Swimming Upstream

19

The lift still wasn't working and we had to walk up the stairs again. When we got to the top, I walked up to the edge of the railings and peered over. It was such a long way down. The cars in the road below all looked so tiny, like matchbox ones. It made my head spin to look at them. I flattened myself against the wall while Zara banged on the door.

“Uncle Silbert!” she called through the letterbox. We waited for a few minutes, and then she tried again. She turned to face me. “It's awfully quiet in there,” she said.

Five minutes later, we decided we would have to break the lock, but neither of us knew how to do it. In the end we found a brick and smashed a window into one of the unused rooms, and Zara climbed through. A few minutes later the front door opened and she was standing in the hallway. All the blood was drained from her face.

“Call an ambulance,” she said and skidded off back down the hallway.

I raced downstairs to find a neighbour with a telephone, then ran back up again, and into the kitchen. Uncle Silbert was hunched over in a chair by the gas stove, his head hanging forward and his eyes closed. He was wearing Zara's red jumper over his pyjamas and a dressing gown over the top. His face was chalky white and his lips were blue. His bony fingers were twisted together in his lap.

“Is he... all right?” I asked, stupidly.

“No,” said Zara. “He's not all right, at all. He's breathing, but only just.”

She crouched on the floor in front of him and grabbed his hands.

“Uncle Silbert. Can you hear me?” she shouted.

Fear crept up inside me. My heart started thumping in my chest and I felt my legs starting to give way from underneath me. I grabbed at the wall and propped myself up. “Oh God, no,” I whispered. “Please don't let anything happen to him.”

“Uncle Silbert,” shouted Zara again. “Can you hear me? Can you hear me?” she repeated over and over again. She stood up and slapped his cheeks, pushed his head back and reached into his mouth.

“What are you doing?” I asked her, as she whipped out his teeth and plonked them on the table beside him.

“See if you can find another blanket,” said Zara. “Go and have a look in the bedroom.”

There was only a sheet and one blanket on the unmade bed. It didn’t look as though it had been slept in.

“Good,” said Zara when I came back in. “Now wrap it round him. Keep his arms away from his body.” She was holding a lighted match over the gas stove but nothing was happening. “Damn, no gas,” she said. She looked up at me in astonishment. “He must have been cut off.”

Just at that moment Uncle Silbert’s neighbour came in through the front door with two paramedics. They covered his face with an oxygen mask and lifted him onto a stretcher while we watched in silence. As they lifted him up I touched his shoulder. It felt hard and shell-like through the thin layers of clothing. Then they were gone, out of the door, and down the steps.

The journey down was fraught with difficulty as the stairwell wasn't wide enough and turned at funny angles. Zara and I hung back anxiously as they manoeuvred the stretcher up and down and round the corners; it all seemed to be going on forever. Finally we got to the bottom and they put him into the ambulance. Zara jumped in after him.

“See you there,” she said.

The rain was still dribbling down dismally as I drove to the hospital. I parked the car and hurried across the car park to the now familiar entrance to Saint Barts' Accident and Emergency department. The waiting room, as usual, was packed.

Zara and Shelley met me in the corridor. Shelley had just finished her shift. Two elderly ladies and a young man were pushed up against the wall on trolley-beds.

“Which way?” I asked.

“He's in there,” said Zara, pointing to a curtained-off room further down the corridor. “We have to wait.”

“What's happening?” I asked.

“It's pneumonia,” said Zara. “They've got him on a drip.” She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Anyway. They're doing everything they can.”

“Zara?” A doctor was walking towards us. He nodded to us, took Zara by the arm and led her into the room behind the curtain. Shelley and I sat down and waited. The corridor was brightly lit, as if they were trying to keep everyone awake. My eyes felt tight and weary despite the fact that I’d slept all afternoon.

“What happened to you lot, last night?” I asked Shelley. “Why did you all just disappear?”

She shook her head and frowned. “Don’t you know? Martin kicked us out.”

“What! Why?”

“I thought you realised,” she said. “You saw the way he was acting, right? Mind you,” she added. “You were pretty well gone. I think he thought Giles was trying to take advantage of you. Which,” she added. “He probably was, knowing Giles. So I suppose he was just doing the right thing.”

“Who?”

“Martin. Your knight in shining armour.”

I heaved a big sigh and said nothing.

“Although,” said Shelley. “He was a bit out of order, the way he went about it, ordering us all around. Gavin wanted to clock him one.” Shelley paused and looked at me out of the corner of her eye. “No offence to Catherine, but I would definitely say he fancies you.”

I looked at my feet.

“So you were okay, then?” Shelley persisted. “After?”

“Yeah,” I lied, still looking at my feet. “I was okay. Just, you know, went to bed. Slept it off.”

