False Hope Page 7

  I could see it in his eyes now. That familiar blend of anxiety and anger. What the hell am I supposed to do with her?

  ‘When?’ he snapped. ‘Who from?’

  ‘Last week. A patient.’

  ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me? What patient? What about?’

  ‘The amputee,’ I said carefully. ‘That RTC when I was on call the weekend before last?’

  ‘The bloke who hit the lorry?’

  I nodded. ‘They’re saying I shouldn’t have amputated. That I should have got a second opinion. That the arm could have been saved.’

  ‘Could it?’

  I dispatched the second wodge of paper to the bin. Sniffed. Shook my head. ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘So they’re just trying it on, then. After money.’

  God, how I wished I could tell Matt the truth. ‘Not necessarily,’ I felt compelled to say. ‘They might genuinely think it could have. They haven’t seen the pictures, have they?’

  ‘But they will now.’

  ‘Yes, of course. And they’re unequivocal.’

  ‘So there’s no case to answer, surely?’

  ‘No. None at all. Not in theory.’

  ‘So why the hell are you in such a state about it? These things happen all the time, don’t they? That’s precisely why you pay obscene amounts in medical defence insurance premiums, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s not that. It’s just the fact of it. Being so new. Having a complaint made at all. Being accused of bloody negligence, of all things. Doesn’t matter that it’s groundless – it’s still hanging over me. The embarrassment. Having to be interviewed. Causing everyone so much trouble . . .’

  This seemed to set fire to something in him. He looked incredulously at me. ‘What the hell are you on about? How are you causing anyone any trouble? And what d’you mean, “in theory”? Do they have a case or don’t they?’

  ‘No!’ But as soon as I said this, something sparked in me too, and the tears I’d been mopping refused to be stopped any more. I tugged at the loo roll again, but did it too sharply, and a ribbon of paper, propelled by its own momentum, waterfalled down and started pooling on the tiles.

  Matt put a hand out to stop it. He looked completely exasperated now. ‘So why,’ he asked a second time, ‘are you in such a state? What aren’t you telling me?’

  I ripped another wodge of paper from the end of the ribbon. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Grace, tell me.’

  ‘There’s nothing!’

  ‘Stop lying to me!’

  ‘I’m not!’

  But I was, and I couldn’t keep it up any longer. Because he knew that as well – my snivelling made it all too obvious. ‘Look, I can’t. Matt, you know I can’t discuss any of this with you.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ he said firmly. ‘They can take their patient-confidentiality rules and shove them where the sun doesn’t shine. I’m not having my wife in this state and not know why. Come on, spill, for Christ’s sake. What aren’t you telling me?’

  He’d raised his voice now, which only made me cry more.

  Which made him crosser still. ‘For Christ’s sake, Grace, I’m your husband. Don’t you think that gives me a right to know the reason why you’re in this mess? Look at you!’

  I couldn’t imagine anything I’d rather have done less at that moment. ‘It’s not about rights,’ I snapped back at him, blowing my nose; still, infuriatingly, unable to stop the tears pouring out of me. ‘It’s about the nature of my fucking profession.’

  This knocked him slightly sideways. ‘Whoa. Jesus, Grace. Get a grip, will you? And stop being so bloody disingenuous.’

  ‘I’d be able to get a grip if you’d just stop bloody shouting!’

  He threw his hands up. ‘Okay, okay. I’m sorry. But I don’t think you get that it’s hard for me, too. I know your work is important. I know it takes it out of you. I know you’re stressed about your mother. But hello? I’m still here.’

  He squatted down beside the bath then, so he was looking up rather than down at me. ‘Look, I’m sorry to raise my voice. But you’ve got to stop shutting me out, okay?’ He lifted a hand, traced an arc with his thumb over my wet cheek. ‘State of you,’ he said. ‘You carrying on all the time as if you’re Super-bloody-woman, but, trust me, you look more like Alice Cooper’s granny right now. More to the point,’ he added, his tone softening, ‘who the hell do you think I’m going to tell exactly? The Daily Mail? The police? Look, is there more to this, or isn’t there?’

  I wasn’t in the habit of breaking rules. I never had been. But there was another rule in marriages, and right now, it felt by far the more important one. So even as I knew I mustn’t, I couldn’t seem to stop myself.

