Читать книгу The Girl Who Lied - Sue Fortin - Страница 8

London, England

When the call comes, it strikes me numb with fear. I don’t know what to think or what to feel. Thoughts and emotions are crashing around in my head like bumper cars, bouncing and rebounding, stopping and starting. Confusion reigns.

‘How bad is he?’ A thread of compassion laces Ed’s voice. ‘What exactly did your sister say?’

‘Fiona said it’s serious. He’s in intensive care. Apparently, Dad fell down the steps to the flat and hit his head,’ I reply with a hint of impatience. I was uptight enough that I hadn’t been able to phone Roisin earlier. This is only adding to my agitation. ‘Fiona was in a bit of a fluster when she rang.’ I hit the print button on Ed’s laptop and the image of the document on the screen is sent to the printer.

‘Have you booked a return flight?’ Ed moves behind me as I loom over the printer. He squeezes my shoulders in a reassuring gesture.

‘No, I’ll see how things are first. I need to go and make sure Mum’s all right, really.’ Then more because I feel I ought to, I add, ‘And see how Dad is, of course.’ I silence the voice that also wants to add the need to face Roisin.

‘Okay, I’ll sort out some cover at work.’

‘I’m sure Amber will do my shifts, she’s always saying she needs more hours.’ I take the sheet of paper as it glides out of the printer.

‘Keep me in the loop, though, won’t you? You know what it’s like organising the staff rota.’

Whilst it’s nice being the boss’s girlfriend, it sometimes irritates me that Hamilton’s Health and Beauty Spa always comes first with Ed.

‘I’ll do my best,’ I say. ‘I’ll have a better idea once I’m there and can speak to the doctors myself.’

There’s a small silence before Ed speaks again.

‘Will you be okay on your own? Do you want me to come with you?’ I can detect an apprehension in his voice. ‘It will be a bit tricky with work, but I could manage a couple of days away, I should think.’

I withhold the sigh that threatens to escape. I know Ed better than he realises. His priority is work and the offer to accompany me is more out of duty than concern. I take care to respond in a conciliatory manner, not wishing to get into an argument.

‘No, it’s okay. Probably best if I go alone.’

‘Are you sure you’re up to it? You were feeling sick earlier.’

‘It was nothing. I’m fine now and I’ll be all right on my own. Thank you, anyway.’

‘Sure? Okay. Look, I’ll organise you a cab home so you can pack and I’ll book another to take you to the airport.’ This time the relief in his voice is very much apparent. ‘I would take you myself but you know what it’s like at work…really busy…I’ve got meetings …’ His voice trails off.

‘Thank you. And don’t worry. I know what it’s like.’ I ignore the fact that Ed actually has the day off tomorrow.

As I climb into the cab, this time I release the sigh unrestricted. Ireland definitely isn’t a place I want to be going. Since moving to England, my visits home have been few and far between. Far too many unhappy memories linger around the coastal village where I grew up. And now I’m being forced to face them. The unease begins to transform into fear.

Once the cab turns the corner, leaving Ed and his apartment behind, I take my phone from my pocket and find the email Roisin sent me. Her number is highlighted blue and I double-tap. After a few seconds the call is connected and I hear the sound of the phone ringing.

The phone goes to voicemail.

‘It’s me…’ I hesitate. I need to be careful what I say. I’m not paranoid, merely cautious. Maybe overly, but it has stood me in good stead all this time and I’m not about to get caught out now. ‘I’m coming over. I’ll ring you again when I’m in Rossway.’

County Cork, Ireland

Looking at my father lying in his hospital bed, crisp white linen and a cellular blanket surrounding him, his face seems to have taken on a grey tinge. He looks older, frailer and smaller, somehow, as if he has suddenly aged without me noticing. His chest rises and falls as he lies motionless in a medically induced coma. He’s hooked up to a ventilator, which wheezes up and down, helping him to breathe as the heart monitor bleeps a steady beat.

‘How is he?’ I ask Mum who, having embraced me, is now settling herself back into the plastic bedside chair.

She puts her forefinger to her lips and whispers, ‘They’re going to give him a brain scan in the morning. They want to see if the swelling will go down first.’ She gives me half a smile, which I suspect is supposed to be reassuring. ‘It’s all right. Your dad’s a fighter. Don’t go getting yourself upset now.’

