Читать книгу The Summer Theatre by the Sea - Tracy Corbett - Страница 13

Wednesday, 8 June

Barney buried his head under the duvet, praying the pounding would stop. Why had he drunk so much last night? He hadn’t meant to. He’d been to rehearsal, as he normally did on a Tuesday evening, and then a group of them had gone to Smugglers Inn to enjoy a quick pint. His last recollection was of playing a few songs on his guitar, Nate and Dusty performing ‘Islands in the Stream’, and avoiding Kayleigh Wilson, who’d wanted to duet with him on ‘Empire State of Mind’. He didn’t remember much about getting home. He was just grateful he wasn’t on an early shift at the kiosk; his head hurt too much to be of use to anyone.

The pounding grew louder, an incessant banging that rattled through his fragile skull. Someone please make it stop. He vaguely became aware of Nate’s voice, muffled through the fog of a hangover, standing over the bed shaking his shoulder, saying something about ‘the door’ and needing to ‘throw up’.

A few seconds later, he heard the unmistakable sound of retching coming from the bathroom. As he shifted position, trying to get comfortable, he realised the banging wasn’t in his head, it was coming from the front door.

Cursing whoever it was, he rolled out of bed, wearing only his boxers, and padded down the hallway. He remembered at the last moment to dip his head so he didn’t smack into the beam above. Concussion wouldn’t ease the pounding in his head.

Sliding back the heavy bolt, he opened the wooden door, ready to let rip at whoever it was for waking him up. The sight of his parents standing on the walkway outside rendered him speechless. He had a sudden urge to shut the door and return to bed. He didn’t, of course. Mainly because they’d only resume banging.

‘We’ve been standing here for fifteen minutes,’ his mother said, looking surprisingly awake considering the early hour. Her black hair showed no sign of grey roots and she was wearing a patterned red shirt that made his eyes ache. She looked annoyed. Nothing unusual about that. ‘Why didn’t you answer the door? And why aren’t you dressed?’

He rubbed his face, unable to cope with so many questions. ‘Because it’s still early,’ he said, trying to force his brain to function.

‘It’s eleven fifteen.’ His mother’s irritation increased a notch. ‘Are you going to invite us in, or leave us standing out here all day?’

He stood back to allow them in. ‘Hi, Dad. Nice jacket.’

Henry Hubble peered over the top of his half-moon spectacles. His grey-white beard was neatly trimmed, and his blue shirt and stone-coloured chinos looked freshly pressed. ‘Good morning, son. Late night?’

Barney nodded, and then wished he hadn’t. He needed painkillers. ‘Something like that. Make yourselves at home. I’ll put some clothes on.’

‘Good idea.’ His mother searched for somewhere to sit down.

Unfortunately, Dusty’s glittery dress from the previous night was sprawled across the sofa, along with her blonde beehive wig and patent leather boots.

‘Not mine,’ he said, in case his parents thought he’d developed an inclination for cross-dressing or, more likely, had pulled last night.

His mother tutted.

He tried to view the place through their eyes. On paper, The Mousehole was a charming fisherman’s cottage built in the eighteen-hundreds, with an open fire and period features. The owners had converted the tall building into a rental property boasting three double bedrooms and a modern, open-plan kitchen-diner. It was quaint, tastefully restored, and perfectly located within a stone’s throw of the beach. Normally, the place looked quite inviting. Paul was a neat-freak who regularly tidied up after his three less-disciplined housemates who didn’t share his obsession for clean living. Typically, his parents had chosen to visit on the one day the place was a mess. Discarded takeaway cartons and beer cans decorated the floor and kitchen table.

He found a pair of crumpled jeans hanging over the back of a chair. Shaking out the creases, he pulled them on. ‘Did I know you were coming?’ He wasn’t entirely sure whether he was expecting them or not. Maybe he’d forgotten, although that was unlikely. He wouldn’t have got legless last night if he’d known his parents were coming to visit.

‘We decided to surprise you.’ His mother frowned. ‘Your trousers are inside out.’

He glanced down. She was right. It might explain why he’d been struggling to do up the zip. ‘Unusual for you to take time off work.’

His mother fixed him with one of her looks. ‘You didn’t give us much alternative. You don’t return our calls or texts. What else were we supposed to do?’

