Hens Reunited Page 8

  Georgia hesitated. In all honesty, she’d rather have had a black coffee, or even a gin and tonic clinking with ice, its slice of lemon coated with clinging tonic bubbles. The big brown teapot her mum used had probably housed whole plantations’ worth of stewing tea leaves over the years and was therefore something of a health hazard. But the worn expression on her mum’s face curbed her tongue. ‘Yes please,’ she said meekly instead.

  Over mugs of strong tea thick enough almost to be chewy and Rich Tea biscuits, they told her the worst. ‘She’d popped in on her way back from the bakery, stopped for a brew,’ Mrs Knight said. Her mouth seemed so soft and vulnerable without the usual slash of lippy, Georgia couldn’t take her eyes off it. ‘And thank God she did, because there I was mashing the tea when she just started saying all this weird stuff – I couldn’t understand her. It was all like garbled. Nonsense words.’ Her hands shook on the mug, her mouth quivered. ‘And there’s me, saying, Mum? Mum? What are you on about? And as I was asking her, one side of her face – the right – just sagged.’ She demonstrated with a finger, dragging it down her cheek until her features distorted. Her eyes glistened with tears. ‘It dropped – just like that. She was dribbling and everything, it was that sudden.’

  Mr Knight patted his wife on the shoulder. ‘Shocking, it was,’ he said. ‘We took her straight in to the hospital but she was all seized up on one side, we had to carry her to the car, didn’t we, Pat?’

  ‘You had to carry her?’ Georgia couldn’t imagine her capable, stout grandmother unable to walk on her own two feet.

  Mrs Knight nodded. A tear brimmed in her lower lashes, bulged and spilled through them, rolling down her cheek. ‘You could tell she was frightened,’ she told Georgia. ‘It was horrible. She was looking at me, all imploring and confused, and I …’ She dashed away the tears with the back of one hand. ‘I was trying to comfort her, but didn’t know what was happening either, so …’

  Georgia took her mum’s hand and held it. Her own fingers – tanned and smooth with their buffed, French-manicured nails – seemed to mock her mum’s pale doughy flesh. She could feel a lump rising in her throat. This hand of her mum’s had peeled a million potatoes, ironed a million shirts, washed a million plates. No wonder it looked so tired and old. No wonder it trembled so.

  Mr Knight took over the narrative. ‘The doctors said it was a stroke. There was a clot blocking the blood supply to her brain, they reckoned, and that’s what caused it.’

  ‘So how is she now?’ Georgia asked. ‘I mean, she’s going to get better, isn’t she?’

  Her parents exchanged a look. Her mum stared down at the cooling mug of tea and gave Georgia’s hand a squeeze. ‘We’re not sure yet,’ she replied. ‘They operated to remove the clot, and that went okay, but the consultant said that some of the brain tissue is dead. Those cells won’t work again, so …’

  Mr Knight put an arm around his wife. ‘It’s early days yet,’ he said bracingly. ‘She’s very tired still, and weak after the surgery. It’ll take a bit of time before we know.’

  Georgia’s mouth felt dry. Clot … blood … dead cells … surgery … The words were like hammer blows. It almost didn’t seem possible. She simply could not imagine sturdy, jolly Nan weak and tired in a hospital bed. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t how things were supposed to be.

  She licked her lips. ‘Can I see her?’ Even to Georgia, her voice sounded scared.

  Half an hour later, Georgia and her parents walked through the main doors of the hospital. London seemed a distant planet in the solar system now. A world away from this warren of scuffed-paint corridors, signs and arrows, wheelchairs and trolleys pushed by whistling porters. She’d give anything to be back there, safe at her desk, phone on, PC humming, gossip and tittle-tattle streaming in from all her contacts, with the most pressing thing on her mind being whether or not to give into temptation and have a Mocha Choca from her favourite coffee bar on the Kings Road.

  But no, here she was, feeling like she couldn’t breathe as she followed her parents towards the lift. Everyone she passed seemed miserable and tired-looking, as if all the hope and energy had been sucked out of them. She could hear a baby crying somewhere and its wail reverberated around the corridor. The wall-to-wall beige décor didn’t exactly help lift the atmosphere. If Georgia was in charge of the NHS budget, she’d at least make the places look nice.