I turn my gaze away from the ashen look on her face. The guilt weighs me down. Guilt I feel because I cannot summon as much sympathy for my father as I know I should.

Our relationship has always been a strained one, with any feelings of compassion finally quashed ten years ago. I swallow down the anger that always accompanies the memory. This time I am able to meet Mum’s eyes.

‘What exactly happened?’ I fiddle with my necklace. I need to keep my hands busy. Nerves are making them shake.

‘I came out of the café and found your father at the bottom of the steps,’ says Mum. ‘That’s it, really.’ She sniffs and when I look up, she’s fumbling with her sleeve and finally produces a tissue. She dabs her eyes and wipes her nose.

‘Do you want anything, Mum? Have you eaten?’ I change the subject, not wanting to upset her.

‘No, I’m grand,’ she replies quietly, a fleeting smile of gratitude dashes across her face. She stuffs the tissue back up her sleeve. ‘The nurses have been looking after me, so they have.’

I’m not convinced Mum looks grand at all. She looks tired and strained. ‘I’ll make you a fresh cup of tea,’ I say. ‘I could do with one myself. Back in a minute.’

One of the nurses kindly shows me to the community kitchen, where all the tea and coffee making paraphernalia is housed. While I wait for the kettle to boil I can’t help feeling more concern for Mum than for Dad. I don’t like the dark circles under her eyes or the depth of the hollows below her cheekbones. She looks exhausted. No doubt she has been working herself hard at the café. Now, with Dad incapacitated and set for a long recovery, I wonder how on earth she will manage to look after him and run the business on her own.

The next thought snakes its way from the back of my mind, where it has been lurking, waiting to strike. What if he doesn’t pull through? How do I feel about that? I don’t trust myself to examine the notion too closely. I’m not quite sure I’ll like what I might find. Instead, I focus on producing an acceptable-looking cup of tea for Mum and venture back to collect her. We’re not allowed to take food or drink into ICU so we sit in the small family room at the end of the corridor.

‘You just missed your sister,’ says Mum, resting her cup on her knees. ‘She had to get back for the kids. Sean’s on duty this evening. You know he’s a sergeant now?’

‘Yes, Fiona said. He deserves it. He’s a good police officer.’ It seems a bit surreal talking about normal, everyday things when this situation is anything but normal.

After drinking the tea, we venture back to my father’s bedside. It’s very quiet, apart from the rhythmic bleep of the monitor and the sighing of the breathing apparatus as it wheezes air down the tube. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

‘Time’s getting on. There’s no point in you hanging around with me,’ says Mum, breaking the silence that has settled. ‘You go on back and stay with Fiona tonight, she’s expecting you.’

‘What about you? I don’t want to leave you,’ I reply frowning. ‘You can’t stay all night, surely.’

‘I’m not going anywhere.’ My mother pats my knee. ‘Please, go to Fiona’s. Get some rest and then come back in the morning. I’ll ring if there’s any change. Besides, they won’t let you stay here on the ward.’

I’m not entirely convinced, but deciphering her subtly placed eyebrows, I determine she isn’t going to take no for an answer.

‘Okay, only if you’re sure,’ I relent.

‘I’m positive. In the morning go over to Wright’s motorcycle shop and get the keys for the flat and the café. You can nip up to the flat and bring my wash bag and some clean clothes.’

Mum stands up. I take this as a signal it’s time for me to leave. I walk round and give her a kiss.

‘It will be okay, Mum. I’ll see you in the morning,’ I say, hoping to sound positive before I beat the retreat. ‘Do I need to ask for anyone in particular at the bike shop?’

‘Er, yes…Kerry,’ replies Mum distractedly as a nurse approaches us.

‘I’m just doing some routine observations,’ the nurse explains.

‘I’ll get out the way,’ I say, giving Mum a reassuring smile. ‘Bye, Mum.’

‘What about your Dad?’ says Mum. ‘You should say goodbye to him too.’

‘We like to encourage family to still communicate with the patient,’ explains the nurse. ‘Sometimes, it can help with their recovery.’