Respect my decision to choose my own life, he wanted to say, but his head wasn’t up to an argument. He opted for keeping things civil. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’

His mother surveyed the dirty kitchen and unwashed crockery balancing on the side. ‘I think not.’ She removed a pair of fishnet tights from the armchair, but still didn’t sit down.

His dad was studying a painting on the wall, his hands clasped behind his back as if the sight of a fishing boat caught in a storm was an interesting medical conundrum.

The sound of Nate chucking up floated down the stairs.

Feeling a little nauseous himself, Barney went over to the sink and poured a glass of water.

A creak on the stairs alerted them to the arrival of Paul. He was as pale as paper, his bloodshot eyes half-closed, his fitted blue sweater and black jeans as conservative as his mood. ‘Good morning, Mr and Mrs Hubble. An unexpected pleasure.’ He shook hands with Barney’s dad. ‘You’re looking well, Henry.’

Unsure how to respond to such polite familiarity, Henry Hubble nodded. ‘Er … likewise. Paul, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right.’ Paul joined Alexa by the fireplace and kissed her cheek. ‘You’re looking dazzling as always, Mrs Hubble.’

Barney’s mother’s gaze travelled to the discarded female attire lying on the sofa. ‘Thank you, young man.’ She tutted when she spotted a spill of beer on the coffee table.

Paul picked up the pile of clothes and headed back upstairs. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Nice seeing you both.’ As he passed Barney in the kitchen, he leant closer so he could whisper in his ear, ‘Hang in there. My parents don’t approve of my lifestyle either.’

Barney nodded, grateful for his friend’s show of solidarity.

His mother waited until Paul was out of sight. ‘Is there somewhere private we can talk? Your father and I have something we need to discuss with you.’

No prizes for guessing what that might be.

Barney thought he could do with some fresh air, especially as Nate was still throwing up. ‘We’ll go out. Give me five minutes to get dressed. They serve a decent brunch at Smugglers Inn, if you’re hungry.’

‘We’ll wait outside.’ His mother was clearly eager to leave The Mousehole, with its filthy inhabitants, messy interior, and sounds of amplified retching.

Ten minutes later, having taken two paracetamol and drunk another pint of water, he joined them on the cobbled walkway. ‘This way,’ he said, leading them past the white-stone cottages down towards the quayside. ‘There’s an impressive view across the bay.’ He knew it wouldn’t be enough to persuade them that staying in Cornwall was a good idea, but he hoped it might soften their resistance a little.

His parents thrived on hard work, long hours and the buzz of a stressful environment. Packed commuter trains, crowded streets and constant noise combined to form a drug, fuelling their determination to achieve in their high-flying careers. Noise pollution did nothing for Barney. It didn’t inspire him, it depressed him. Life in Penmullion was much kinder on the soul.

Over the last few weeks, he’d been busy rehearsing for A Midsummer Night’s Dream, he’d taken on extra shifts at the surf kiosk, and added more gigs to his schedule, eager to prove he wasn’t a layabout or afraid of hard work. But no matter how much he crammed into his new life in Cornwall, he knew it would never be enough for his parents.

‘See where the cliffs meet the sea?’ He pointed to the horizon. ‘You can just make out HMS Isolde, a three-hundred-year-old battleship anchored near the disused naval port.’ The morning mist was lifting, the breeze dragging the damp air away from the bay. ‘It’s worth a visit, if you’re planning on staying for a while.’ God, he hoped they weren’t staying.

‘We’re only here for the day.’ His mother made no attempt to search out the ship.

No one could say he didn’t try.

As well as increasing his workload, he’d been partying hard too. He didn’t need a shrink to tell him he was drowning his brain in alcohol to avoid thinking about his future. He loved life in Penmullion, it was everything he’d ever wanted, but it still lacked something. Whether he admitted it or not, there was a gaping career-shaped hole in his life. And he had no idea how to fill it.

Smugglers Inn wasn’t busy. One of the regular bar staff laughed when he walked in, confirming his suspicions that he’d made a fool of himself last night. He went over to the bar and ordered three coffees, not wanting to tempt fate by putting food in his stomach. They opted to sit outside. Fresh air and a pleasant view might ease the trauma of the lecture he felt was coming his way.

He selected a table near the grassy bank. The bushes and trees rose upwards to where the posh hotels overlooked the sea, giving a nice contrast to the crashing waves ahead of them. The tide ebbed and flowed, inviting him to come in and play. It was tempting, but even he wasn’t up for a surf today.

