Mum swept Sandro in, not giving Lara a chance to whittle or worry or issue any instructions. If Mum had her way, Sandro would be bouncing on the settee and eating chips out of newspaper by the time we got back. ‘Poor little bugger. So many rules I wonder his head don’t blow off. And all that talk of when he goes to university and how many pages he’s got to read every day. Lord, it’s enough to make him turn into a druggy dropout.’
I hurried Lara out of there before she could change her mind. But by the time we were halfway to the nursing home, Lara was so tense, she looked as though she was suspended on a coat hanger. She kept checking for messages on her mobile. I wasn’t sure what was worrying her more: Sandro left with Mum in a den of inequity or her dad confused and in pain. I tried to reassure her. ‘Not too long to go. Your dad will probably have settled down a bit now.’
‘God, I hope so. The nurse that was dealing with him said he was getting a bit aggressive. He’s always been such a gentle person. Maybe he’s just in a lot of pain.’ She lapsed back into silence.
I never noticed the creaks, rattles and squeaks that were all part of my Fiesta’s ancient appeal, but with no conversation to distract us, they were impossible to ignore. Lara hadn’t ever shown any signs of wanting to discuss anything more personal than what she had for breakfast, so I didn’t feel I could blunder in with loads of questions but a desire to talk over the squeaking outweighed my tact.
‘How long has your dad been ill for?’
‘I’m not really sure.’ She looked out of the window. ‘He was forty-three when I was born so he was much older than other dads. My mum was twelve years younger. After she was killed in the car accident, he was always terrified of something happening to me. So he always had lots of funny little quirks, double-checking tyre pressure before we went anywhere, a fire extinguisher in every room, carbon monoxide monitors everywhere, ridiculously big locks on the doors. Sort of health and safety gone mad.’
I wondered what he would have made of Mum lighting her fags off the gas burner and sealing up the air vents to keep the heat in.
She shuffled in her seat. I waited, thinking that unless I’d missed something, she hadn’t really answered my question. My back wheel started to make a new whirring sound. Lara glanced round.
I tried to talk over the noise. ‘So did he just get more extreme?’
Lara grabbed the seat as a lorry rattled past. It was a good job she didn’t know how to drive otherwise her right foot would have been aching by the time we passed Worthing.
‘He started barricading the doors, and every time I went to see him, there was another padlock or bolt and he couldn’t open the door properly. And then one day Massimo took me to visit and we had to get the fire brigade to let us in. After that, we concluded he wasn’t safe to live on his own any more and he went into a home.’
I couldn’t imagine putting Mum into a home. I hoped if it came to it, Nico would let her come and live with us.
‘How often do you go and visit?’
‘Not as often as I’d like. Dad was such a worrywart about me going in a car at all that he never wanted me to learn to drive. So now I have to rely on Massimo to take me and he’s away such a lot and so busy when he’s here. I wish I had learnt now.’
I glanced at her. ‘Massimo said you wouldn’t learn because you were so environmentally conscious that you didn’t want to pollute the atmosphere?’
She frowned, then burst out laughing. ‘He’s probably embarrassed that at the grand old age of thirty-five, I couldn’t even drive a go-kart. Do you see me as an eco-warrior? Come on! I don’t even use a food-waste caddy in case it gets maggots in it.’
I loved it when Lara had an outburst of spontaneity. Most of the time she looked so fearful of letting out any opinion that hadn’t been Farinelli-approved, it thrilled me to know she wasn’t quite the pushover she seemed.
‘It’s never too late to learn. Then you could come and see your dad whenever you wanted to without involving Massimo.’
The shutters crashed back down. ‘I probably wouldn’t be very good at it. Anyway, walking everywhere keeps me fit, stops me putting on too much weight.’
That glimpse of the funny Lara disappeared. I couldn’t understand intelligent women like her, women with degrees, who could add up a column of numbers and work out tax-efficient this, that and the other, allowing themselves to be so dependent on a man, thinking that their role in life was to be slim and pretty to please their husbands. It was so 1950s. I’d seen Massimo popping home for lunch, Lara coming to the door in an apron as though she’d spent the morning making a shepherd’s pie. I wondered if she produced his slippers and a cardigan as soon as he got through the door. Maybe Nico was secretly disappointed with his ham roll and a handful of cherry tomatoes when he worked from home.
After an eternity on winding country roads, we finally drew into the nursing home.
‘Shall I wait in the car?’ I asked.
Her face clouded over. ‘Could you bear to come in with me if he’s not badly injured? I think it’s stimulating for Dad to see new faces. And it would be nice to have someone chat to him while I deal with any admin stuff.’
‘Of course.’
One of the nursing home staff who introduced herself as Pam took us through the entrance hall, reassuring Lara that the doctor thought her father had only sprained his ankle not broken it, but they would monitor it. Lara reeled through an impressive list of things she wanted to know, with Pam nodding and giving the distinct impression that she would be hopping to it right away. I wouldn’t even have thought to ask about blood pressure, special shoes to support the ankle or vitamin supplements to speed recovery.
Despite Nico telling me how bright Lara was, I’d never been able to imagine her as a career woman flying about the world with her folders, taking for granted airport lounges, hotel restaurants, valet parking. This clipped briskness and quiet authority was a different side to her, completely at odds with the flaky ‘But what about Sandro’s swimming lesson?’ of earlier.
The home itself was a surprise to me. I’d been braced for brown carpets, tubes and trollies, with patients wandering about in gowns that barely covered their modesty. But in fact it was more like the reception of a fancy hotel, with vases of those lilies that dropped pollen on your clothes and posh magazines with ads about heirloom watches. There was still a repellent air of human decay though, however much air freshener they’d squirted. I had renewed respect for Mum and her complete lack of squeamishness, her ability to combine a practical ‘let’s sort those pillows out’ approach with a gentle word.
Pam showed us into a room where a little old man sat in an armchair, a strapped-up foot resting on a stool. Lara’s dad’s reaction to seeing his daughter was the stuff of YouTube vines. He looked up, peered at her, his eyes sweeping up and down, then he stretched out his arm, his face beaming into a smile. The whole scenario reminded me of the videos Sam loved watching, owners reunited with their dogs who’d walked half of Australia to find them or a baby creasing into laughter when his mother came into view.
I hung back, not wanting to intrude.