Wishing and Hoping (25 page)

She was careful to go slowly, directing the pushchair away from the shops and towards the surgery.

‘Are we changing direction?' her grandmother asked.

‘No. We're going exactly where I intended to go,' quipped Marcie without really giving away that they were headed for the surgery.

‘We're here,' said Marcie pushing open one of the wide double doors.

Her grandmother looked panic stricken. ‘This is not the fishmonger! I wanted fish for Friday!'

Marcie managed to guide her into the reception area.

‘The doctor promised he would see us the minute we got here.' Marcie clung tightly but gently to her grandmother's arm, knowing that given half the chance she'd dig in her heels and refuse to move.

Craning her neck whilst wrestling with the push chair, door and grandmother, she caught the receptionist's attention. Old Doctor Sangster had never had a receptionist. Like most old-time doctors
of his generation, he had let his own patients in and out. His more modern replacement had changed things a great deal.

‘Oh! It's Mrs Brooks,' said the receptionist with a welcoming smile.

Rosa Brooks stopped in her tracks. ‘Why have you brought me here?' she demanded of her granddaughter.

The receptionist looked both amused and impressed that Marcie was attempting to do so many things at once. They exchanged a knowing look. Everyone knew that Rosa Brooks was of independent spirit.

‘Let me help you,' said the pleasant-faced young woman, coming out from behind her high reception desk.

‘I do not need to see the doctor,' Rosa protested. Her eyes might be bad, but Marcie could read what she was thinking. Her grandmother was angry – very angry.

‘He's very keen to see you,' said the receptionist to Rosa Brooks as though totally unaware of her resistance. She turned to Marcie. ‘Do go in, Mrs Jones. I'll take care of the children for you.'

‘Gran. You have to see the doctor about your toe.'

‘Toe?' she exclaimed accusingly. ‘There is nothing the matter with my toe.'

This was never going to be easy, but Marcie was
determined. Even if it meant telling a lie, she was going to get something done here.

Cupping her hand over her mouth, she whispered in her grandmother's ear.

‘Gran, it's not healing and because it's not healing it's beginning to smell.'

Marcie's grandmother took a backwards step and looked shocked. Recovering quickly she glared at her granddaughter accusingly. ‘I do not need you to come in with me.'

‘Well, I am.' Marcie was determined. ‘You've taken care of me all my life, Gran. Now it's time for me to take care of you. So don't argue.'

In the past Rosa might have protested more vehemently, but she was weaker than she had been. Marcie winced on feeling the fragile arm beneath the black tweed coat her grandmother was wearing. It was as though there was no flesh, only bones barely covered by skin.

‘Marcie. Please. You do not understand. I can take care of this myself. I do not wish to be pulled around like a piece of meat on a slab.'

‘This is a doctor you're seeing, not a butcher.'

The weak pleading of her grandmother's voice tore at her heart, but she was determined to get to the bottom of this. There was some truth in her saying that her grandmother's injured toe was beginning to smell. What was wrong? She had to know.

The doctor had sad brown eyes and coffee-coloured skin. His smile was warm and so was his voice as he steered her grandmother to a comfortable chair. ‘I am so very pleased to see you, Mrs Brooks. You should come in and see me more often.'

‘I would not wish to waste your time,' Rosa responded indignantly. ‘You would not be doing that, Mrs Brooks. I like to keep my eye on senior patients. I think that is only wise.'

Rosa Brooks was having none of it. ‘I am not sure I agree.'

‘Please, Mrs Brooks. Let me be the judge of that.'

Placing his hand on her shoulder, he pressed her gently down onto the seat at the side of his desk.

‘Now,' he said, still smiling and brimming with the professional confidence of a young man keen to do his stuff. ‘Your granddaughter tells me that you hit your toe and it's not healing as it should. Is that right?'

‘It is nothing,' said Rosa in a resolute manner, one hand waving at him as though he were a fly and should leave her alone. ‘I used herbs but not the right ones. I can take care of it myself.'

‘I think I can do better,' said the young doctor, his smile undimmed. At the same time his eyes met Marcie's over her grandmother's head. She saw the concern there and knew instantly that he was aware of the blindness and that the problem with her grandmother's toe was somehow attached to it.