  A couple of girls chattering in the local accent walked past and Georgia flinched. Silly, she told herself as she quickened her step. They’re only kids. Nothing to worry about.

  All the same, she felt vulnerable, out in public back here in Stockport. Daft, wasn’t it, after so many years, to let it get to her, but there you go. Some things you couldn’t help. Some things you never quite put behind you, however hard you tried.

  They waited for the lift. The metal outer frame was dirty, the silver call buttons smeary. She’d forgotten just how horrible hospitals were. She hadn’t been in one for years, not since …

  She forced away the buried memory. No. She wasn’t going to start thinking about that now. Not on top of everything else.

  Nobody spoke inside the lift until it reached the fifth floor with a ping. ‘Here we are,’ Mr Knight said brightly, as if they’d come for a nice day out by the seaside.

  Stroke Rehabilitation Unit, read the sign as they stepped out of the metal doors, with a long red arrow running along the wall. Georgia tried to pull her shoulders up, keep positive. She hoped her nan would recognize her.

  ‘This is the ward,’ her dad said, breaking into Georgia’s thoughts.

  She didn’t want to go in to her nan’s ward. She wanted to be home, curled up on her sofa with a glass of wine and a magazine. She wanted to be scanning a party for illicit celeb snoggers, gossip-worthy tantrums, who was wearing which designer frock. She wanted to be checking her emails, filing copy, RSVP-ing to invites at her desk. She wanted to be strolling through Covent Garden, her credit card burning a hole in her bag.

  But in she went, through the swing doors and down the ward.

  There was a little old lady asleep in the bed, her hair as white as the pillow, her skin like crumpled grey paper. Georgia was on the verge of walking right past until her mum went and sat down at the bedside, taking the old lady’s hands between hers. ‘Hello, Mum,’ she said gently.

  It was only then that it hit Georgia, only then that she realized that the old woman in the bed was Nan, and the ground seemed to shift beneath her feet.

  Christ, how had it happened? How could it be that this frail-looking bedridden person was her booming, larger-than-life grandmother? Georgia’s throat seemed to tighten; she couldn’t speak or breathe for a few seconds. It was as if her childhood memories had been an optical illusion, a trick of the light. She’s gone, a voice said in her head, and it was painfully true. That woman from Georgia’s youth, she’d vanished. This old lady breathing so shallowly in her sleep – she was an impostor. She wasn’t Nan.

  Georgia could feel the stink of disinfectant sharp in her nostrils. Could hear the sound of a peevish quavering voice further down the ward (‘I said to our Reenie, he’s not good enough for her, you mark my words’), a muffled beeping from a nearby piece of equipment, brisk footsteps from the corridor behind. God, she hated hospitals. There was no window in sight in this particular ward, no natural light whatsoever. She realized she was shivering suddenly, her arms prickling with goosebumps.

  Mrs Knight turned and looked up at Georgia. ‘See if you can find some chairs for you and your dad,’ she said. ‘There’s never enough in here.’

  Georgia didn’t need telling twice. She was more than happy to turn on her heel and walk away from her grandmother’s bed with something practical to do. She didn’t want her parents to see the shock-horror on her face, the jolt of fear that had kicked through her. Nan was going to die, wasn’t she? How would she ever recover from this? Oh God. Georgia half wished she hadn’t come at all …

  No. That was cowardly. That was a cop-out. But
she couldn’t bear the way the feelings of guilt were churning through her body. She hadn’t visited, hadn’t been there. And while she’d been detached from her family, in her own London world, her nan had been deteriorating, shrivelling, withering. Her nan had become old, without Georgia stopping to notice.

  She sighed, feeling bereft. What had seemed like a great escape not so very long ago already seemed like carelessness now. Why had she ever … ?

  ‘Hey! Watch it!’

  Her head down, lost in thoughts, Georgia had just walked straight into someone. All she could see was the white coat before her eyes for a second before she straightened up and blinked. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, raising her gaze to the cross-looking man she’d barged into.

  He had dark eyebrows, olive skin, brown eyes, a dimple in one cheek. He gave her a curt nod and went on his way.

  Mardy arse, she thought, pulling a face behind his back. Why did people have to be so bad-tempered, anyway?

