I DIDN’T SEE RAYMOND ON Monday, or on Tuesday. I didn’t think about him, although my mind did return to Sammy and to Mrs Gibbons on occasion. I could, of course, visit either or both of them without Raymond being there. Indeed, both had stressed that to me on Sunday. But would it be better if he were by my side? I suspected that it would, not least because he could always fill a silence with banal, inane comments and questions should the need arise. In the meantime, I’d gone to the mobile telephone emporium with the least garish fascia in the closest location to the office and, on the highly suspect advice of a bored salesperson, had eventually purchased a reasonably priced handset and ‘package’ which allowed me to make calls, access the internet and also do various other things, most of which were of no interest to me. He’d mentioned apps and games; I asked about crosswords, but was very disappointed with his response. I was familiarizing myself with the manual for the new device, rather than completing the VAT details on Mr Leonard’s invoice, when, very much against my will, I became aware of the conversation going on around me, due to its excessive volume. It was, of all things, on the topic of our annual Christmas lunch.
‘Yeah, but they have entertainment laid on there! And lots of other big groups go, so we can meet new people, have a laugh,’ Bernadette was saying.
Entertainment! I wondered if that would involve a band, and, if so, might it be his band? A very early Christmas miracle? Was this fate interceding once again? Before I could ask for details, Billy jumped in.
‘You just want to cop off with some drunk guy from Allied Carpets under the mistletoe,’ Billy said. ‘There’s no way I’m paying sixty quid a head for a dry roast turkey dinner and a cheesy afternoon disco. Not just so’s you can scout for talent!’
Bernadette cackled and slapped him on the arm.
‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s not that. I just think it might be more fun if there’s a bigger crowd there, that’s all …’
Janey looked slyly at the others, thinking that I hadn’t seen her. I saw her eyes flick up to my scars, as they often did.
‘Let’s ask Harry Potter over there,’ she said, not quite sotto voce, and then turned to address me.
‘Eleanor! Hey, Eleanor! You’re a bit of a girl about town, aren’t you? What do you reckon: where should we go for the office Christmas lunch this year?’
I looked pointedly at the office wall calendar, which, this month, dispayed a photograph of a green articulated lorry.
‘It’s the middle of summer,’ I said. ‘I can’t say I’ve really given it any thought.’
‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘but we’ve got to get something booked up now, otherwise all the good places get taken and you get left with, like, Wetherspoons or a rubbish Italian.’
‘It’s a matter of supreme indifference to me,’ I said. ‘I shan’t be going anyway.’ I rubbed at the cracked skin between my fingers – it was healing, but the process was painfully slow.
‘Oh, that’s right,’ she said, ‘you never go, do you? I’d forgotten about that. You don’t do the Secret Santa either. Eleanor the Grinch, that’s what we ought to call you.’ They all laughed.
‘I don’t understand that cultural reference,’ I said. ‘However, to clarify, I’m an atheist, and I’m not consumer-oriented, so the midwinter shopping festival otherwise known as Christmas is of little interest to me.’
I went back to my work, hoping it would inspire them to do the same. They are like small children, easily distracted, and content to spend what feels like hours discussing trivialities and gossiping about people they don’t know.
‘Sounds like somebody had a bad experience in Santa’s grotto back in the day,’ said Billy, and then, thankfully, the phone rang. I smiled sadly. He couldn’t even begin to imagine the sort of bad experiences I’d had, back in the day.
It was an internal call: Raymond, asking if I wanted to go and visit Sammy again with him tonight. A Wednesday. I’d miss my weekly chat with Mummy. I’d never missed one, not in all these years. But then, what could she actually do about it, after all? There couldn’t be much harm in
skipping it, just this once, and Sammy was in need of nutritious food. I said yes.
Our rendezvous was scheduled for five thirty. I’d insisted that we meet outside the post office, fearing the reaction of my co-workers were we to be observed leaving work together. It was a mild, pleasant evening, so we decided to walk to the hospital, which would take only twenty minutes. Raymond was certainly in need of the exercise.
‘How was your day, Eleanor?’ he said, smoking as we walked. I changed sides, trying to position myself downwind of the noxious toxins. ‘Fine, thank you. I had a cheese-and-pickle sandwich for lunch, with ready-salted crisps and a mango smoothie.’ He blew smoke out of the
side of his mouth and laughed.
‘Anything else happen? Or just the sandwich?’
I thought about this. ‘There was a protracted discussion about Christmas lunch venues,’ I said. ‘Apparently it’s been narrowed down to TGI Fridays, because “it’s a laugh”’ – here, I tried out a little finger- waggling gesture indicating quotation marks, which I’d seen Janey doing once and had stored away for future reference; I think I carried it off with aplomb – ‘or else the Bombay Bistro Christmas Buffet.’
‘Nothing says Christmas like a lamb biryani, eh?’ Raymond said.
