Читать книгу The Old Girls' Network - Judy Leigh - Страница 10

Pauline put her hands to her ears, but she could still hear Barbara’s voice drifting from the little conservatory.

‘I like proper brown bread, soft bread. Not the rough old stuff with bits of grains in it that you bake here. And couldn’t you just buy some margarine? Butter is so cloying.’

Pauline washed the potatoes in the Belfast sink, watching the muddy water drain away down the plug hole. She raised her voice. ‘I thought you came here to sort out your blood pressure, Barbara. You’re not doing yours or mine any good.’

Barbara stalked in and plonked herself down at the kitchen table. ‘That cold old conservatory needs ripping down, all the rotten wood burning and a proper one building in its place.’

‘Douglas was always going to build a timber garden room. He said it would be lovely to look out on the garden on a Sunday in summer with a tipple and read the papers.’ Pauline sighed.

‘A UPVC one, clean and white, with proper double-glazed insulation.’ Barbara clamped her lips together. ‘And I need to buy an electric blanket. I’m freezing in bed at night.’

Pauline busied herself with scrubbing the potatoes. They were clean already, but she wanted to keep her hands busy and her thoughts occupied or she’d be tempted to say something blunt in reply.

Barbara hadn’t finished. ‘I don’t suppose I can buy an electric blanket in Whimsy Green.’

‘Winsley Green. I have a hot water bottle you can use.’

Barbara was aghast. ‘I’ll get chilblains.’

Pauline dried her hands. ‘All right. Let’s go into the village and buy a few things. I need carrots anyway.’

‘Oh, not stew again, Pauline. I can’t bear it. My bowels are all out of sorts…’

‘I don’t want to hear it, Barbara.’ Pauline snatched the keys from the hook shaped like a piglet on the kitchen wall. ‘Are you coming or not?’

‘Of course I’m coming. I can’t leave the organisation of the evening meal to you. Tonight we’ll have chops.’

‘I can’t afford chops.’

Barbara put her hands on her hips. ‘Well you should get your fancy farmer man friend to bring you a nice bit of pork.’

Pauline caught her sister’s eye and stared at her, offered her best smirk then turned on her heel and marched out.

Bisto blinked hard as he came out of the dark into the brightness of the spring day. It was almost two o’clock and he had some money left in his pocket. He decided that the publican was a nice man. Oskar and his wife Justina had been a bit distant at first. He could understand why they might have been suspicious: he was a new customer and he didn’t look or smell his best. But they’d supplied him with two glasses of beer in exchange for his money: it was a fair deal. Now he’d find the shelter of a tree in the sunshine and snooze for the afternoon, then he’d get on a bus for Plymouth with the change. He had enough. He smiled and sauntered across the road.

He didn’t see the car coming. The noise of screeching breaks and another squeal, higher and more alarming, had filled his ears first, and then his own voice, a sudden yell of shock. His head hit the ground hard and he felt the gravel embedding itself in the skin of his hands and face. The world swirled and became a little fuzzy. He breathed out and lay very still.

‘My goodness, Pauline – you’ve killed him.’

‘I didn’t see him. He just stepped out in front of me.’

‘Well, I doubt very much he’ll be stepping out anywhere again.’

The two women bent over him. Bisto squinted through one eye. His entire body hurt.

‘He stinks of booze. He’s obviously drunk so it wasn’t completely your fault, Pauline. If you weren’t such an erratic driver…’

‘He’s not moving, Barbara. Ring for an ambulance. Let’s get him to hospital.’

Bisto opened his eyes. He had no intention of going inside a hospital ever again. He sat upright, blinking at the ladies’ anxious faces peering at him and grinned.

‘I must have died and gone to heaven. All the angels here are beautiful ladies.’

He gazed from one face to another. A pleasant looking woman, a soft expression in her eyes, silky silver hair in a roll on the top of her head; a frowning woman with strong features, a bony frame inside a woollen coat, with steel grey curls and intense, intelligent eyes. He put a hand to his head. He was dizzy, confused, as he stared from one to the other.

‘No worries. I’ll be fine in a little minute. I just fell over.’

‘Can you stand up?’ Pauline held out a hand.

Barbara loomed over him. ‘Put him in the car. Let’s take him to Taunton, to the hospital.’