They’d barely sat down when his mother said, ‘Your father and I would like to know when you will be returning to your studies?’ There was never any preamble with Alexa Hubble, she always cut to the chase.

He couldn’t blame her. The first either of them had known of his quitting medicine was after he’d purchased a one-way ticket to Cornwall. It was cowardly and unfair of him, and they had every right to be angry. After all they’d done for him, all the sacrifices they’d made, paying his living expenses, providing a monthly allowance, ensuring his time spent studying was as easy as possible, he’d left without a proper explanation. He’d hurt them, confused them, and left them severely out of pocket. He was a rotten son.

He took a long breath, hoping the cool June air might ease his headache. For nearly a year, he’d avoided answering questions about his return. He’d given excuses, employed all kinds of delaying tactics, hoping time would enable him to reach an answer, but he was no nearer resolving the issue of what to do about his career than when he’d left London.

It was time to stop fudging and answer honestly. ‘I’m not sure I want to return.’

His mother stilled. ‘I beg your pardon?’

He sighed. ‘I know it’s not what you want to hear. I’d hoped time out would clarify things for me, but it hasn’t. I’m more confused than ever.’

His mother looked at him like he was speaking a foreign language.

His dad frowned. ‘What’s there to be confused about? You’ve successfully completed your medical degree and the two-year foundation programme. The hard part is done. All you need to do is select a specialism.’ He made it sound so simple.

‘But that’s just it, I don’t want to specialise.’

‘Nonsense.’ His mother dismissed his words with a wave of her hand. ‘Of course you want to specialise. If you can’t decide which direction to take, then we’ll help you. We have openings on the postgraduate medical diploma at Hammersmith, but you’ll need to commit soon if you want to secure a place this coming autumn.’

‘I can get you onto the cardiology or orthopaedic programmes at St. George’s,’ his dad added, looking hopeful. ‘Just give me the nod and it’s done.’

Barney felt the weight of expectation crushing him. His parents had supported him, encouraged him, used their influence to secure him decent placements, and how had he repaid them? He’d thrown in the towel. ‘I appreciate your efforts, really I do—’

‘Even if you choose general practice,’ his dad said, cutting him off. ‘It’s not what your mother and I had hoped for, but we’d support you becoming a GP, if that’s what you wanted.’

‘But it isn’t what I want.’

His mother rubbed her temples. ‘Then what do you want, Barnabas, because quite frankly you’re testing our patience.’ She paused when the coffees arrived, waiting until the bar manager had disappeared inside before continuing. ‘We didn’t object when you announced you were taking a gap year, did we? Neither of us felt it was ideal, but we supported you. Well, you’ve had a break, it’s time to get back to work.’

He looked at his mother. ‘I already work. I’m not sitting around twiddling my thumbs.’

‘Singing in a pub and teaching tourists to surf is not proper work, and you know it.’

On the word ‘proper’, Barney recalled Charlotte Saunders’ dismissal of his employment status with equal derision. She hadn’t been impressed by his lack of a suitable career either. ‘Do you know how insulting that is? A lot of people in this area work in the tourist industry. It’s a perfectly legitimate way to earn a living.’

Alexa Hubble showed no signs of remorse. ‘I agree, for someone who hasn’t spent seven years using public resources training to be a doctor.’

He couldn’t argue with that. ‘I get that you’re disappointed. I am too. I stuck with the programme because I didn’t want to quit. I knew I’d be letting a lot of people down, but I can’t help how I feel.’

His dad placed a hand on his wife’s arm, preventing her responding. ‘So how do you feel, son?’ He was no doubt trying to be sensitive, even though he probably wanted nothing more than to shake some sense into his only child.

Barney shrugged. ‘I’m not sure medicine is for me. The stress, the long hours—’

‘Long hours?’ His mother cut him off. ‘Your generation has it easy. When your father and I trained, we worked a hundred-hour week.’ She stopped talking when her husband squeezed her arm, silently conveying that she wasn’t helping.

Henry nodded for Barney to continue. ‘Go on.’

What was the point? They wouldn’t understand; they were made differently to him. When confronted with a patient, they saw a medical problem that needed solving. It was science, factual, they were able to remain emotionally detached. When faced with the same scenario, Barney just wanted to scream, cry, and run away. These were not traits that would make him a good doctor.