He stubbed out his cigarette, discarding it on the pavement. We arrived at the hospital and I waited while Raymond, typically disorganized, went into the shop on the ground floor. There really is no excuse for being unprepared. I had already gone to Marks and Spencer before meeting him, and had purchased some choice items there, including a tub of pumpkin seeds. I suspected Sammy was in dire need of zinc. Raymond came out swinging a carrier bag. In the lift, he opened it and showed me what he’d bought.
‘Haribo, the Evening Times, big tub of sour cream and chive Pringles. What more could a man ask for, eh?’ he said, looking quite proud of himself. I did not dignify this with a response.
We paused at the ward entrance; Sammy’s bed was surrounded by visitors. He saw us and beckoned us over. I looked around, but the stern nurse with the stripy socks was nowhere to be seen. Sammy was reclining regally on a mound of pillows, addressing the assembled throng.
‘Eleanor, Raymond – great to see you! Come and meet the family! This is Keith – the kiddies are at home with their mum – and this is Gary and Michelle, and this’ – he indicated a blonde woman who was texting with impressive focus on her mobile telephone – ‘is my daughter Laura.’ I was aware of everyone smiling and nodding, and then they were shaking our hands, slapping Raymond’s back. It was quite overwhelming. I’d put on my white cotton gloves, rather than use the hand gel – I reasoned that I could run them through a boil wash as soon as I got home. This occasioned a certain hesitancy in the handshakes, which was strange – surely a cotton barrier between our respective skin
surfaces could only be a good thing?
‘Thanks so much for taking care of my dad, guys,’ the older brother, Keith, said, wiping his hands on the front of his trousers. ‘It means a lot, to know he wasn’t on his own when it happened, that he had people looking out for him.’
‘Hey, now,’ said Sammy, nudging him with his elbow, ‘I’m not some doddery old invalid, you know. I can look after myself.’ They smiled at one another.
‘Course you can, Dad. I’m just saying, it’s nice to have a friendly face around sometimes, eh?’
Sammy shrugged, not conceding the point but graciously allowing it to pass.
‘I’ve got some good news for you two,’ Sammy said to us, leaning back contentedly into his pillows while Raymond and I deposited our carrier bags like myrrh and frankincense at the foot of his bed. ‘I’m getting out on Saturday!’
Raymond high-fived him, after some initial awkwardness whereby Sammy had no idea why a podgy hand had been thrust in his face.
‘He’s coming to stay at mine for a couple of weeks, just till he gets confident with the walking frame,’ his daughter Laura said, finally looking up from her phone. ‘We’re having a wee party to celebrate! You’re both invited, of course,’ she added, somewhat less than enthusiastically.
She was staring at me. I didn’t mind. In fact, I actually prefer that to surreptitious, sneaky glances – from her, I got a full and frank appraisal, filled with fascination, but with no trace of fear or disgust. I brushed my hair off my face, so that she could get a better view.
‘This Saturday?’ I said.
‘Now, Eleanor, don’t you dare say you’re busy,’ Sammy said. ‘No excuses. I want you both there. End of.’
‘Who are we to argue?’ Raymond said, smiling. I thought about it. A party. The last party I’d been to – apart from that appalling wedding reception – was on Judy Jackson’s thirteenth birthday. It had involved ice skating and milkshakes, and hadn’t ended well. Surely no one was likely to vomit or lose a finger at an elderly invalid’s welcome home celebration?
‘I shall attend,’ I said, inclining my head.
‘Here’s my card,’ Laura said, passing one each to Raymond and to me. It was black and glossy, embossed with gold leaf, and said Laura Marston-Smith, Aesthetic Technician, Hair Stylist, Image Consultant, with her contact details set out below.
‘Seven o’clock on Saturday, yeah? Don’t bring anything, just yourselves.’
I tucked the card carefully into my purse. Raymond had thrust his into his back pocket. He couldn’t take his eyes off Laura, I noticed, apparently hypnotized rather in the manner of a mongoose before a snake. She was clearly aware of this. I suspected she was used to it, looking the way she did. Blonde hair and large breasts are so clichéd, so obvious. Men like Raymond, pedestrian dullards, would always be distracted by women who looked like her, having neither the wit nor the sophistication to see beyond mammaries and peroxide.
Raymond tore his eyes away from Laura’s décolletage and looked at the wall clock, then, pointedly, at me.
‘We shall depart,’ I said, ‘and meet again on Saturday.’ Once again, there was an overwhelming onslaught of salutations and handshakes. Sammy, meanwhile, was rummaging in the bags we’d brought. He held up a packet of organic curly kale.
‘What the hell is this?’ he said, incredulous. Zinc, I whispered to myself. Raymond hustled me out of the ward rather brusquely, I felt, and before I’d even had a chance to mention that the squid salad would need to be eaten promptly. The ambient temperature in the hospital ward was very warm.