‘No, I don’t need a hospital. I’ll be just dandy.’ Bisto tried to heave himself up and he yelped in pain and tottered back. ‘I think I’ve hurt my ankle – and my head.’

Barbara’s voice boomed loud and clear. ‘Ring 999, Pauline. At once.’

Pauline pushed Bisto’s trouser leg up, ignoring the grime on his leg, easing off his shoe and sock. His foot was filthy, long toenails curling like talons. His ankle was already swelling. She sighed.

‘You should have this x-rayed. It might be broken. Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr…’

‘Mulligan. Bisto Mulligan.’ He struggled to stand, wobbling, and grasped Barbara’s arm, leaning heavily against her. ‘Can you find me a good wooden stick? I’ll be on my way.’

Barbara was indignant. ‘Are you a tramp?’

The impact had blurred his vision – or perhaps it was the pain, the knock to his head. Bisto wasn’t sure, but he heaved himself up to his full five feet five inches and huffed.

‘I’m not looking my best today, believe me – I’ve had a few setbacks but I’m on my way to France. I have a château in the Loire.’

Barbara laughed one single harsh sound. ‘Oh, what a perfect pack of lies. I can see what you are. You’re a vagrant.’

Pauline put her hands on her hips and stared at the man. He was clearly in pain. He was not drunk, but she saw something in his eyes that moved her: vulnerability, sadness. She immediately felt sorry for him. She put a hand on his sleeve.

‘Can you get into the car? I’ll take you home. I have a friend who’s a GP and she’ll come over and take a look at your foot. Maybe you’d like something to eat.’

Bisto looked hopeful. ‘A whisky’ d be nice. Medicinal. Just for the terrible pain.’

‘Are you sure, Pauline? Do you think it’s safe? Taking a man like this into our home and we’re two defenceless women…?’

‘I’ve always been a good judge of character, Barbara.’ Pauline stared at her sister, determined to do things her own way. ‘He’s hurt and in pain. And you and I aren’t defenceless.’

Bisto’s ankle was very sore. His head was pounding. He leaned his weight against the two women and lurched towards the old Volkswagen Beetle.

‘It’s yous two who’ve banjaxed me, not the other way around.’ He narrowed his eyes at Barbara, breathing beer fumes in her face. ‘And as for you, you mad ould boot, I’m frightened to my death of you already.’

An hour later, Bisto was sitting back in Douglas’s comfy armchair, a malt whisky from Douglas’ drinks cupboard in his hand, groaning in pain as Dr Natalie touched his bruised ankle with light fingers and examined the raised lump on his head. The doctor sat upright, brushed dark hair from her face and sighed.

‘You ought to have an x-ray on the ankle.’

Bisto sipped his drink and grunted. ‘I’m fine, really. Just let me sit for half an hour and I’ll be on my way.’

Natalie’s forehead puckered. ‘You have a bump on your head. And you can’t just go off with your ankle in this state. Rest for a while. It’s best if I don’t strap it up. A few days in hospital might do you good.’ She stood up slowly. ‘You can’t hobble on that, given how swollen it is.’

Pauline folded her arms and looked at Bisto. He was curled in the seat, wide-eyed, like a bewildered child. She would be happy to take care of him for a day or two: it would be no trouble. ‘It was my fault, Natalie. I have a spare room…’

‘Don’t even think about it, Pauline.’ Barbara folded her arms tightly.

Natalie patted Bisto’s arm. ‘You do need to rest the ankle. I’m a bit concerned about the bump to your head too. You are a little concussed. If you notice double vision or any other new symptoms, call me at once and we’ll get you an x-ray.’ She pressed her lips together. ‘I suppose, Pauline, you could give him a ride into the village later for an evening appointment with my husband? How about having a little ride to the surgery later, Mr Mulligan?’

Bisto pushed out his arm, holding the glass towards the doctor. ‘Oh, I remember now. Your ould fella’s a doctor too. I met him in the pub. Nice sort. But I don’t know about a ride to the surgery.’ He suddenly chuckled. ‘Seems like you’re the one who’s been doing all the riding, Doctor.’ He gestured towards her belly. ‘You and your man had a very good ride, so it seems, and now you’ve got a kiddie on the way.’

Bisto turned to Barbara, who was appalled, mouth open, her hands to her face, and laughed. ‘Mind you, I wouldn’t ride the ould one here if she had pedals. But you’re a bit of all right, Pauline. Stick another glassful in there, will you?’