  ‘It’s Aidan. The man whose arm I amputated is Aidan.’

  It took a moment for the name to sink in. Then, as if it was too indigestible to swallow, he spat it out again. ‘Aidan? Aidan as in Kennedy? It’s Aidan Kennedy’s arm you’ve amputated?’

  I nodded, and the stream of air rushing out as he exhaled was powerful enough that I felt a ripple cross my forehead. He lifted a hand to his own then, ploughed his fingers through his hair. ‘Jesus Christ. So this complaint he’s put in, it’s malicious then? That’s pretty rich. Or is he just chancing his arm – ha, sorry, not – in the hopes of compensation?’

  ‘It’s from his wife.’

  He gaped. ‘That lowlife has a wife?’

  ‘And two children. Two little girls. It’s not likely to get that far, because they’ve already been through the op notes, but I don’t doubt they’ll try, based on the fact that I knew who he was. They’re saying that knowing him affected my judgement. That even if I called it right, I still shouldn’t have done the surgery. That doing so constituted professional negligence.’

  ‘What an utter load of nonsense,’ he said, and I was grateful for his instinctive loyalty at least. ‘At six on a Sunday morning? Like they have a cupboard just off theatre full of idling trauma surgeons playing fucking Uno – as if! Did you, though?’

  ‘Recognise him? God, no. He was under a mask by the time I got there, and even if he hadn’t been, I still doubt I would have because his face was such a mess. No one knew who he was. He had no ID on him.’

  ‘Well, that bloody figures. So when did you realise?’

  ‘Not till I saw him on my ward round, post-op. And once I did recognise him, I obviously got him transferred to another consultant – for his sake as much as mine. He looked pretty horrified to see me.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. But, Christ, Grace, why the hell didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Because I thought that would be the last of it. That he’d want it to be the last of it. I never thought for a moment that he’d do something like this.’

  ‘You’re joking. That’s exactly the sort of thing he’d try. He’d be all over it.’ He put thumb and forefinger together and rubbed them to illustrate. ‘God, that bloody family! If I—’

  He was interrupted by the sound of elephants thundering up the stairs. ‘Da-ad!’ Dillon’s voice. The boys tumbled into the bedroom, balls of energy in their matching Christmas jumpers. ‘Nanna fell asleep,’ Daniel said, while Dillon pulled on Matt’s sleeve. ‘So we’ve paused the film for later. Can we build my Lego Land Rover now, please please please please?’

  ‘Course we can,’ Matt said. ‘Well, at least make a start on it. And while we’re doing that,’ he added, glancing out of the bedroom window, ‘Mum can take herself off for her walk in the woods before it gets too dark. Plan?’

  So we trooped back downstairs, and though professional instinct told me to regret telling Matt about Aidan, the relief at having done so was too immense. I decided I’d just have to square it with my conscience later. And given what they’d done, were clearly trying to do, anyway, weren’t all bets – and boxing gloves – now off?

  Chapter 7

  In the end, because Dillon was keen to go with me, we jumped in my car and drove down to the beach at Rottingdean, so he could practise
his stone-skimming technique.

  I’d been surprised by his enthusiasm for coming out for a walk at all – though the rain had finally stopped, it was still a dark, chilly afternoon, growing darker, and he usually enjoyed helping Daniel build his Lego. But he clearly had his reasons; he was uncharacteristically quiet during the journey, and by the time we’d parked and put our beanies on, it became obvious he had something on his mind. I knew he’d had a bit of a falling-out with a boy he usually walked home from school with, because Daniel had told me. Was that what he was brooding on, I wondered?

  ‘You okay, bubs?’ I asked him. ‘You’ve gone all quiet on me. Something up?’

  ‘I’m okay,’ he said, as we set off down the beach. Then he stopped on the shingle and tugged on my hand. ‘Mum, why’s Nanna always so mean to you? I don’t like it when she’s mean to you.’

  Ah, I thought. Ah. So that was what was on his mind. ‘I know, sweetie. But she doesn’t mean to be,’ I told him.

  ‘She sounds like she does.’ He looked up at me. ‘Was that what made you cry?’

