Balls

  ‘Ken suggests one of us stays with him all night in case he comes round and some nosey reporter’s on the scene hoping for a scoop.’

  He had laid this suggestion at Ken’s door unconsciously as there was a chance Daphne would consider it ridiculous. She didn’t, and now it would be virtually impossible to reclaim.

  ‘Good idea. Who?’

  Her pursed lips advised caution.

  ‘Well, that’s what we’ve got to decide. Jill’s the obvious choice, but then who takes the kids to school? Ken has to be at work at eight.’

  Round about ways to avoid asking her straight out, to give her the chance to offer her services which he knew she would never do. She would shrug her shoulders and force him to ask, it was her way.

  ‘Can’t the kids have the day off school?’

  ‘That would cause more problems than it would solve. They’d want to know why, and anyway, who’d look after them at such short notice.’

  ‘And has she agreed to spend all night there? The children’ll wonder where she’s got to.’

  ‘They’re going to say he had a bicycle accident.’

  She stubbornly refused to make things easier for him. He’s your brother, she seemed to be saying, do something. She left him no choice.

  ‘Well Jill’s offered to go, and if this gets into the papers I don’t think it will exactly make life much easier for either of us. Couldn’t you take the kids to school for once?’

  It was the ‘for once’ that offended her. What did he mean by ‘for once’? Was it her fault they had no children of their own? Why did he have to ask her in that accusing tone, as if she were a worthless, lazy, good-for-nothing? Anyway, she had taken them to school on more than one occasion when Jill was down with ‘flu. She watched him through narrowed eyes as he about turned in the tiny space between the phone table and the back of the sofa, buttoning and unbuttoning his jacket and constantly smoothing down his tie over his six months pregnant stomach. Of course she’d take the rowdy little brats to school if it was one hundred percent necessary, but first let him squirm a little, beg a little. Not long enough for him to start thinking of threats, but long enough for her sacrifice to be truly appreciated.

  ‘Daphne, please. I told them I’d phone back in half an hour. What shall I say? They have to be there’

  careful now, Ron

  ‘as you know, by nine o’clock. You can take the Rover if you prefer. That is...’

  How much tact and diplomacy was needed with her! Christ, it’s not much to ask that she get up out of bed early for once. He was about to put his foot in it and warn her in no uncertain terms that it was for her own good that this ugly affair be kept out of the news, when she agreed.

  ‘Call them and tell them I’ll be there at eight forty-five. Sharp!’

  It was with mixed feelings that Jill had accepted to look after her young brother-in-law. She had desperately wanted to get to the hospital to find out exactly what was going on, but she feared that having been landed with the night shift she would have little opportunity to quiz the doctors and nurses. A hospital at night is like a haunted monastery, full of shadows and whispers, and although she had done her best to investigate, she had been fobbed off with ‘best consult the doctor in the morning’ and the like.

  Ron had got his way, as usual. He seemed to have contacts everywhere, and Paul had been moved into a private room, away from the gaping and gossiping of the public wards. From the third floor window she had a view of another hospital department directly in front of her, and below that, to the left, the entrance to the morgue, its bright neon lights reminding her of a bingo hall. A little further off a few trees had been placed in between dull buildings in a sloppy attempt at decoration, and the whole bleak scene was illuminated by tall yellowish lights reminiscent of motorways or railway sidings.

  She wished she hadn’t chosen her pleated skirt. It may camouflage her midriff bulge, but after a whole night spent trying to get comfortable on a low-slung, black imitation leather armchair she would be a crumpled mess by the morning. Slacks. But somehow she had felt the need to come well dressed, an act of respect, she supposed. For the medical staff. Certainly not slacks, anyway. And what to do with her handbag? Hang it off the back of the armchair where it might fall, or place it on the floor beside the bed? No, not on the floor, the place would be swarming with superbugs as it was without asking for trouble. Finally she slipped it into a carrier bag she had brought along with her knitting and a few magazines she’d already read, and propped the lot on a beige radiator near the window.