He had a sudden flashback from his early days on the wards. It was late one evening and his shift was due to finish. When his bleeper went off, he’d briefly considered ignoring it, letting whoever was on next pick it up. But his morals wouldn’t let him do that, so he’d headed off to the ward. On arrival, he’d heard the nurse say to the patient, ‘It’s okay, the doctor’s here now,’ which had only increased his panic. The patient was Mrs White, a seventy-seven-year-old woman with terminal cancer. Her body was a bag of bones, her skin sallow and bruised. She was in severe pain, the agony of dying etched on her face. ‘Please,’ she’d said as he’d neared. ‘Please help me.’

He’d been frozen to the spot. The nurse had looked at him expectantly, willing him to ease the woman’s suffering. But how could he? Medical training covered disease, medication, and fixing broken bones. It didn’t tell you how to respond to a dying patient who just wanted the torment to end. Helping people had been the motivation for becoming a doctor. He liked the idea of fixing problems, but he’d quickly discovered that there wasn’t always a cure. No one had covered that on his course.

‘How much longer?’ Mrs White had asked him. ‘Why doesn’t the Lord take me? I’m ready to go.’ Tears had filled her eyes, mixed with desperation and pleading.

When the nurse had leant across and whispered to Barney, ‘Shall I call the palliative care team?’ he’d grasped the suggestion like being tossed a life jacket at sea. Help was on its way, but then Mrs White had said, ‘Will you stay with me, Doctor? I don’t have anyone else.’

He’d sat with her for several hours, holding her hand, even though she’d slipped into a morphine-induced coma. When Mrs White died later that day, Barney had twenty-nine minutes left before the start of his next shift.

The sound of his mother dragged him back to the present. ‘We’re still waiting for an answer.’

Failing to find the right words, he reverted to avoidance. ‘I need a bit more time.’

‘No more time, Barney. We’ve been patient enough.’ His mother dropped a cube of sugar in her black coffee. ‘You need to stop prevaricating and focus on your career. We haven’t spent thousands of pounds supporting your education to see it go to waste.’

He bristled. ‘If it’s about the money, then I’ll pay you back—’

‘It’s not about money,’ his dad interjected. ‘It’s about wanting you to succeed in life.’

‘And what about being happy, Dad? Doesn’t that count for anything?’

‘Happiness is overrated,’ his mother said, and then caught the look on her husband’s face and stopped stirring her coffee. ‘What I mean is, happiness will come later. You need to put in the hard work first, build your career. Once you’re established, you can meet a nice girl, settle down and have a family, content in the knowledge that you can provide for them. Trust me, we know.’ She forced a smile at Henry, who smiled back … once he realised what was required of him.

The idea of meeting a nice girl conjured up another image of Charlotte Saunders. Why, he wasn’t sure. ‘Nice’ wasn’t a word that immediately sprang to mind when thinking about her. And why was he thinking about her? ‘I wish more than anything I shared your commitment to medicine, really I do. But I don’t think it’s for me.’

‘Then work harder,’ his mother barked. ‘You don’t just give up on seven years of medical training.’ She lowered her voice when she realised people were looking. ‘I blame your mother,’ she said, directing her comment at Henry. ‘I knew encouraging him to play around with non-academic interests was a bad idea. But would you listen? Now look where it’s led!’ She pointed at her son. ‘A wasted talent. Letting everybody down.’

A mist of red fog descended. He knew his mother didn’t mean it. She was just worried he’d go off the rails like his cousin had done, ending up unemployed and alcohol dependent. But he wasn’t about to make the same mistake. They just needed to get off his case. He was twenty-seven, for fuck’s sake. He could make his own decisions. ‘I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment to you,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘You don’t need to tell me I’m letting you down, I see it on your faces every time I look at you.’

‘Your mother doesn’t mean—’

‘Yes, she does. She means every bloody word, and she’s right. I am a let-down. But you couldn’t be more disappointed in me than I am in myself.’ He dug out ten quid from his wallet and threw it on the table. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, my shift starts in half an hour. Have a safe journey back to London. I’m sorry you didn’t get the outcome you were hoping for.’

He stormed off, ignoring his parents’ protests and curious glances from the other punters. He didn’t need anyone telling him he was inadequate. Not some snooty designer from London, or his mum and dad. He was perfectly aware he was a screw-up.