Our Picnics in the Sun (20 page)

“Does it fit? Try it on,” I say. Then I find myself on the point of adding that the sweater will serve well against the coming winter, which is always hard on Exmoor, and I realize we have come quite far enough for one day. Where does it spring from, my assumption that Theo will still be here when winter comes? But how could I survive another one here without him? I gather the picnic things together and stand up. I’m rigid with fear and cold, and fighting a need to cry.

“You’re cold,” Theo says. He hands me the sweater. “Here, you put it on. It’ll keep you warm till we’re back at the house.”

“But it’s yours. You should wear it,” I tell him, but he insists. He says he’s fine, quite warm enough, and obviously I am not. When I put the sweater on, he smiles and says the color suits me. My body softens in its instant warmth and I like feeling its prickly fibers through the dress I am wearing. But I say nothing, and set off quickly down through the mud and bracken. I’m suddenly upset that Howard is stuck in his wheelchair over a mile away; he might have choked on his lunch or tipped himself over. He’s bound to be cold, and he’s overdue for his tablets, and he hasn’t been shaved. Even as I’m muttering all these things I can’t decide who’s responsible for the lapse of routine, me or Howard. Or Theo.

T
he next day, or perhaps it was the day after, brought Howard another shock. Somebody else was in the house. He heard a car—not Digger’s Land Rover—drive into the yard, and now Deborah was talking to somebody in the kitchen. From the polite tilting of her voice he was sure it wasn’t the same person he’d heard her talking to every day for weeks now, to whom her tone was both changeable and extreme, either high and excited, or low and thoughtful, sometimes secretive. No, she was speaking now to yet another person, somebody whose voice he could actually hear, somebody whose voice was familiar and a little on the loud side. He switched off the television and peered around the sitting room and found it, too, familiar; to his relief, what he could see of his surroundings was solid and unchanged. But something was wrong: the voice talking to Deborah from the kitchen did not fit here at Stoneyridge. The voice did not belong here.

Then he heard the laugh, and knew at once who it was. He craned round in his chair toward the kitchen. Though he couldn’t see anything through the glass pane in the door he knew it was her: Stroke Club, nurse, laughing, nice, kind—Jenny. The door opened, and Jenny came in, followed by Deborah. Although he now knew who the visitor was, and knew she was in the room, he still couldn’t really make her out in the way he had once been able to. It was as if one day when his back was turned the world had reconfigured itself and was now operating in accordance with new, tricksy laws of geometry and space that broke up rooms and faces and bodies into sudden angles and jutting planes, so that now a great deal of what went on
right next to him seemed to be happening off-center, or behind a partition, or in a mirror. Not only that, the world was simultaneously emptier and fuller than it used to be. Every day, sounds and movements, shapes, smells, and tastes hinted at but did not yield their meaning, reducing him to a state of almost permanent distraction. Every day wore him out with numberless inexplicable sensations and unanswered clues. But he didn’t need to explain any of this to Jenny. She knew.

“Hullo, Howard! Thought I’d just drop in for a minute, seeing as I was passing,” she said. “We’ve been missing you at Stroke Club. Thought I’d come and see how you’re getting on.” She laughed some more, and Howard smiled broadly in the direction of the voice.

“Hullo, Jenny,” he said. He raised his hand and felt it gently clasped and held.

“My goodness,” he heard Deborah say. “You
are
honored!”

Jenny laughed again, and Howard could smell something lovely and lemony, and then he heard her voice, now close and soft. She was sitting beside him, practically visible. “How’re you doing, Howard? Deborah tells me you’ve been getting out nearly every day. That’s progress. That’s excellent!”

Howard knew that Jenny would wait for as long as it took him to speak, which made it worth his effort. Besides, he wanted to please her. Slowly, slowly, he made his mouth produce words. “Yes, out. I have been out. Left, out.” He squeezed Jenny’s hand, hoping she’d understand how seriously he felt about it. “Not, no—no good. Out. Left. I’m bad, left.”

“His left side’s still bad. He still struggles,” Deborah told Jenny. To Howard she said, “But you managed it very well, Howard. Didn’t you? When you were out. You did really well. And you had your chair right there for when you needed a rest, so it was fine.”