We seemed to sit there for a very long time.

“It's a good sign, isn't it, don't you think?” I said, eventually.

“What is?”

“That they've been in there so long.”

Shelley shook her head. “That's just the consultation room,” she said. “He's not out of the woods yet.”

Zara lifted the curtain and came out.

“What's happening?” I asked her.

“They've got nowhere to put him. They want to take him to Homerton,” she said.

“What? He's got pneumonia ... how can they?” I asked.

The doctor appeared behind her. “I'm afraid we simply don't have a bed for him here. It's the nearest hospital with beds,” he said. “An ambulance will be arranged.”

I went to fetch the car. Shelley and I followed the ambulance through the now pouring rain, which was battering against the roof of the car in torrents and flooding the road ahead of us. I switched my wipers onto the fastest setting.

“Jesus Christ,” said Shelley, and shook her head.

We drove up past the Barbican towards Old Street and into Hackney, all the time staring at the tail lights of the ambulance ahead of us. They were just a few hundred yards in front of us, but the back doors were obscured by the lights and the rain. It felt strange to be so close yet so far away.

We passed London Fields and pulled into Homerton High Street. Finally, the lights of the hospital shone out like a beacon through the darkness.

I pulled up outside the entrance. Zara was getting out of the ambulance in front of us and standing in the rain watching as they brought out the stretcher, her hair plastered to her head and the wind whipping at her flimsy top - which was now wet through, and even more see through - and flapping the edges of Uncle Silbert's blankets. I pressed my face up to the windscreen and squinted as they passed through the beam of my headlights but the respirator was over his face and they moved quickly away and through the double doors into the hospital.

I turned to Shelley. “Go on in,” I said. “I'll park the car and come and find you.”

“I'll wait for you in the entrance,” she promised.

I drove round the car park several times. The rain was coming down in huge sheets, the droplets dancing in the light from my headlamps. Every time I thought I'd found a space, the bumper of another car reared up before me and I had to keep stopping and reversing, and driving round again. Finally, I rounded a corner to find a car backing out from a space. I slammed on my brakes, skidded to a halt and edged hurriedly into the gap. I ran across the car park with my bag over my head, rain soaking through my shoes and splashing up my jeans. I met Shelley at the entrance and we hurried down the corridor in the direction Zara had gone. As we rounded the corner we saw her sitting on a chair in an empty corridor, her hair still wet and clinging to her head.

“Where is he?” asked Shelley, as we ran up to her. Zara lifted her head and looked at us, her face blank.

“In there,” she said, nodding towards a room opposite.

“Can we go in and see him?” I moved towards the door. Zara didn't say anything. I stopped. “Zara?”

“You can if you want to,” she murmured.

“Of course we want to,” I said, turning the handle. I stopped again. “He's going to be okay, right?”

Zara looked up at me, as if seeing me for the first time. “You don't understand,” she said, shaking her head, her voice fading to a barely audible whisper. “Uncle Silbert ... well, he's in there still. But he died a few minutes ago.”

I stayed at Zara’s, the two of us huddled up in her bed, and we both slept until lunchtime the following day. When Zara woke she sat up and said, “I’m going to be sick,” before running off to the bathroom.

“You okay?” I asked when she returned.

She nodded and climbed back into bed. “It’s probably just the upset,” she said. “Or tiredness. I feel so amazingly tired.”

“Well, you just get some rest. I’ll make some tea and toast.”

I went down into the kitchen. When I came back up again with a tray, Zara had fallen back to sleep. I climbed back into bed beside her and drank my tea and nibbled on a piece of toast and then I lay back down and drifted back to sleep as well. It was late afternoon when I woke again. Zara was still asleep. I decided in the circumstances to leave her in bed. I couldn’t see the point in insisting she get up when I didn’t feel much like facing the world myself.

“I’ve got to go,” I whispered into her ear. “But I’ll call you later. And I’ll come round after work tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Zara nodded without opening her eyes.

I got dressed and went downstairs. The house was quiet. Shelley and Tim must still be at work. I didn’t want to leave Zara alone, but I was due back at work the next day and there was still some clearing up to do back at the flat before Catherine came home. I shut the front door behind me and walked down the road to where I had parked my car.

The flat felt empty and strange. I instantly regretted having returned on my own. It was as if time had stopped still since I had woken the previous morning and found Martin in my bed. I wandered round the flat. Every room reminded me of him and what had happened. I stripped the bedclothes and threw everything into the washing machine and tipped all of the remaining party food into the bin. I picked up my doll and held her tight but the comfort I had found in Uncle Silbert’s words to me the day before had gone, now that he himself was no longer here to share his wisdom and his love.