  Right. Chairs. There were two at the far end of the ward, grey plastic chairs like the sort she’d sat on at school. She stacked them up and carried them back towards her nan’s bed. Best foot forward. She’d just get through this ghastly day and go home. Faster than a speeding bullet.

  Nan was still asleep when Georgia returned to the bedside. Her mum was talking softly to her, holding her hand, but the lined old face on the pillow hadn’t moved.

  Georgia set a chair down for her dad, then sat on the other. What now? she wondered. Did they sit there until her nan woke up? Or was the whole exercise one of reassurance that her nan wasn’t going to die while they weren’t looking?

  Her gaze fell on her handbag and, by reflex, she couldn’t help wondering how many emails she had banked up for her by now. There was no harm in looking, was there, while her nan dozed? Might as well keep busy.

  She reached her hand in and pulled out her phone. Forty-seven new emails already – well, the news didn’t stop just because it was the weekend. In fact, with all the parties and premieres taking place, the gossip quota always shot up on a Saturday. One email with a red exclamation mark by it caught her eye. It was from Isabella, her boss. KEIRA’S NEW MAN! the subject read.

  Ooh, photos too – excellent. Georgia couldn’t resist having a quick squiz to check out the new love-interest … Phwoooarr, not bad actually. Out of ten, she’d give him one any day.

  ‘Hi, I’m just coming to do Mrs Hatherley’s obs here … Oh. Excuse me. I said, excuse me!’

  A doctor or a nurse – someone in a white coat – had come over to Nan. Was he talking to her?

  ‘Just a sec,’ Georgia muttered, scrolling down to get a good look at all the totty pictures.

  ‘No – now, please. You have to turn that off. Can’t you read? There are signs everywhere!’

  She looked up, irritated by the man’s hectoring tone. Oh God, it was that grumpy bloke she’d bumped into a few minutes ago. Might have guessed. ‘All right, all right,’ she muttered, rolling her eyes. ‘It’s just something for work—’

  ‘I don’t care,’ he snapped. ‘The signal interferes with the hospital equipment. You need to turn it off now.’

  Bloody hell! What was his problem? She narrowed her eyes at him in her best withering glare as she switched her phone off. Not exactly what you would call a bedside manner. Still, that was the NHS for you. She began mentally planning a journalistic exposé of NHS failings as he went over to her nan and held her wrist, checking her pulse against his watch. Oh, she could ruin this place if she wanted to, Georgia thought, gazing around for signs of dirt or dust. Any cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling? Any spillages on the floor? Super-hack Georgia would spot them. She’d lay the place bare with some scornful, insightful prose.

  Damn. The area around her nan’s bed seemed to be spotless. The curtains that stretched on rails around the bed were rather aged, but well-washed at least. And the floor looked clean enough to eat your breakfast off. Still, she could try and get some swabs, couldn’t she, and get them tested for MRSA and other nasties. This could be a new direction for her journalism – campaigning and political. She might even get taken seriously at the Press Awards for a change.

  The man – a nurse, she guessed – set Nan’s hand gently down on the bed and made a note in a file he was carrying.

  ‘Her pulse is fine, so that’s good,’ he said. ‘I’ll just take her temperature, then I’ll leave you in peace.’ And he smiled at Georgia’s parents – a proper, sincere smile like he meant it, like he actually cared.

  Georgia’s anti-NHS rantings melted away suddenly and she felt a rare prickle of shame. He was only doing his job, she supposed, old Grumpy Guts. And he was being nice enough to the rest of the family. Just me he has to have a pop at, she thought petulantly.

  ‘I’ll go and get us some coffee,’ she announced. ‘Back in a minute.’

  She stuck her nose in the air and walked out of the ward. How long was Nan going to sleep for? she wondered. She felt she had to stay long enough to speak to her, and for Nan to see that she’d come, that she’d made the effort to visit. That was the main thing, wasn’t it? As long as Nan knew she cared, then …

  Georgia froze. Her heart thudded painfully and she felt her face flood with sudden heat and colour. Oh my God.

  No. No way.

  It was her. The stuff of Georgia’s nightmares.

  Michelle Jones, high-school bitch, coming down the corridor towards her in a nurse’s uniform.