  I knew better than to try and convince him that I hadn’t been. Instead, I squeezed his hand and nodded. ‘I don’t much like it either,’ I admitted. ‘But remember what we said about Nanna’s brain playing funny tricks?’ He nodded. ‘That’s why we have to remember that it’s not really Nanna. It’s just her illness. Her dementia. She doesn’t mean to be unkind. It just makes her a bit crochety when she can’t remember things the way she used to.’

  We’d reached the shore now and I bent down and picked up a pebble. ‘You know when you see this?’ I squatted down and held the pebble out to him. ‘Your eyes, in an instant, send a picture to your brain, and your brain, which is full of all the things you’ve ever seen, thinks “I recognise that. It’s a pebble.” But with Nanna, when her wires cross, the messages get muddled. Her eyes send the picture, but her brain doesn’t recognise it. Or sometimes it thinks it does, but has remembered it wrong. It thinks “that’s a potato” or “that’s a plate of spaghetti”.’

  ‘Or a snail?’ he suggested.

  ‘Exactly. Which must be very confusing, mustn’t it? Especially when other people tell you you’re wrong, because we expect our eyes and brains to work together, don’t we? I’m Mum, you’re Dillon, it’s Boxing Day afternoon. That’s the sea, that’s the sky. It’s all pretty straightforward, isn’t it? But when it doesn’t work, it’s frightening because you don’t know what’s what. What time it is, what day it is, sometimes even whether you’ve had your breakfast or not. Or when someone you know well walks up to you and says hello and you can’t remember what their name is.’ I stood up again. ‘Can you imagine how frustrating that must be?’

  He slipped his hand into mine again. ‘But why does that mean she shouts at you?’

  ‘It’s just because she’s cross, like I said. Not at me. At herself. You know when Dan’s playing Fortnite and he’s losing a battle, and if you interrupt him when that’s happening, he snaps at you? It’s a little bit like that, I think. It’s not you he’s cross with. He’s just irritable. Snappy. And when Nanna gets snappy, she sometimes snaps at me. Don’t worry, sweetie. It’s okay. I’m okay. Because I know it’s not her. It’s just her dementia.’

  ‘Do all old people get dementia?’

  ‘No, they don’t. Not by a long shot.’

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘Almost certainly not.’

  ‘Why not?’

  It was a reasonable enough question. And deserved a decent answer. But he was ten. There was nothing to be gained by making him worry. ‘Because it’s really, really rare,’ I said, ‘and by the time I’m Nanna’s age, I’m pretty sure science will have found a cure anyway.’ I stood up, squeezed his hand, then lifted it up to my lips and kissed it. ‘So you don’t need to worry, okay? About anything. Now then, shall we see if we can find some good stones?’

  Dillon nodded, but he was chewing his lip now, and not meeting my eye.

  ‘Are you sure you’re alright, sweetie?’ I said, crouching down again. Tears had pooled in his eyes.

  Now he looked at me. ‘Mummy, do you love Daniel more than me?’

  I was stunned. Where had this come from? ‘Not in a million years,’ I said firmly. ‘I love you both the same. As in billions. As in squillions. Why on earth would you think something like that?’

  ‘Because Daniel’s your real son, and I’m only your adopted one.’

  ‘You are absolutely my real son. Every bit as much as Daniel.’ I swept my thumbs across his cheeks to catch the falling tears. ‘That’s what the word adoption means. That you are my real son. Oh, sweetheart. What on earth has brought this on?’

  ‘Nanna said . . .’ He hesitated. Sniffed. Cried some more.

  ‘Said what, bubs?’ I pressed, anger sparking now. Of course. ‘What did she say to you?’

  ‘That you couldn’t love me as much as Daniel because I’m not your proper son.’

  Had my mother been there at that moment, I would have struggled not to slap her. Because this particular beast had reared its ugly head before, too many times. But not in a long time. Why now? ‘What?’ I said. ‘When?’

  ‘This morning. After breakfast. When she came into our bedroom. She told me I should have a picture of my mummy by my bed. But she didn’t mean you. She meant I should have a picture of Mummy Hope there. And when I told her I didn’t want to, she got all cross with me and told me off.’ He sobbed again, loudly. ‘I hate her.’

