Another Night, Another Day

  ‘What’s up?’ says Lou.

  ‘Oh, thinking about my dad, that’s all.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about my dad a lot as well.’ Lou gives her a sympathetic smile.

  At least Dad got to see Molly and Luke, Karen reminds herself. I should be more thankful. She catches herself; it’s that ‘should’ word again . . . Then she remembers: ‘Ooh, just to warn you, I’ve a friend who might pop round this morning – she’s having a tough time, so I said she could.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘No one you know.’ Karen reaches for the starfish to shake it for Frankie. ‘I met her—’ She recalls she’s not told Lou she’s attending Moreland’s. It’s silly, given that Lou is a counsellor, but then I’d have to explain how awfully down I’ve been, and that’ll be a long conversation, she reasons. So she fudges, ‘We’re on a course together, but she lives round here.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were doing a course . . . ?’

  ‘Um, yes . . . Anyway, she’s splitting up with her husband—’ I mustn’t say more or I’ll be breaking Abby’s confidence, Karen remembers. ‘I’ll let her explain.’ It might be safer to head back to their original subject. ‘You were asking about Mum. While she’s out, I wanted to ask you something.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I was wondering if I ought to invite her to move in here. She’s still in that horrible flat in Goring.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, you already know I couldn’t live with my mother in a million years.’ Lou recoils at the prospect, and Frankie scrunches up his face and begins to howl, as if in response. Lou reaches to unclip the fasteners of his seat. ‘You need feeding,’ she says, scooping him into her arms.

  ‘You’re such a natural,’ Karen smiles. ‘Why don’t you pass him to me? Then you can sit on the sofa, and I’ll hand him back.’ Lou does as she suggests and Karen is delighted to have a few seconds cuddling him. Ah, the joy of newborn baby!

  ‘You get on with your mum so well,’ says Lou, once Frankie is suckling. ‘All the same, how would you feel about her being here?’

  ‘Burdened.’ The word pops out before Karen can contain it. ‘But Mum’s always done such a lot for me . . .’

  ‘She was living abroad when your children were small,’ Lou points out.

  ‘Yeah, but they had us to stay a lot. We had some wonderful holidays out there.’ At least Dad was able to enjoy those with us, she recalls, even if his memory was slipping.

  ‘I bet she loved it! You said yourself she enjoys being with Molly and Luke.’

  Karen is uneasy being critical. ‘She had a huge amount on, looking after my father. She managed virtually single-handed for many years.’

  ‘Yes, sorry, I wasn’t thinking – of course she did. I told you not to talk to me about mothers. I project too much of my own relationship. Great at being the objective counsellor, aren’t I?’

  If only Lou knew how much therapy I’ve had in the last fortnight, Karen thinks. I wasn’t after more. ‘I don’t want to upset her – especially when she’s just lost Dad . . . And I don’t want to be unkind, or let her down . . .’ She comes to a halt. I’m off again, she realizes, putting others’ needs first. Now she’s seen the pattern, it’s showing up everywhere, like a dandelion seeding itself.

  They’re interrupted by the sound of people coming up the path.

  Karen goes to the window. ‘It’s my friend.’ Abby has a pushchair too; it’s strange to see it occupied by a boy of Luke’s age, and he appears to be wearing giant earphones like her father had in the 1970s. Karen has a flurry of panic about Frankie. He’s so small and vulnerable. ‘She’s brought her son. I said she could but I gather he can be a bit hard to control. Are you OK with that?’

  ‘Of course,’ says Lou, as she eases her breast back into her bra and clips it up.

  Nothing ever seems to throw her, thinks Karen, impressed. ‘Back in a sec, then,’ she says, and goes to open the front door.

  * * *

  ‘I’ll wheel him inside in the chair,’ says Abby.

  ‘We’re in the living room,’ says Karen.

  ‘Ah.’ Abby notices the plural. She’s worried how Callum will react to Karen’s children – when she’d phoned, Karen had said they were out. She’d hurried to make it before they returned, but it took a while to get Callum out of the house. It often does, except when he fancies it – then he can bolt like an Olympic sprinter.

  Abby tilts the pushchair to get it through the doorway without scratching the paint and wheels Callum close to the television.

  ‘Abby, this is my friend Lou,’ says Karen. ‘Lou, this is Abby and Callum.’