The doctor placed a chair for Marcie beside that of her grandmother. ‘Please. Take a seat, Mrs Jones.'

Marcie thanked him. Knowing her grandmother wasn't best pleased, she slid a sidelong look in her direction. The walnut-brown face had set like sun-dried clay, criss-crossed with cracks. Marcie was thankful that the jet-black eyes were staring straight ahead, the strong little chin trembling.

‘Now,' he said, looking directly into Rosa's face. ‘Will you let me take your shoe off?'

‘You may if you wish, but, as I have already told you, I will heal it with herbs. It is just a deep cut that is taking a little longer than usual to heal. It is because of the cold weather.'

The doctor's amused expression turned slightly more serious. ‘As I have already intimated, Mrs Brooks, I think you should let me be the best judge of that. That's what the National Health Service pays me for. Please allow me to earn my keep.' He said it with a light laugh, but it was obvious from her grandmother's expression that she wasn't finding this funny at all.

Marcie marvelled at how secretive her grandmother had been about her toe. If Garth had not told her about it, she would not have known.

The doctor cradled her grandmother's foot in one hand and began to undo the bandage with the other.

Marcie leaned forwards, her frown deepening and
her nose wrinkling as more and more of the bandage was undone. The smell was terrible – like rotting meat. She covered her nose and mouth with one hand, wincing on seeing the blackened, suppurating toe.

He looked at Marcie, then back at her grandmother. His smile had disappeared completely. ‘Can you smell it, Mrs Brooks?'

Her grandmother stared at him silently for a moment before answering. ‘Yes.'

‘It's badly infected.'

‘Yes.'

Marcie had heard old men talking about terrible injuries during the Great War of 1914 to 1918 and of how legs and arms had had to be sawn off, the smell indicating that saving the limb was hopeless.

The young doctor put it into words. ‘Gangrene,' said the doctor. ‘That's what this is.'

‘Is it serious?' Marcie asked.

His glance held a bucketful of sympathy. He nodded. ‘In certain circumstances it is. Some people are susceptible to it and some people cannot fully recover from it without an amputation being carried out.'

‘You can tell her,' Marcie's grandmother said suddenly.

‘Seeing as I have your permission, then I will,' said the doctor. ‘When an injury such as this occurs to people with diabetes, it rarely heals unless it is very
minor indeed. I think you were already aware what it was, weren't you, Mrs Brooks?'

Rosa Brooks was surprisingly placid, apparently unmoved by what he was telling her. ‘Yes, but it is of no consequence. I am dying day by day, doctor – as we all are. I am old. I have had my time, and please do not look at me as someone to be pitied. I may not be able to see but I can tell you are. I'm an old woman whose flesh is rotting and eyesight is failing. I was not always like this. I was a baby once, a child and a young woman – a beautiful young woman I might add.'

‘I am sure you were,' the doctor replied, his manner polite and not at all condescending. ‘Time levels us all, Mrs Brooks. I can't promise anything, but I will do my best. You're an intelligent woman and I will treat you with the respect you deserve. I will tell you the truth. The toe will have to come off.'

Rosa nodded.

Marcie sat silently shocked. Both the doctor and her grandmother were being so matter of fact about this. She was the one who didn't want to accept this.

‘Just her toe?'

‘Hopefully it will be only the toe that has to come off. I'm not sure we can do anything about your eyes,' the doctor added.

‘What's affected my grandmother's sight?' Marcie asked him. ‘Is that also to do with diabetes?'

He nodded.

‘Stop fussing, Marcie. I can manage without them,' snapped her grandmother.

Marcie sighed. Rosa Brooks was strong-willed and even though her physical strength was ebbing away, her will was as strong as ever. And she was proud. She would always be proud.

The doctor seemed to be doing his best not to look sad. ‘It's partly her diabetes but she also has cataracts. It won't be long before we can deal with them very effectively with modern medicine, but that's not your grandmother's problem. The vessels at the back of her eyes have been damaged by her diabetes; it's called glaucoma.'