  I dropped to my knees and pulled him tight against me, biting down hard on all the words that could so easily come tumbling out because, right then, I hated her too. ‘Oh, my darling boy,’ I said, ‘You know that’s not true. You’re—’

  But Dillon hadn’t finished. ‘She said you’d never love me the way Mummy Hope loved me. Only Daniel. Because he’s your real son, and I’m her son. But I’m not! I don’t want to be! I want to be your son.’ He let out a great shuddering sob. ‘Nanna’s horrible and I hate her.’

  I shushed and soothed him till he quietened, then loosened my hug a little so I could look at him. ‘Sweetie, you know how much I love you,’ I said, touching a hand to my chest. ‘Look. Nanna’s right about one thing. That Mummy Hope loved you too.’ (We had talked about this often, once. Then not so much. Then not at all.) ‘And she’s a star in the sky now, watching over you, remember? And she always, always will be. But I’m your mummy now. And I could not love you more. The things Nanna says sometimes – you have to understand, she doesn’t mean them.’

  ‘Is it just her dementia?’

  ‘Exactly. Just the illness. Just her brain getting muddled.’

  ‘She didn’t sound muddled.’

  ‘Ah, well, you see, that’s the unfortunate thing about dementia. It gets into brains and it’s super, super sneaky. Some of the time it makes people who have dementia sound almost exactly like they would if they didn’t have dementia. That’s what you must remember. That it’s not Nanna speaking.’

  Which seemed to satisfy him. But not me. I knew better.

  We spent almost an hour on the beach, moving west along the tideline, and I silently found the wherewithal to still my seething brain, and accept that what I’d told Dillon was at least partly true. To inwardly chant She didn’t mean it, she can’t help it. To still Matt’s voice, over years now: Chill, hen. You need to stop overcompensating. To still the voice that was saying, yes, but, at one point, it was true. And my biggest fear then, that it would always be true.

  But it wasn’t true now, I told myself sternly. And if any residue of truth still remained, well, I’d just keep telling myself that, very sternly, until it went.

  We strode on, donning gloves against the icy onshore wind. We found a mermaid’s purse, and a tangle of blue plastic fishing net, which was alive with all kinds of tiny crustaceans, drawn to the dead fish that had been entombed inside it, and prompting Dillon, who was studying climate change in school, to start worrying anew. At least, till I distracted him with a particula
rly good find: a hermit crab who’d made its home in a whelk shell.

  Down at this end of the beach, though, I’d become distracted myself. Not by my mother, now – a small mercy – but this time by my father, because we were at the same place I’d last come to with him many years back, when he’d visited (this about nine months after he’d moved to France with Aurélie) and suggested the two of us ‘have a talk’. If he had added ‘man to man’ I wouldn’t have been surprised.

  I had been seventeen then. My father forty-eight or forty-nine. It felt strange to be around him. He had changed. I also hated that he was taking up space in my head in a way he previously hadn’t, and shouldn’t. I hated the reality – which every pore of him seemed to make so obvious – that my father and Aurélie were having so much fun, so much sex.

  ‘Your mum,’ he said. ‘She’ll be okay, you know. She’ll bounce back – boing-boing-boing – you’ll see.’ He even mimed it, excruciatingly. Who was this person, who had always been so short and snappy, and now mimed beach balls and took me for walks by the sea? Yet, at the same time, his happiness was oddly infectious. Because the image he’d created, of my mother bouncing along the shoreline like a big happy beach ball, made me giggle. Despite the heavy cloud of gloom under which we were living, or perhaps even because of it, it actually made me giggle. I was that much not myself.

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ my father said, placing a stiff hand on my shoulder. ‘In the meantime, Chicken Licken’ (he’d always called me that because, just like Dillon was now, I was a child prone to worrying about the sky falling in), ‘you look after your mum and little sister for me, eh? I’m relying on you.’

  And I was too young to realise what a preposterous thing that was to ask of me. It had taken years, and a great deal of hounding by Matt, to realise just how preposterous. I made a rule from the get-go that as a parent I’d be different. I would never ask Daniel to look after Dillon. Look out for. Not after. A massive, massive difference.