Barbara huffed, turning away. ‘In the kitchen, Pauline. We need to talk. Now.’

Without thinking, Pauline let the third-full bottle of Scotch drop into Bisto’s open hand and followed her sister out of the room. Natalie gave Bisto an anxious glance, and trailed after the other two women.

It was warm in the kitchen; the Aga was on and a kettle was reaching a soft boil, the spout gently whistling. Pauline reached out automatically and moved it to a cooler spot on the plate.

Barbara was in full swing. ‘He’s not our responsibility. He should go to one of those places where they look after the homeless.’

Natalie shrugged. ‘He needs temporary care, that’s for certain. He really needs someone to keep an eye on him for a few hours – he’s concussed. I’m sure the ankle’s just a sprain but I can take him to the hospital – or I could call someone to come and pick him up. Mario’s on surgery duty again tonight. I can ask him to try to fit Bisto in.’ A smile twitched across her mouth. ‘After all, they’ve met already, in the pub.’

Pauline put her hands on her hips. ‘No. I knocked him down. It was my fault. He’s obviously terrified of hospitals. I’ll look after him here, watch out for concussion and how the ankle progresses just for a day or two until he’s able to move a little bit, and by then I’m sure we can find a relative or someone he knows to come and collect him.’

Natalie made a humming sound. ‘I wouldn’t advise putting him up here…’

Pauline had made up her mind. ‘Just for the night. You could come and see him here tomorrow, Natalie, or I could bring him down to the surgery.’

Barbara was aghast. ‘But he’s drunk. And so rude.’

Natalie sighed again and Pauline squeezed her arm. ‘I’ll keep him here overnight. We’ll make a decision tomorrow.’

Natalie nodded her head. ‘All right. Just for tonight.’

‘It’s an awful idea. He could murder us in our beds, Pauline.’

Pauline turned to her sister, her face set. ‘He can hardly move. Look at him. He’s just a frail old gentleman who’s lost his way a bit. Besides, you heard what he said – he’s not really likely to wander into your room.’

Barbara was still taking the comment in as Pauline brushed past her and hurried back to the lounge. Douglas’ armchair was empty. And there wasn’t much left in the bottle of Scotch, resting on the chair arm. Bisto had gone. Pauline breathed out, wondering how he was managing to walk on his swollen ankle, when she heard Barbara breathe a sigh of relief behind her.

‘Well, thank goodness for that. He’s on his way. We won’t see him again, I hope.’

Pauline swung round, about to say something about Barbara being heartless, when Dr Natalie appeared, standing just behind her, her face anxious.

Pauline’s thoughts turned to Bisto. She had knocked him over and she’d wanted to make amends. It would have been the decent thing and she was frustrated that the opportunity had passed. Besides, she had taken to him: he seemed good company: he was warm hearted and he had a sense of humour, which was more than she could say for her complaining sister. She was about to snap at Barbara, to say something rude, but her conscience intervened. She decided to put space between her and her sister before she commented on her lack of compassion. She strode over to Douglas’ drinks cupboard and found a bottle of wine.

‘Right. I’m off out. I’m going to take this to the new neighbours’ house, to say hello and welcome. It’s what good neighbours do. I haven’t introduced myself yet.’

Barbara stood up straight. ‘I’ll get my coat.’

‘There’s no need, Barbara. I’ll go alone. I’m sure you could stay here and make Natalie another cup of tea. I’ll only be gone for ten minutes – the house is just across the road and down a little path. You don’t need to come. In fact, I’d rather go by myself. I haven’t met them yet and I don’t want you upsetting them.’

Barbara watched as Pauline rushed past her, the bottle clutched in her fist, and was gone. She exhaled, a little surprised that her sister could be so impolite. She’d have words with her when she came back, and explain that it wasn’t appropriate to berate her in front of the GP. Barbara turned to Natalie.

‘I’ll make you that cup of tea, shall I? I’m sorry about Pauline. Knocking the tramp down has obviously affected her a little more than I thought. Perhaps a chocolate biscuit will sort her out when she gets back. I think we have a packet of bourbons in the cupboard. And perhaps while the tea is brewing, you could tell me if there is anything of any cultural interest whatsoever to be found in this desolate little village.’