I found myself standing staring out of the window for what seemed like hours, immobile with fear and hurt and guilt and grief. My stomach was churning but I couldn’t eat, or sit down, or clear up, or do anything at all, except stare out of the window and wish that I could turn back time.

Suddenly, I spotted Catherine crossing the mews, her rucksack slung over one shoulder. My spirits immediately lifted. I watched with relief as she walked up the path, fishing around in her handbag for her keys. I moved out from under the curtain, and went to open the door for her, but then stopped as I caught sight of Martin’s car, which was turning into the garages and reversing round.

As the key turned in the lock and the front door opened I saw the look on Catherine’s face and knew instantly that she knew. She looked back at me as she closed the door, and said nothing.

“Hi,” I said, weakly.

“Hi,” she said. “I’ve come to get my things. I’m moving out.”

“Why?” I asked pointlessly.

She stopped and looked at me, her chest rising and falling heavily. Her eyes had a misty, far away look, which made her appear as though she was at peace, like a Buddha, but actually meant she had been crying. Catherine wasn’t the kind of person to lash out. She wasn’t the kind of person to punish me either. She was simply hurt. And so she was going to leave.

“Look, I’m not going to do this now,” she said. “Martin’s waiting for me in the car. I understand why you did it. I know you’re lonely. But you’ve hurt me more than you will ever know.”

“Look, Catherine,” I said. “I don’t know what he’s told you…”

“Only the truth,” she said. “Which is why I just can’t look at you right now.”

She turned her back on me and walked into her bedroom. I followed her. I stood in the doorway and watched as she opened up her rucksack, which I now realised was empty. She pulled her suitcase down from on top of the wardrobe and began scooping up her make up and her jewellery and putting things into bags.

“Catherine, please,” I begged her. I held my hand out towards her. “Go if you want, leave if you have to. But first please, please give me a chance to explain.”

“What is there to say?” she said, with her back to me. “You wanted my man, and now you’ve had him. It’s almost ruined things between us. And now me and him have got a lot of sorting out to do.”

“Look,” I said. “I don’t know what he’s told you, but has it occurred to you that it might not be the truth?”

“Martin wouldn’t lie to me,” she said, looking up at me with a saintly expression, almost as if she were proud of him. “Whatever he has done, he wouldn’t lie. He said that’s why he had to tell me. He didn’t want any secrets between us.” She didn’t have to say “unlike you” because it was written all over her face.

“He told me not to tell you,” I muttered, but I knew it was futile.

“He told me you’d say that. He didn’t want me hurt. He wanted to wait until he knew I was okay, until he knew my Dad was all right.”

It occurred to me that when I had last seen him, Martin had not even mentioned Catherine’s father, nor had he appeared to be even remotely concerned about him. He had clearly known she wasn’t coming home that night, third hand from Shelley, perhaps. But he hadn’t even asked me where Catherine was, what was wrong with her dad, or which hospital he was in.

“He told you not to say anything because he didn’t want me upset,” Catherine continued. “And he thought it would be better coming from him.”

I shook my head. “I bet he did.”

Catherine folded the last of her clothes, the pink, white and blue floral sundress that we had bought together back last autumn and a navy blue chenille shirt that I loved and had borrowed many times. She placed them in the suitcase and folded down the lid. I leaned over and put my hand on the top.

“Please Catherine,” I begged her. “Don’t go back to him. I don’t care if you hate me, but please don’t go back to him. He’s lying to you. He doesn’t care about anyone but himself. He’s not safe to be around.”

Catherine picked up my hand and removed it from her suitcase. I started to cry. She looked at me for a moment then turned away and pushed the bulging lid down and zipped it up. “Funny,” she said. “That’s what he said about you.”

“I don’t hit people!” I sobbed. “I don’t threaten them!”

“Oh Lizzie, get over that, will you. That was a long time ago. He’s not that person anymore.”

“He is!” I pleaded. “He hasn’t changed! What happened with me and him, that was his doing, not mine. He hurt me!”

Catherine turned to look at me. “What do you mean, he hurt you?”

“He was angry,” I said. “When I wanted him to go. He grabbed me. Pushed me.”

She stood still, looking at me for a moment. Then she shook her head. “I don’t believe you. Why would I? I can’t trust anything you say anymore.” She picked up her handbag and turned to face me. “And it doesn’t matter what you say. Lizzie. Nothing you say can change what’s happened. I just can’t be around you right now, that’s all.”

She staggered past me with her arms full of bags and opened the front door.

I wiped my eyes and followed her with her suitcase. As Catherine walked down the path she said something to Martin, and he got out of the car and came to the front door and took her suitcase from me. I tried to look him in the eye but he glanced away. He avoided looking at me until Catherine was in the car. And then he turned, as he drove away, and he looked directly at me, and he smiled.