  Abby has been fighting back tears all morning, so is disappointed to see a woman with a very small baby sitting on the sofa. She’s patting the baby’s back to wind him. I’m not sure I can cope with someone who doesn’t understand my situation, Abby thinks. She’s tempted to leave, but that would be rude. ‘Do you mind if I put on a film for Callum?’ She rummages in her bag.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘I think we’ve met before,’ says Karen’s friend.

  Abby looks up. There is something familiar about her.

  ‘I did wonder, when Karen said your son has autism.’

  Has autism, Abby notices, most people don’t refer to it like that. Not unless they have some kind of experience – ‘your son is autistic’ is much more common. She speeds the film through to a section Callum likes. At once he leans forward to watch and Abby turns to give Karen’s friend her full attention.

  ‘You two were shopping . . . ?’

  ‘Oh my goodness! You’re the lady from the Co-op! Wow. And I see you’ve had your baby. Congratulations!’ So that’s why I didn’t recognize her.

  ‘Frankie,’ says Lou with a proud smile. Her son gives a liquidy burp.

  ‘You’ve met before?’ asks Karen.

  Instantly Abby’s mood brightens, as if someone has let in the sunshine. She tells Karen the story, and finishes, ‘In that situation some people can’t get away fast enough, but mostly they just stand and stare. I know it’s fascinating, but sometimes I get sick of being treated as if we’re purely there for entertainment. But Lou was so helpful.’

  ‘It was nothing.’ Lou appears both embarrassed and chuffed.

  ‘That is so spooky,’ says Karen. ‘You know Lou is the woman I was telling you about yesterday, Abby? The one I met the day Simon died on the train?’

  ‘No way!’

  Karen laughs. ‘I did tell you what goes around comes around.’

  What a tonic, thinks Abby. It’s good to be reminded that not everyone is as selfish as Glenn, in the wake of recent revelations.

  There’s a tap on the window. Abby sees an elderly woman in a tweed coat, two children at her side.

  Oh-oh, she thinks, bracing herself. Seconds later the children charge into the lounge.

  ‘I’ll go and put the kettle on,’ says the woman and disappears down the hall. Abby deduces she must be Karen’s mother. They have similar hazel eyes, she notices.

  ‘Shh! Kids!’ says Karen. ‘Look who’s here.’

  ‘Lou!’ her daughter gasps.

  What gorgeous blonde curls, thinks Abby.

  ‘It’s the baby!’

  ‘Quiet.’ Karen puts her finger to her lips. ‘He’s about to drift off, see?’

  The little girl tiptoes over to Lou’s side. Her mouth opens into an ‘O’ of wonder.

  ‘I’ve just fed him,’ Lou tells her. ‘So he’s all woozy.’

  ‘Molly, Luke, this is Abby,’ says Karen.

  ‘Hello,’ says Abby.

  ‘And this is her son, Callum.’

  ‘Why’s he in a pushchair?’ says Luke.

  Callum starts to moan as if in pain. Too many new people, thinks Abby, and a new house. It was ambitious to try this.

  ‘Should I take the kids into the kitchen?’ Karen offers.

  ‘Let’s give it a minute,’ says Abby. The film might recapture Callum’s attention, and it saddens her that he’
s so often separated from his peers.

  ‘Molly, Luke – come and sit with me,’ says Lou, ‘and I’ll explain. You need to stay very quiet, though.’

  Karen’s children obviously know her well, observes Abby; they plop down on either side of her without a quibble.

  ‘Abby’s little boy has a condition that means he has a hard time talking and understanding everything you say,’ says Lou in an almost-whisper.

  She’s perceptive, thinks Abby. Imagine picking that up from just one encounter, let alone remembering several months on.

  ‘Why’s he wearing those things on his ears?’ says Molly.

  ‘Well, he’s very sensitive to noise and sometimes he gets upset if people are too loud. That’s why you have to be very gentle around him.’ Lou glances at Abby. ‘Is that right?’

  Abby nods.

  ‘So can we play with him?’ asks Luke. ‘We could introduce him to Toby.’

  ‘Toby’s the cat,’ explains Karen.

  ‘It might be easier for him to watch TV for a while,’ says Abby.