I hesitate. ‘What should I say?’

‘Just speak to your father as if he’s awake,’ says the nurse. ‘It seems a little odd at first but once you’ve done it a few times, it becomes much easier.’

I go over to the bed and reach out to touch his hand. ‘Bye, Dad,’ I say, feeling terribly self-conscious. The nurse smiles encouragingly and I feel I need to say something else. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

It’s awkward and it’s not without relief that I escape the hospital and head over to Fiona’s.

*

Mini lights and precision-planted marigolds line the brick path to Fiona’s front door. The outside light bathes the garden, highlighting the alternating dark-and-light-green stripes running up and down the lawn. Tidy to the point of being manicured. The black gloss of the door with shiny chrome furniture is smart and exact. Fiona, my older sister by eight years, opens the door before I reach the end of the path.

Meeting me on the doorstep, she draws me into an embrace. The familiar smell of Fiona’s perfume clings to me in the same way I cling to her. A feeling of relief seeps out. Fiona has always been able to do that. To take away my troubles. To fix whatever needs fixing.

‘Hi-ya, hun,’ she says, giving me a squeeze. ‘How are you? How’s everything at the hospital? No change, I expect.’

‘I’m fine. It’s lovely to see you. Dad’s still sedated and Mum is happy to be there by herself.’ I give a little shiver in the night air. ‘I didn’t want to leave her, but she insisted.’

‘I know, but there’s nothing we can do. Anyway, come on in out of the cold. The kids are fast asleep, so we’ll go quietly.’

Sitting in Fiona’s immaculate kitchen, I hold my hands around the fine-bone-china cup. The heat from the cup warms my fingers. On the fridge door there is a family snapshot of the Keanes: Fiona, Sean, Sophie and Molly. It looks like it was taken last year on their holiday to Spain. Sean is giving Sophie a piggy-back. Fiona and Molly are looking up at them and everyone is beaming with happiness. Sean is a tall man and none too skinny either. He must look very imposing in his Guard’s uniform. In this picture, though, he reminds me of Roald Dahl’s BFG and I think how aptly named their daughter, Sophie, is.

‘How’s Sean?’ I ask, as Fiona sits down beside me.

‘He’s fine. Well, that’s not entirely true. He’s exhausted, if I’m honest. We both are. His mum needs a lot of looking after. We’re thinking about moving her in with us.’

‘Is she getting to that stage where she needs a lot of care?’ I ask.

‘She can’t cook properly, she’s a danger to herself.’ Fiona gives a weary sigh. ‘Not so long ago, she left the frying pan on the stove and burnt right through it, setting off the fire alarms. There was smoke everywhere. The fire brigade turned up, it was chaos. Since then, I’ve been cooking for her. She’s lovely, though, so I wouldn’t mind her moving in. After all, she is the reason we came home.’

I nod, remembering the day well when Fiona and Sean packed up their little family in London and headed back home to care for his recently widowed mother. I had managed to hold back my tears until the car and removal lorry disappeared around the corner.

Funny how Fiona regards it as coming home, whereas I look on her return as leaving home. To me, home means a place of love and fond memories, a feeling of being safe and cared for. Coming to Ireland is not coming home for me.

My thoughts turn to Roisin’s email again and my stomach lurches as the fear that has pitched up and taken residency gives another kick. I had thought I’d tell Fiona about it but now I’ve changed my mind. Maybe I can get this sorted without her knowing. She has a lot on her plate at the moment, what with Dad and Sean’s mother. I’ll tell her only if I have to. I’m sure I can handle this. At least, I hope I can.

Fiona’s mobile phone cuts through my thoughts. From this side of the conversation, I guess it’s Sean. I busy myself with making another cup of tea while she wanders off into the living room for more privacy.

She returns a few minutes later.

‘Sean’s going to call by the hospital at some point in the night to check on Mum and Dad.’

‘What exactly happened? How did Dad end up falling down the steps?’ I ask.

‘I’m still not entirely sure. Apparently, Mum was in the café tidying up at the end of the day and Dad went upstairs with the day’s takings to put them in the safe for the night. When he didn’t come back down, Mum went out to look for him and found him at the foot of the stairs.’

