Читать книгу Draca - Geoffrey Gudgion - Страница 11

Jack ’ s father didn ’ t recognise him. Not at first.

Jack saw him coming, and waited at the hospice ’ s entrance. Harry Ahlquist strode through the car park, tight-jawed, rolling his shoulders as he came as if bracing himself for a fight. The sun could have been in his eyes. It was warm on Jack ’ s neck, warm enough for the sweat to stick his shirt to his back and to taint the porch with smells of tar and hot metal. And as Harry came closer he glared at his son in the what-are-you-looking-at way in which he might outstare a stranger.

He finally did a double take and stopped.

‘ Good grief, what brings you here? ’ Harry ’ s eyebrows folded until vertical and parallel creases appear ed in his forehead above the bridge of his nose. The eyebrows were thicker than Jack remembered, still sandy despite the silver over the temples, and they bristled in the old danger signal.

Jack swallowed, dry-mouthed, ridiculously nervous , like a boy caught playing truant. ‘ Hello, Dad. Same as you, I expect. ’

They stared at each other. Neither tried to shake hands.

‘ How ’ s Mum? ’ Jack had a twinge of guilt about staying away, even though he was staring at the reason.

‘ Well enough. She misses you. How long have you been back? ’

‘ A while. ’ As he knew. That was Harry ’ s way of reminding Jack of his failings. Jack turned away, refusing to take the bait, and walked into the building.

‘ You ’ re limping. ’

‘ Fell out of a truck and broke my leg. It ’ s mending. ’ Jack kept it simple. At least he didn ’ t need a stick any more. They stood at the door to a lounge room large enough to hold perhaps twenty ill-matched armchairs, some pushed back against the walls, others clustered around a blaring television. About half were occupied by sick, elderly people who looked as if they ’ d been waiting for something for so long that they ’ d forgotten what they were waiting for. French windows stood open to the garden, admitting hard sunlight and soft summer smells of cut grass and roses, a sweet layer over the undercurrents of floor polish and stale urine. A uniformed nurse near the door was putting a cup of tea beside a chair, her smile as shiny as the institutional china in her hand. Resilient. Caring but functional.

Jack caught her eye. ‘ Hi, Sandra. ’

Sandra looked up and her smile broadened, probably because she ’ d recognised someone she didn ’ t have to watch die. Jack wondered how anyone had the emotional strength to do Sandra ’ s job : palliative care, with success measured by the gentleness of inevitable death.

‘ Hey, Jack. ’ She frowned past Jack at Harry, clearly wondering who he was.

‘ This is my father. How ’ s Grandpa? ’

Sandra winced, and spoke softly. ‘ Soon, now. Today ’ s a good day, so far. We wheeled him into the garden. ’ She lifted her chin towards the French windows. ‘ He ’ s talking OK . ’

Jack nodded, relieved. In the early days, there had been regular spaces in between doses of medication when they could talk; the calm between stupor and agony. Now his grandfather was on ad- lib morphine, you had to be lucky. Even when he was lucid, he could be confused. Jack stepped out into the garden, leaving Harry to fire questions at Sandra in brisk, sergeant-major tones.

Grandpa Eddie sat in a wheelchair on the lawn, face lifted to the sun, eyes shut, with an oxygen bottle for company. Lines trailed from his arm to a drip on a stand beside him. He ’ d lost so much weight that he ’ d shrunk within his clothes, and his neck stretched like a tortoise ’ s through the gaping collar of his shirt. He had almost no hair left, just a few thin wisps of silver fluff, and no eyebrows either. Once he ’ d had great bushy things, thicker even than Harry ’ s, as if a pair of rodents had crawled onto his face and nested. Like the hair, they hadn ’ t come back after the chemo. Jack pulled a chair over to sit beside him, on the side away from the sun, and squeezed his arm.

‘ Jack, my boy! ’ Eddie ’ s voice was surprisingly strong. Not quite at the level at which he used to bellow into a storm at sea, but still robust enough to belie the yellow skin. His eyes seemed to sparkle from deeper within their sockets, as if the man was shrinking inside himself. Broken veins on his face gave a bizarre parody of health, like an apple-cheeked skull.

‘ How are you, Grandpa? ’ Stupid bloody question. He was dying.

‘ There are good days, and there are bad days. The good days are when you come. ’

Great. He was making sense. Sometimes he and Jack could have a decent chat; sometimes Eddie would rave as if another person was locked in the same body, someone altogether nastier.

‘ Are you comfortable? ’ How the hell do you ask an old man if he can handle the pain? That ’ s what the doctors had promised : ‘ We ’ ll keep him comfortable for as long as we can. ’

Eddie didn ’ t answer. For the first time Jack saw fear in his eyes.

‘ He ’ s in the garden, now. He ’ s coming for me, Jack. ’

‘ Who ’ s in the garden, Grandpa? ’ Sometimes Jack had to humour him. The hospice lawn held nothing more threatening than figures slumped on benches.

‘ No. My garden. ’ Eddie shook his head hard enough to shake the dangling tubes. ‘ Harald ’ s waiting at the cottage. ’ Eddie pronounced the name in two, equally emphasised syllables in the Nordic way. Har- Rald . He groped at Jack ’ s arm, staring at him again as if willing him to believe. Jack smiled in a way that he hoped was reassuring, and nodded past Eddie ’ s shoulder to where his father was crossing the lawn. Sandra watched from the doorway.

‘ No, Grandpa, Harry ’ s here. ’ Eddie had always referred to his son as ‘ Harry ’ rather than ‘ your father ’ , so Jack used the old man ’ s language. ‘ He ’ s come to see you. ’

Disbelief, then horror, tightened his grandfather ’ s face into a rictus of fear as Harry ’ s shadow fell across them.

‘ How did he find me? ’ Eddie kept his eyes locked on Jack, but shook his head from side to side, denying Jack ’ s words. ‘ He ’ s dead. ’ The grip on Jack ’ s arm tightened as if Jack was a fixed point of safety in the middle of a nightmare. ‘ Harald ’ s dead. ’ Beside them, Harry Ahlquist flinched as if he ’ d been struck on the face. Jack lifted Grandpa Eddie ’ s hand and nodded towards his father.

‘ No, Grandpa. Look. ’

Eddie turned, lifting one hand to shield his eyes as he squinted into the sun. Tubes snagged against the oxygen bottle.

‘ Not here. ’ Louder now, almost shouting. ‘ He ’ s following me. ’ Eddie tried to get up, lurching away from Harry so that the drip almost fell and Jack had to catch him. Sandra began to walk towards them, frowning.

‘ Harald died on the beach. He ’ s DEAD. ’

The shout turned heads all around the garden, and Sandra started to run. Harry squatted, dropping out of the sun ’ s glare, and reached out a hand to touch the old man on the arm. ‘ Pa, please. ’ Eddie squirmed into Jack, whimpering, as Harry tried to turn him, and in a moment of sick pity Jack saw liquid dripping from his grandfather ’ s seat. The tang of fresh urine cut the scent of flowers.

‘ Pa, it ’ s your son, Harry. ’

‘ Shot down like a dog. ’ The shout became a scream. By the time Sandra eased Harry away, Eddie was gripping Jack ’ s shoulder hard enough to hurt. It was incredible that someone so sick could have such strength.

‘ Don ’ t let him take me, Jack. ’ The scream disintegrated into a sob.

Sandra jerked her head towards the building. Time to go. Jack rose and slid his hand along his father ’ s shoulders to turn him away. It was the nearest he ’ d ever come to giving him a hug.

‘ We ’ ll try again tomorrow, Dad. ’

Harry shrugged the arm away, his face working.