74
Sunday, 6 May 2012
Stella was directed to the last bay of a row of six curtained cubicles. She hesitated, nervous of what she would find, then put a hand to the curtain and, as if it were a sticking plaster, whipped it aside. Her mum lay on a bed. The legs that Terry said could win Miss World were bare and crossed at the ankles. Suzie was reading a free newspaper and sipping tea; she might have been on the settee in her flat. When she saw Stella, she laid down the paper.
‘What happened?’ Stella could not see anything wrong. No bandage, no limb in plaster.
No blood.
She picked up her mother’s handbag from a chair beside the bed and sat down. ‘I’m here now.’ She bounced the handbag on her lap as if it were a recalcitrant baby.
Suzie furrowed her brow. ‘I don’t remember.’ Her eyes glistened. ‘You said to ring if I needed you.’
That was true. Stella had not returned her mum’s calls or replied to her text.
‘They’re keeping me in for observation.’ Suzie rattled the newspaper.
‘Did they say why?’ Stella was alert. Perhaps for once her mum wasn’t fussing. She had never seen Suzie look nervous before.
‘I didn’t say the right answers to their quiz.’ She gave a quick smile. ‘I told the young man that I can read and read him the weather forecast. I said I didn’t vote for the Prime Minister and if he did, then he could tell me his name. That put the wind up the lot of them. Serve them right for treating me like a silly old widow.’
Stella noticed that her mum’s hands were still. She was about to point out that Suzie was not a widow, but said instead: ‘You’re not silly or old.’ She got up. ‘I’ll find out what’s happening.’
Still clutching the handbag, Stella batted at the curtains and pushed through.
Five minutes later she was back in the little cubicle.
‘You haven’t fractured your skull, but test results might indicate concussion.’
‘Were you doing anything nice?’ Suzie’s hands stayed clasped on her lap. ‘I hope you were having fun. It’s Saturday night, half of West London’s in here. I had such a lot of fun when I was young, before I met Terry.’ She patted at her hair. ‘Afterwards too,’ she said.
Stella gripped the handbag and flopped on to the chair. ‘It wasn’t fun, no.’ She was tempted again to tell her mum everything.
‘You look tired. I told Jack, “My daughter works so hard” – it’s good that you do, Stella, I admire you – “but she needs some fun too,” I said. Jack heartily agreed. I want him cleaning for me. You doing it will spoil the mother-and-daughter thing.’ She addressed a vent in the wall.
‘Long day.’ Stella was baffled by the idea her mum talked about her when she wasn’t there. She fiddled with the handbag clasp. Open close. Open close.
‘Mum?’
‘Yes, Stella.’
‘I was wondering… say no if it’s too much… but if you had some time it would help me if you could do a bit for the business. You know, like you used to? Typing, ringing people, chasing up new business.’ Stella snapped shut the clasp.
The curtain swept aside and a man in a blue coat twisted a wheelchair through the opening.
‘Mrs Darnell?’
‘That’s me.’ Suzie flourished the newspaper.
Stella went cold. Her mum didn’t like hospitals and avoided doctors, so would ignore everything: a nagging pain or a blemish on her skin. The doctors were fobbing Stella off; her mum had something worse than mild concussion. She jumped up. ‘I’m Mrs Darnell’s daughter.’
‘Come to take you up to the ward.’ The man spun the chair around and clamped the brakes. Stella retreated while the porter transferred Suzie from the bed to the chair. Her mum looked suddenly small and frail, though, at only sixty-six, she was hardly old, Stella reassured herself. Terry hadn’t been old either.
‘No need for you to come, pet. Go on home to bed. Come and get me tomorrow. Or if you can’t…’
‘I can.’
The porter wheeled her away. Stella was rooted in the gangway. A few metres away he turned the chair around. Her mum waved. Stella waved back.
‘She’s asking for her bag,’ the man called.
Stella was still holding her mum’s handbag. She hurried up the bays and laid it on her mum’s lap. Suzie propped it upright on her lap and signalled the man to continue. Stella walked back along the gangway. A pallid young man in jeans and an unbuttoned shirt was being helped onto her mum’s bed, his eyes shut.
‘Stella.’
The porter was holding open the PVC flap doors; her mum was gesticulating. Stella shrugged, not understanding. She moved towards them.
‘That work.’ Suzie Darnell was now rootling in her bag. ‘I can help you.’
The doors smacked shut behind her.