  Paul was asleep. Or sedated, she wasn’t sure. She could only see his profile, the rest of him was well tucked under stiff, once white sheets. He had that forlorn look that hospital patients always have, as if even in their unconscious state they felt sorry for themselves, a kind of why-did-it-have-to-be-me, like a tiny plea for pity. He stirred no pity in her, though. His hair was to blame, she had always hated it. It was wispy. Not curly, but curled, like a baby has curls, silly effeminate curls like Hamlet's, that reminded her of tormented souls and tights and affected lisps. Naturally she felt sorry for him, poor man, but it was a general sentiment she felt towards anyone who was ill, or disabled, or poor, or ugly. She wished them all the best, a quick recovery and better times to come. They would even be added to her prayer list if she remembered, because although she was not officially religious, she did have a sneak pray every so often, just in case. But this Paul, her husband’s brother, shouldn’t he spark off something, how to put it, something, she was repeating herself but how else to describe it, deeper? Maybe not what she felt when Susan or Robbie were ill, but ... Perhaps she was being too hard on him, too critical. She studied her recently manicured hands as if she were scrutinising her relationship with Paul. In future she would try to understand him better, would listen more carefully to what he believed .....

  Another voice cut her short. It was her earthy, motherly, no-nonsense-please voice warning her that too much patience, too much indulgence, too much time-wasting with fanatics who refuse to return you the favour of listening to you, was not advisable. To back it up a number of snapshot memories of Paul on his high-horse, declaiming and proclaiming with his eyes rolling. You’d do a lot better finishing that cardigan and then getting what rest you can, she told herself. Things are as they are and there’s no point torturing yourself with the whys and the wherefores.

  She didn’t fancy knitting, deciding rather to re-flit through a silly magazine she’d only bought to while away the dull hours before the kids came home. Of course, even though it was a cruel thought, he only had himself to blame. She looked up at the bed from her low-slung position. Lying there like Jesus on his deathbed, or one of those stone tombs in ancient churches where the long dead knight lies on top of his coffin instead of inside it. Why would he want to do ... that .... to himself? She couldn’t help a furtive glance at where his groin would be under the bedclothes. With a shudder she returned to the false world of horoscopes and diets that was a carbon copy of every other ‘woman’s’ magazine she’d ever read. If it had been an accident perhaps she’d feel more, more sympathy. Yes, that was it. If he were a victim. But self-mutilation, good God, it makes your flesh crawl. And how to feel pity, smile gently and ask if he feels better? Bloody weirdo, she almost thought, but rushed to hush herself. Let’s not jump to conclusions, maybe he is a victim in a weird, I mean strange way. Anyway, what’s done is done and that’s that. Best put it all behind us and start afresh. As Ken says, while there’s life there’s hope.

  She stared again at the bulge between his legs. Bandages, she supposed. Curiosity began to grow in her and she didn’t bother to check it, knowing that she would be unable to untuck the bedclothes and take a quick peek. Anyway, there was nothing to see, quite the opposite, only the wound where something had been, only something missing.

  The little, square gold-faced watch told her it was almost midnight. The night nurse, (straight-faced, no hint of a snigger), had promised to pop in
every two or three hours to see how he was, so she’d be round in a few minutes. She could get out into the corridor for a bit and stretch her legs, maybe even go for a coffee and fill her eyes with light, the sickly bedside lamp was beginning to depress her. Outside, the half silence of the city was occasionally accentuated by the routine hysteria of flashing ambulances bringing in regular truckloads of tragedy, giving her the impression that she was not in a hospital at all but at a pre-dawn meatmarket.

  It could have something to do with their father, it suddenly occurred to her. And their mother, of course, though she wasn’t to blame. Ken often wondered about all that even though he tried to let sleeping dogs lie. But Paul had always been more susceptible to all that stuff. Maybe Ron’s been mixing it all up, who knows? They all give the impression of being so open about it all, but then you suddenly feel they’re being secretive. Over the years she had tried to put the pieces together, had quizzed him heaven knows how many times, but it was impossible to get a straight answer. What a family. Half the time I don’t think even they know what to think. She stood up to observe him better. He hadn’t moved an inch in all the time she’d been there. Was that normal? Shouldn’t he toss and turn, even a little bit, sigh and stir or at least twist his feet? Still, he was breathing regularly even if there wasn’t a drip. Shouldn’t there be a drip? He was hot, hot yet dry. Was that alright? Where was the nurse? Gone twelve and no sign of her. She held her breath and listened. A door slammed somewhere to the right and a whirring sound she hadn’t noticed before filled the room. Heating. Ah, where are they now, eh? She meant his Mum and Dad. Can’t blame her, poor love, may she rest in peace. But where the devil is he?