  ‘Doesn’t he like cats?’ asks Molly.

  ‘It’s not that exactly, just sometimes when Callum plays with friends he wants them to do it his way, and if they don’t, he gets upset.’

  ‘Is he ill?’ asks Molly. She remains on the sofa, but cranes her neck in an attempt to see Callum’s face.

  ‘Not exactly, no. He has something called autism.’

  ‘Can I catch it?’

  ‘No. He was born with it. Actually, it affects boys much more than girls.’

  ‘Can I?’ Luke looks worried.

  Abby doesn’t know whether to be delighted by their honesty or disappointed by their suspicion.

  ‘No,’ says Lou.

  ‘We’re coming to his favourite song,’ says Abby. ‘Can we turn it up?’

  Karen reaches for the remote and Aurora’s trilling fills the room.

  ‘I know this!’ says Molly.

  ‘Shh.’ Lou nudges her.

  Softly, Molly sings along to ‘Once Upon a Dream’ whilst Luke looks at her disparagingly. Callum bangs his fists on the arms of his pushchair with excitement.

  ‘It’s a while since I’ve heard that,’ says Karen, as the prince and princess swirl to the end.

  Abby is surprised to see her eyes are full of tears.

  Karen comes over, crouches down and murmurs in her ear, ‘Molly used to love Princess Aurora so much . . . She’s got a doll and everything . . .’

  Abby’s eyes brim. ‘Callum adores Aurora.’

  ‘Molly wanted to bury her doll with her father.’

  It must be because the tears are so near the surface, Abby tells herself as she blinks them away. Then Callum starts to moan again. ‘Sorry, we’ll have to replay it, now he’s got into it. Can I have the remote? Bear with us,’ she says, as the picture jumps back a scene. She presses play and again Callum is caught up with excitement. This time Molly comes to sit next to him cross-legged on the floor. She watches him, then follows suit, banging her fists on her knees, sharing the thrill.

  If only everyone connected with Callum as intuitively as Molly, thinks Abby.

  Just then there’s a rap on the door. ‘I’ve made coffee.’ It’s Karen’s mother. ‘Do you want me to bring it through?’

  ‘Oh gosh, Mum, thanks. Let me lend you a hand.’ Karen scrambles to her feet and leaves the room.

  Abby yearns to escape with her; she’s still keen to talk. Isn’t this how it often is? Of course Karen needs to help her mother but still, it’s no wonder I end up bottling stuff up, she thinks. When I was at college I had lots of friends to chat to, but with my life the way it is, the opportunities for me to share with a kindred spirit seem so few and far between.

  36

  Michael is lying on his bed. All the energy he had yesterday has vanished – he’s deflated, like a blow-up toy with a puncture, and feels just as useless. He can barely move he’s so tired, yet throughout the night he slept little. He’s bored, too – only the staff checking up on him has broken the monotony. In the dark someone came and shone a torch at him through the glass panel in the door; since it’s been light two nurses have come to stare at him.

  For a moment he longs to be back at Moreland’s. The staff seemed less officious and the patients less intimidating. Sure, there were people he didn’t see eye to eye with, but there was nobody he was scared of. He pictures Karen and Abby, Lillie and Colin, Lansky and Karl . . . Maybe I simply got used to them, he thinks, but they were a good bunch. At the end of the day, in spite of our different problems, we all just wanted to get better. It took me a while to grasp that, but I was finally getting there.

  That office manager was a prick though, he reminds himself. It’s thanks to Phil I’m here. So they weren’t all saints, not by any means, and if Gillian genuinely cared about me, she wouldn’t have let me be sent away.

  Eventually there’s a face at the glass he recognizes: Akono. The young man taps and comes in.

  ‘It’s time for lunch,’ he says.

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Delicious sandwiches in the lounge.’ Akono gives a broad smile.

  ‘Can’t I have mine here?’

  ‘It is not good for you to stay in here, my man. Come and join the others.’

  It’s ‘the others’ Michael wants to avoid.

  ‘Terry’s in there,’ Akono cajoles.

  Michael’s surprised that Akono is aware they got on. Reluctantly, he pushes back the duvet.

  ‘Why don’t you put on some clothes?’

  ‘Because then I’ll have to change back into these.’ He gestures at his T-shirt and pyjama bottoms. ‘I’ll wear my dressing gown.’