Jenny said, “Your hand’s a bit chilly, isn’t it? How’s your appetite, Howard, are you eating all right?”

Howard shook his head vehemently. “No. No food. I don’t like.”

“He’s a bit hit-and-miss with his eating at the moment,” Deborah said. “He’s quite fickle.”

“I think we’ll just pop you on the scales next time you’re at Stroke
Club, Howard, would that be all right?” Jenny said. “I think you might have dropped a bit of weight, I’m not surprised with all the exercise! Tell you what, suppose you try having a couple of milky drinks a day in place of your tea or coffee?” Howard shook his head again; she was missing the point. Even if he couldn’t be given food he actually wanted to eat, he had to be allowed enough time to force it down. Jenny’s voice faded as she turned her head to speak to Deborah, and he strained to hear the words.

“Plain milk if he likes it, full fat preferably. Or hot chocolate made with milk, that’d be a good idea now the weather’s turned. Does he mention feeling the cold at all?”

Howard tried to speak, and Jenny turned back to him. “I think you might be feeling the cold now you’ve lost a bit of weight, mightn’t you?”

She spoke again to Deborah, confidentially. “If you can keep an eye on his hands and feet and pop a blanket or an extra layer on, that’ll help. And wrap him up extra warm to go out, of course. Plus
hot
milky drinks especially if he’s not eating much.”

“I do my best with his food,” Deborah said. “And there’s the palaver of getting him out. And now the shaving on top. There’s a lot to do. I don’t mind, of course, but he’s difficult to please sometimes. He still gets very down.”

“Oh, I know. I do understand. All these things, they’re so variable. It’s very frustrating for the person doing all the looking-after. Maybe you could try giving him smaller amounts at mealtimes and top up his plate a little at a time—it takes longer but it usually pays off. Anyway, very nice to see you both. Better dash, got four more visits before lunch! Ring the clinic if there’s anything else we can help with, don’t hesitate, all right? Thanks for letting me pop in.”

Howard felt her hand tighten around his. “Bye-bye, Howard. Keep up the good work. See you at Stroke Club next time? I’ll be looking out for you!”

She waited until he was able to say, “Goodbye, Jenny.” Then he felt her hand withdraw, and she was gone from his side.

“No need to see me out,” she said to Deborah.

“It’s no bother,” Deborah said. “Anyway, I’d like a word.”

Some time later he was subjected to another new sensation; another texture, of alarm and strangeness, was brought to bear upon an already unpredictable day. Rough fingertips poking out from a scratchy, strong-smelling sleeve darted at him from nowhere and began stroking the side of his cheek.

A voice said, “It’s all right, Howard. I’m going to shave you.” The hand—or, at any rate, the sleeve—was unfamiliar. He couldn’t join up the voice with the face it belonged to, he couldn’t see the face at all.

“You’re all right with that, aren’t you, Howard?” the voice said, from behind him this time. “We’ve got to make sure we don’t do anything you’re not all right with, haven’t we, Howard? Very important. Here we go, then.”

All at once he felt a cold, slippery cloth sliding around his face as if, despite the words, it wasn’t in the least important that he should be all right with it. As if there were already some easy fellowship between himself and the owner of the hand that presumed the granting of his consent to be shaved, which there certainly was not. He opened his mouth, found the cloth jammed between his teeth, and held on, shaking his head. The cloth was wrenched away. Howard felt a light cuff against the side of his head, and yelled out.

“Listen, Howard,” said the voice. Warm breath wafted over his face. “Don’t. Don’t mess around with me, all right? I’m going to shave you. Then we’ll be going out for a walk. All of us.”

The sharp-smelling, prickly sleeve scraped against his cheek, and Howard sneezed. He tried to focus his eyes but could see only the outline of a dark figure now leaning over the low table where the pink plastic shaving basin was set. Again he wanted to say he’d changed his mind about the shaving, that he wanted to grow his beard back, but the words wouldn’t come. Next, a towel was placed around his shoulders and his chin was raised. Howard gulped and closed his mouth as the fat brush pasted the soap across his lips and down over his neck. He had to stop his chin from trembling. Because if he went on trembling like that, the voice told him in a calm, private whisper in his ear, it would be his own fault if he got cut.