  At first light, when the street lamps begin to feel a little superfluous and decide to call it a day one by one, Jill stretched and consulted her watch. Only a few hours to go. Ron had assured her that by ten o’clock everything would be ‘sorted out’, whatever that meant. Paul, incredibly, slept on. Did she want him to wake up before she left? In a way it would be nice to see him sit up and eat a little breakfast, but what would she say? Should she mention his ... wound? Crotch feeling better, Paul? What would he think of her being there? All night making sure he wasn’t bothered by some somnambulist reporter, probably a dreadful sight in her crumpled skirt. How should she act? Solemn or cheerful? Secretly she hoped she could slip out unnoticed and unmentioned. Let them clear up their own mess. The kids would be up by now. She thought of Daphne and her impeccable car. I hope they behave themselves or we’ll never hear the end of it.

  The door opened and a plump expressionless nurse with a boy’s haircut sauntered in.

  ‘How is he?’

  A routine question she didn’t really expect an answer to.

  ‘Oh, hello. Good morning. I don’t know. He hasn’t moved all night.’

  At which, as if he had been waiting his cue, Paul gently opened his eyes. Jill stared at him in disbelief. Did he behave like this just to annoy? Had he been feigning sleep all that time? Had he been deliberately trying to avoid her?

  ‘Paul. How are you? You didn’t move.’

  He stared at her morosely.

  ‘I’ve been here all night,’

  she explained, but he just continued to stare. Had he recognised her? Did he suspect she was laughing at him?

  ‘Would you mind stepping outside for a few minutes?’

  Grateful for the opportunity to leave the room she wandered out into the corridor. Here life was different, well-lit and brisk with early morning activity, a constant, well-drilled coming and going which seemed to make much more sense than that damned brother-in-law of hers stretched on his bed like a zombie. Her bewilderment she shrugged off with the last dregs of drowsiness, and entered into the new day where she most definitely felt more at home. Now maybe she could hunt out someone who would be able to give her a few answers. As for Paul, he’ll be out in a few days. Until then somebody else can do the midnight vigil routine. If Ron’s so worried about his reputation let him spend the night slipping off an armchair. Or, better still, Daphne.

  There had always been a touch of the frustrated artiste in Ron. Perhaps that helped to explain his goatee beard and his well-studied dress habits. Whenever he was delighted, or troubled, or on the verge of coming to a brilliant conclusion, he would begin to act, to behave as if he were part of a cheap TV soap opera or an expensive Hollywood drama. He had studied Law at university with the dream of becoming a famous, (or infamous, it didn’t matter much) defence lawyer, but his innate arrogance had turned him into a lazy student and his final results had been a little disappointing. Still, every cloud has a silver lining and Ron soon realised that his true calling was public office. It wasn’t much different from either court or stage, demanding rhetoric, postulation and above all pretence. Years of council meetings and public debates had made him extremely aware of his speech, its delivery more than its content, and of his body language. He knew when to stress a word, when to half close his eyes, when to fall into a whisper, when to hold his hands together in modern, geometric prayer (fingertips joined, fingers splayed, palms not touching). These professional tricks had now spilt over into his everyday life, as Daphne knew only too well, and he never missed an opportunity to demonstrate his skills. So when he eventually saw the headlines in the evening newspaper his wife was not at all surprised by his overreaction.

  ‘It’s splattered all over the front bloody page.’

  throwing down the paper onto the sofa in false rage. A few about turns, brush imaginary sweaty hair off troubled brow, huff and puff, arms akimbo now on waist, strategically holding open the jacket he should have taken off but had kept on for effect, thus proudly showing off his beer belly as if it gave him more authority.

