work, necessitating a visit to the doctor for a tetanus injection. This move was ill-advised on the part of Pussolini, for Mavis had been so angry that she had locked him out of the house for twenty-four hours and refused to feed him.

  “You can go and find your own supper,” she’d yelled at him as he slunk snarling into the undergrowth at the bottom of the garden. “If you can catch me, then you can certainly catch a mouse. Dratted animal!”

  A week after her conversation with Clifford, Mavis received a surprise phone call from Alice.