‘Was there anyone else there? Did they see anything?’

‘No, just Kerry from the bike shop across the way.’

‘What time did all this happen?’

‘Soon after six,’ says Fiona after a moment’s thought. ‘That’s what time he always puts the takings in the safe. Of course, we’ve no way of knowing if that’s what he did.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Mum can’t find the key for the safe, so we can’t check to see if Dad fell before or after he went upstairs. There was no bag beside him.’

‘You don’t think he was robbed, do you?’

‘We just don’t know,’ says Fiona. ‘It’s all a bit worrying.’

‘Doesn’t Mum know where the key is so we can check?’

‘No. She can’t remember,’ says Fiona. ‘I tried to ask but she was so distracted with Dad, I didn’t like to push it.’

‘I don’t suppose you know where the key would be or even if there’s a spare one?’ I ask half-heartedly.

Fiona gives a wry smile. ‘You know what Dad’s like. Top-secret information that is.’

‘I’ll have a look round when I’m at the flat,’ I say. Much as my feelings towards my father are stifled, the thought that someone mugged him is not nice.

‘To be honest, that’s the least of our worries at the moment,’ says Fiona.

‘Yes, you’re right.’ I force myself to conjure up the compassion I know should be there. I change the subject to divert this uncomfortable acknowledgement. ‘How are Molly and Sophie?’

‘The kids are grand,’ says Fiona. A smile spreads across her face at their mention. ‘Molly is coming up to the last term of nursery. She goes off to school in September. She’ll be in junior infants, and Sophie will be going into fifth year of senior infants.’

‘So, two more years and then secondary school.’

‘I know, I can’t believe how the time has flown,’ says Fiona. ‘Remember when Sophie was born, she was such a scrap of a thing. All that red hair against her lily-white skin.’

‘She looked like an alien,’ I say, thinking back. A lump makes a bid to establish itself in my throat. I feel Fiona’s hand cover my own and hear her soft words.

‘It’s okay,’ she says. ‘It’s been a long day. Don’t go upsetting yourself, now. You can’t change anything. It will all be fine. I promise.’

When I go up to bed shortly afterwards, I stop and peep in the open door of Molly’s bedroom. The five-year-old is fast asleep, her fair curls fan the pillow like a golden starburst. Molly has been lucky to inherit her mother’s colouring, but not so lucky with the curse of the Hurley curls.

I can’t resist looking in on Sophie, who is snuggled down under the duvet. Admittedly she doesn’t have the Hurley curls, but she most definitely has the ginger colouring, or auburn, as Mum likes to call it.

I touch my own hair, the colour I have grown to love, a dark-orangey brown, the curls haven’t quite won the same affection and, every day, I’m grateful to whoever brought hair-straighteners to the mass market. I can remember the absolute relief I felt on my fourteenth birthday when Fiona gave me a set as a present so I would no longer have to use the household iron in an attempt to banish the unruly curls. The ironing effect didn’t quite have the staying power and by lunchtime my hair had usually sprung back up into its familiar coils, much to the amusement of my classmates.

Fiona has always made things better. Right from making cakes when I felt fed up, taking me to the cinema to see the latest film, walking me to and from school when no one would walk with me because I’d fallen out with Roisin, to helping me fill in an application form for college and helping me find student digs.

Muffled footsteps on the carpeted landing bring me from my thoughts. Fiona appears at my side.

‘I was just looking at them. Fast asleep. Oblivious,’ I whisper.

‘Oblivious to everything,’ she says, putting her arm around my shoulder. ‘Is everything all right? Apart from the obvious…Dad.’

I feel my resolve weaken. I want to tell her about Roisin. Fiona will know what to do. She always has and before I can check myself the words are out.

‘Fiona, there’s something I need to tell you.’

‘Aha, and what’s that?’ says Fiona, unhooking her arm and pulling the bedroom door closed. She stifles a yawn.

Fiona looks tired. Even her hug had the air of exhaustion around it. Now isn’t the time to burden her with news of the email.

‘I’m glad I came back,’ I say quickly.

She gives a smile. ‘I’m glad as well. So is Mum. And Dad will be too.’

I don’t challenge this. It’s my turn to give out the hugs now.