  ”Bloody” was alright. There were a number of minor swear words which Daphne had come to accept over the years. All the religious ones were fine, bloody hell, or for God’s sake, Christ knows or simply Jesus. Bloody, ruddy, bleeding. Oddly enough even twat, which she took to be a bastardisation of twit. Anything else was taboo, even balls if by that you meant...

  She too had learnt her role. She couldn’t pay much attention to him as tonight was group night and she was ‘getting ready’, which basically entailed waltzing in and out of rooms looking for things that were not lost, toying with her clothes and touching up her appearance. The idea was to look busy, organised and just a mite flustered, at least enough for her to be able to claim that hers was not a hobby, not a pleasant pastime, but rather an unpaid thankless service to the community.

  ‘I told you’

  she sighed.

  He glared at her but she pretended she hadn’t noticed, examining her handbag instead.

  He snatched up the paper again. These dramatic gestures were not always very effective, and although he had certainly gleaned some satisfaction from hurling the rag onto the sofa, he’d only managed to read the headline so far.

  ‘Listen to this...’

  ‘I’ve read it, thanks.’

  So he mumbled it to himself, breaking off every so often in indignant amazement.

  ‘For Christ’s sake I told her not to leave the room.’

  ‘She didn’t.’

  ‘Oh no, of course not, Jill’s not like that, is she? Then how the...hell.... do you explain this, eh?’

  ‘News gets round, it’s obviously lifted from the local paper in Nutswood. Car keys, pencil. Calm down, it mentions no names.’

  Her coolness exasperated him. Caught up in his own dramatic representation he went too far.

  ‘”News gets round”’, “it mentions no names”’,

  he mimicked in a fussy nasal tone, then continued.

  ‘Jesus, how long do you think before the shit hits the fan, eh? It may well be Mr. X for now, but mark my words,’

  he was climbing down now. Daphne was strutting, picking things up in a jerky, vigorous fashion he recognised only too well.

  ‘It’s only a matter of time.’

  He needed to make amends q
uickly.

  ‘And of course you’re right about Jill, she wouldn’t have left the room without letting us know.’

  Not enough, Ron.

  ‘Oh, all of this is driving me mad, I swear.’

  More sincerity.

  ‘I’m sorry, dear, I had no right to sneer.’

  He hadn’t exactly sneered, she thought, but she knew what he meant and how difficult it was for him to ask for forgiveness.

  ‘We’re all a bit nervous, I fear.’

  He wanted to thank her.

  ‘Shall I run you in?’

  ‘No, no,’

  she smiled

  ‘Somebody’d better remain on guard, don’t you think?’

  There was no need to say any more, their relationship had been reasserted. A quick peck and off she went, leaving him to study the article in depth.

  He read it over and over again, wondering how much of it was true and how much sensational interpretation. It was written in the paper’s light-hearted style whereby what had already been made explicit in the headline was then deliberately held back until the last words of the opening paragraph, the reader supposedly waiting with bated breath for – the headline again! It was disappointing, silly, insulting almost, and managed to trivialise just about any news item. Apparently it was what the public demanded. But it wasn’t precisely the journalistic style that bothered Ron, nor the blatant mistakes (18 year old P.K., member of a strange tree worshipping sect!), not even the exaggerated descriptions (staggered into N. At the break of dawn trailing blood to the horror of astonished farm labourers). No, what worried Ron was that it made such a bloody good story. It was the typical 'human lunacy’ stuff that everybody loved: the man taken into casualty with a jar of coffee stuck up his arse, or a couple needing to be separated like dogs after becoming intimately stuck together. Toilet humour taken to its extreme, they’d lap it up in the pubs, on the work floor, in government offices and in the playground. People that found farts funny, dropped their trousers and told stories about sheepshaggers. And how long before P.K. was discovered to be the younger brother of R.K, local politician and esteemed member of the community? This must be kept secret. No names, no more reporting, this has to stop here and now. Yes, it was about time he had a subtle word with the editor, old Shanks; he owed him a favour or two as it was.