  Michelle Jones, who’d ruined Georgia’s teenage years, who’d crushed her spirit to a pulp, who’d made life unbearable. Of course, she was Michelle Finchley now – if the marriage had lasted, that was.

  She had to get away. She had to run, fast. This was exactly what she’d been dreading, the person who’d haunted her childhood memories for all these years. But it was hard to breathe, suddenly. She leaned against the wall, shielding her face so that the woman wouldn’t see her. Oh God, she could hardly breathe. Her heart was racing, the corridor seemed to be spinning.

  She clutched at the wall beside her, her palms slick with sweat. She couldn’t hear anything. Her chest felt so tight she thought she might faint. Was this it? Was she dying, right here in a hospital corridor?

  ‘Are you okay?’

  Someone was speaking to her, but she couldn’t register who. Everything blurred and swayed in her field of vision. She wanted to say, Help me!, but couldn’t get the words out. Not enough air …

  ‘Okay, I think you’re having a panic attack,’ the voice said, calm and measured, somewhere in her vicinity. ‘I’m going to cup your hands around your mouth to help you breathe, all right?’

  Michelle Jones! Michelle Jones had just walked right past her!

  Someone was lifting her hands up, positioning them in front of her face. She could smell the alcohol gel she’d cleaned them with. Sharp and acid, it made her nostrils tingle unpleasantly.

  ‘You’re okay,’ the voice said. ‘Keep breathing into your hands, that’s it. I’m right here next to you.’

  The world around her swung back into focus. She felt hot and cold all over, sweaty and damp. ‘Oh,’ she managed to say. It was all she could get out. ‘Oh.’ She blinked. ‘I … I don’t know what happened.’ She’d been staring at the wall, and it was an effort to raise her eyes to her rescuer.

  It was him, of course. Misery Guts. Who else? They seemed to be on some kind of collision course, the two of them, destined to keep crashing into one another. ‘Come and sit down for a minute,’ he said, his hands still on hers. She felt embarrassment sinking through her as he led her along to a nearby waiting area and guided her to a chair.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. Her chest was starting to loosen, her breathing less short and painful now, thank goodness. She took her hands away from her mouth and leaned against the chair back feeling exhausted, as if she’d just run for a cab, heart-rate subsiding, legs weak and jelly-like. ‘I saw – someone I used to know. That was what—’ She stopped short, before she said any more. If Michelle Jone
s – Finchley, rather – worked here, chances were she and this bloke would know each other. They might even be best mates, lovers. Knowing Michelle, the latter was more than likely. She hadn’t exactly been backwards about coming forwards at school. Especially when other people’s boyfriends were at stake.

  ‘It’s all right, you don’t need to explain. Do you want me to get you some water, or anything else?’

  She shook her head. She wanted to go home now, let the train rattle her back down to the safety of the capital, where she was Georgia Knight, Somebody, not Georgie Knightmare, Victim. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Thank you. Sorry about this, I—’

  ‘Don’t be sorry,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to apologize for. Panic attacks can be terrifying to experience.’

  ‘I couldn’t breathe,’ she said, looking down at her fingers, limp in her lap. ‘I thought … I thought I was dying.’ Why had she just confessed to that? She didn’t dare glance up at him for his response, he’d think she was a right hypochondriac. Not that she cared what he thought, of course.

  He was nodding. ‘People do say that,’ he said. ‘It’s like your body exaggerates its response to danger – or stress – and the adrenalin sends you a bit haywire.’

  Georgia managed a smile despite her light-headedness. ‘That’s the medical term, is it?’

  He grinned. ‘Not exactly.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Listen, I’d better go, I’m meant to be doing observations in Cardiology now, but … well, I don’t want to leave you here on your own. Can I walk you somewhere? Are you with Mrs Hatherley’s family?’

  Georgia hated being fussed over. Hated the thought of being walked anywhere, as if she were a dog, or an imbecile. But she was still feeling so weird, so trippy, she didn’t dare say no. Besides, what if she bumped into Michelle out there in the corridor? She wouldn’t get away with not being spotted twice. She could already imagine the light of triumph in Michelle’s eyes. ‘Well, well, well, look who it is,’ she’d say, rubbing her hands together. And then it would all begin again.