Marcie's head was reeling. How could so many bad things be happening to her? First, Michael being arrested for murder, and now, her grandmother not only going blind but in need of an amputation. Only a toe, she reminded herself, and couldn't help saying it out loud.

She put her arm around her grandmother and hugged her tightly. ‘Only a toe. Thank goodness for that. I suppose it could be a lot worse.'

There was something about the doctor's expression that made her think that the amputation of her grandmother's toe wouldn't be the end of things. She'd ignore that for now. Nothing else bad must happen. She didn't think she could cope with it.

The doctor rewrapped her grandmother's foot and told her that he would arrange for her to be admitted to hospital for the operation to remove the toe. Rosa Brooks looked less than pleased at the prospect. The doctor saw her expression.

‘Mrs Brooks,' he said, taking hold of both her hands. ‘Let me put this bluntly – if that toe doesn't come off we'll be looking at taking your foot off, perhaps even your leg. The poison has to be stopped from spreading. If I could avoid surgery, I would.'

Rosa didn't seem all that impressed. She shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘I suppose it has to be.'

‘I suppose we'd better get some shopping,' said Marcie once they were out in the fresh air.

Her grandmother limped along beside her. Marcie guessed that only the presence of the children prevented Rosa Brooks from tearing her off a strip.

‘We'll go to the fishmonger's first,' said Marcie.

‘You tricked me,' said her grandmother. Her voice was low. Her eyes were fixed on the two children though she couldn't really be seeing very much of them, just blurred shapes.

‘I had to,' said Marcie. ‘You weren't telling me the truth.'

‘I was not telling you lies.'

‘You weren't telling me anything.'

‘You have enough concerns. You have two children,
a husband in jail and a business to run. None of it is easy. And you must listen to your inner voices and have a care for your dreams. Dreams can solve a lot of things.'

The comment about dreams made Marcie wonder. She hadn't conveyed any part of her dreams to her grandmother. In fact she hadn't admitted to having any dreams – vibrant or otherwise.

The dreams were of no real consequence. Marcie concentrated on shopping with a vengeance.

Buying fish, vegetables and fresh sliced bread did nothing to soften the blow of knowing just how ill her grandmother was. She did everything as though she were running on clockwork and had a huge key in her back that was turning fast but would wind to a halt later. It helped to keep the worries at bay.

By the time they arrived back at Endeavour Terrace, Aran was asleep in his pushchair and even Joanna's eyes were drooping. Marcie was also feeling tired. She'd told nobody, but running Michael's business and dealing with all the other family problems arising thick and fast was going to be doubly difficult.

She sighed when she reached the front gate of number ten, stopped, took a deep breath and closed her eyes. For a moment the world went away, yet she could
feel
her grandmother's eyes on her. She opened her own and met those of the woman who had had
most influence on her life. Her grandmother's look was steady, almost as though she really could see Marcie very clearly, though obviously she could not.

‘Does Michael know?'

She wanted to say, ‘Does Michael know what?' but there was no point.

‘You have been feeling tired lately. You have not been eating properly. The child will be born at Easter.'

Marcie's jaw dropped. ‘Gran, I can't be . . .'

‘Of course you are. You know it. It's just that you're not listening to your body. It's understandable. You have too much to think about at present. But there will be a child. I guarantee it.'

Marcie was stunned, but her eyes were open. For weeks she'd been denying the fact that she hadn't had a monthly period. No, she hadn't told Michael – mainly because she hadn't admitted the fact that she was pregnant to herself.

‘I don't think I am,' she said, still unwilling to face the inconvenient truth. ‘Not really. It's just that I'm rundown with all these problems I have to deal with.'

She felt herself blushing. Michael had been on remand just under three months. Was it really only that long? It felt so much longer. She was missing him badly.

‘You must take better care of yourself,' remarked her grandmother.

Marcie was dismissive. ‘Never mind me. It's your welfare that concerns me at present.'

‘I will be fine.'

Marcie was no longer so sure about that. Someone had to call in on her grandmother now and again to make sure she was taking care of herself. Garth would be a help, of course, but he was hardly the most responsible person in the world, and certainly not the most intelligent. There was only one other person, besides the Catholic priest, who could find the time to call in on her.