  ‘It is not good to be in your dressing gown at lunchtime.’

  ‘All right.’ He stands up. ‘But don’t watch me getting dressed. I’m sick of being spied on.’

  In the lounge, Terry is by the food trolley, so Michael heads over. He appraises the choice of sandwiches; the grub’s worse too, he concludes.

  Terry seems to read his disdain. ‘They had to close the canteen recently. Cuts.’

  ‘So you don’t get hot food here?’

  ‘Yeah, we get one cooked meal a day.’

  There’s a cough behind him. ‘Want my advice? The cheese is the best.’ Michael turns and sees it’s one of the Scrabble guys. ‘Good strong cheddar.’

  Then Michael clocks a woman wielding a clipboard – it’s the same one who kept peering through his door. Once more she is checking up on them.

  ‘Taken mine,’ Terry says to her.

  ‘Matt . . . ?’ She glances at the Scrabble guy, then her list. ‘Yup, you’re OK.’

  ‘This is Mike,’ Matt says to her.

  ‘Michael,’ says Michael.

  The woman frowns. ‘I don’t seem to have you down.’

  ‘I arrived yesterday,’ says Michael.

  ‘I’m making sure everyone’s had their morning medication.’

  ‘I’m not on any medication.’

  The woman raises her eyebrows. ‘Not on a daytime dose? You take your meds at night, then?’

  ‘I’m not on anything. I just said.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s right . . .’ She writes down his name. ‘I’ll have to speak to the psychiatrist.’

  ‘Speak to whoever you want,’ says Michael.

  She sighs and moves on.

  ‘Ooh, they won’t like that,’ says Matt, when she’s out of earshot.

  ‘Won’t go down well, your not taking any meds,’ agrees Terry.

  ‘They can lump it.’ Michael is tempted to add that he doesn’t want to be doped up, but stops himself. He doesn’t fancy riling Matt, in particular.

  ‘They can help you feel better,’ says Terry. ‘Put you on more of an even keel.’

  Michael shakes his head. ‘I’m not keen.’

  ‘Don’t reckon they’ll let you stay if you refuse to take anything,’ says Matt.

  ‘They’ll decide you can’t be that ill.?
?? Terry nods. ‘Probably discharge you, switch you to home treatment.’

  Fine by me, Michael says to himself. Sooner I get out of here the better. ‘How does that work?’

  ‘You get to be in your own home and they send someone to visit you – mainly to chat, but also to help administer medication,’ says Terry.

  The phrase help administer medication scares Michael. He’d been coming round to giving antidepressants a go voluntarily, but this sounds as if pills will be forced upon him.

  Later that afternoon, Michael is back in his room when he sees another face at the glass. A woman he’s not seen before taps and comes in. She’s tall and thin, with frizzy hair scraped back tight into a giant pompom. ‘Have you a moment?’

  Michael can hardly say he hasn’t. ‘Mm.’ He sits up.

  ‘I’m Leona.’ I don’t know why she bothers telling me her name, thinks Michael. I’ve met so many people in the last twenty-four hours, I haven’t a hope of remembering it. ‘Do you mind if I sit down?’ She reaches for a chair, and the pompom waves comically as she moves. ‘I’m a psychiatric nurse and I work on the crisis resolution team.’

  ‘Surely everyone here is in crisis,’ says Michael.

  She nods. ‘Fair point.’ Then she says, ‘The ward doc’s off this weekend, so I’ve been seconded to gate-keep admissions here,’ and he gleans he should pay attention. ‘I gather you’ve not been on any medication, and I wondered if we could talk about that?’

  ‘There’s nothing to say.’

  ‘OK . . .’ She looks straight at him and holds his gaze. Her dark eyes have a spark. ‘Let’s examine it from another angle. If I was to ask you to illustrate your mood, how would you describe it?’

  Michael leans forward and draws a straight line on the duvet cover. The sheet forms parallel ridges, as if he’s dug a miniature road.

  ‘That looks pretty level to me,’ says Leona. ‘But would you say that’s a level that’s generally up, or down?’

  ‘Take a wild guess.’

  ‘Touché.’ Leona grins. ‘I can’t force you to try medication, obviously, but I do believe an SSRI might help you.’