‘We’ve got a meeting at half eleven.’ Camilla, operations director, pops her head over my desk. The open-plan office is buzzing with noise and industry because one of the biggest publishing trade fairs – Frankfurt – is coming up, and we have several big books going on sale. I’ve been so wrapped up in work that I haven’t seen James all week, and we’re supposed to be going to the cinema straight after work tonight. I secretly wonder if he’d notice if I just had a two-hour nap instead of watching the film. Even though I got home late from work and planned to go straight to bed, everyone in the house stayed up last night in the kitchen playing a killer game of cards, sharing a bottle – well, several – of wine and ordering pizza at midnight. I’ve had maybe four hours sleep, everything aches, and my head feels like someone’s used it as a punchbag. When my phone buzzes on my desk, I pick it up, fully expecting it to be James, but it’s my mother.
Nanna Beth not so well. Call me.
It feels like my stomach has just dropped through the floor. I put the phone back on the desk face down so I don’t have to see the message, and stand up automatically, pushing my chair back. My hands are on the desk, my knuckles stark white. I take a shaky breath.
‘Jess,’ says a voice behind me kindly. ‘You okay?’
I turn around, still holding on to the desk. It’s Camilla.
‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Are you feeling okay?’
‘Just had a message to say my Nanna Beth isn’t feeling well.’ I look at the photo montage of the two of us on my desk. Pictures of me when I was a tiny baby perched on her knee, another of us arm in arm when I was ten and got a pair of roller skates for Christmas. There’s a photo of her standing at Cardiff Uni the day I graduated, with Becky grinning in the background. I feel a bit sick and sit back down in the chair.
‘Let me get you a glass of water,’ says Camilla.
I look at the clock. It’s twenty past eleven. Almost time for our meeting.
‘Here you are.’ She hands me the water, and – oddly – a tissue. ‘Now, what can we do?’
I shake my head. ‘We’ve got a meeting at half past.’
‘You don’t need to be in a meeting,’ Camilla says, gently. ‘Do you need to go home and see her?’
I turn the phone over and press the home button, looking again at the stark words lit up against a background of me, Gen and Sophie in ski clothes, laughing in the snow at New Year. I feel sick with guilt that I’ve moved to London and haven’t been to visit Nanna Beth as often as I should have.
‘I think maybe I do.’
‘Okay. Leave it with me. We can give you some leave. Now why don’t you get home and sort things out, pack a bag, and get on the train down to – where is it?’ ‘Bournemouth,’ I say, my voice sounding strange and faint and far away.
As soon as I get off the train I’m aware of the sea not far off. There’s something in the air – an openness in the big sky that stretches out over our heads – and of course the ozone smell of the beach. I jump in a taxi, and head straight to the hospital with my overnight bag over my shoulder.
Going home for a few days because Nanna Beth isn’t well, I’ve texted Becky. Her reply – I check the clock, realising she’s probably just finished work – flashes up as I’m sitting in the taxi.
You poor chick. Send her my love. Keep me posted.
I will, I reply.
When I get to the hospital I stand for a moment, not sure where to go. It crosses my mind – irrationally – that if Alex was here, he’d know. I head for the reception desk at A&E and they tell me she’s been triaged and is in a cubicle. I follow the receptionist’s instructions and make my way through the swinging doors into a corridor thronging with people. There’s a young woman sitting on a plastic chair, a drip hanging from her arm. A youngish couple are sitting looking pale-faced and worried, holding a baby. I hear my mother before I see her.
‘This is ridiculous,’ she’s saying. ‘We’ve been here eight hours and she hasn’t been admitted to a ward. How much longer do you think it’ll be?’
A small woman in a pink hospital tunic, her braids tied back from her face with a wide band, looks at me as I peer around the curtain. She scribbles something on a clipboard and replaces it at the end of the bed, smiling at Nanna Beth before she slips out of the door.
‘Hello, duck,’ says Nanna Beth, faintly. Her skin is bluish pale and her eyes have bruised shadows underneath. ‘Your mother is causing a fuss.’
I lean over the bed, putting my hand on hers, feeling the papery, whisper-thin skin and squeezing her hand gently. I kiss her cheek and smell the familiar scent of Nivea face cream and Elnett hairspray. I lift my head.
‘Honestly,’ my mother is saying, looking irritated, ‘this is absolutely ridiculous. Hello, darling.’ She leans across and gives me a peck on the cheek.
‘Now you’re here, Jess, I’m just going to go outside and make a couple of calls. I’m supposed to be performing this evening.’
‘That’s fine,’ I say, exchanging glances with Nanna. She’s well enough to roll her eyes, so I think that maybe things aren’t as bad as they seem.
Mum slips out of the cubicle and I sit down on the chair next to Nanna Beth’s bed, still holding her hand.
‘So what’s been going on?’
‘Oh, it’s something to do with my heart.’
I look at her, alarmed.
‘Nothing to worry about. A bit of angina, something like that.’
‘They wouldn’t have rushed you in here if it wasn’t something to worry about.’
She tuts. ‘I just need a bit of medicine and I’ll be right as rain. Now, I want you to tell me all about what’s been going on since I saw you last. How’s that nice Alex doing?’
We talk about what I’ve been getting up to in London, and after a while, Nanna’s eyes close and she drifts off to sleep. I take my phone out of my bag. I’m not sure you’re even supposed to use them in hospitals, but I check to see if I have any messages. The first one reads:
Any news? Thinking of you. Xx
Of course, James has been in touch already. I messaged him from the train, telling him what was going on.
Hey, says a WhatsApp from Alex. I watch as the dots form on the screen, suggesting he’s typing another message. They disappear, and then reappear. And then the rest of the message comes through. Becky told me what’s going on. Hope your Nanna Beth’s okay – from what you’ve said, she’s a trooper. Let me know if there’s anything I can do? X
I smile.
A nurse appears.
‘Hello, Mrs Collins,’ she says, gently. Nanna’s eyes flicker open. ‘We’ve found a bed for you upstairs, so we’re just sorting out some paperwork and we’re going to get you admitted. Are you the next of kin?’ she says, turning to me. Mum’s still on the phone somewhere, so I nod. ‘Yes. I’m her granddaughter.’
‘Okay, well, you can go with her up to ward 12. Do you know if your grandma has a bag with her? There’s a WRVS shop down by reception if you need to pick up a toothbrush and a flannel and that sort of thing.’
I point to the flowery bag that’s sitting under my chair. I wonder whether it was Mum or the staff at the sheltered accommodation who packed it. Hopefully not Mum, or half the stuff Nanna needs will be missing. ‘Yes, she’s got a bag. I’ll check it when we get upstairs.’
It’s another hour before a porter comes and helps Nanna into a wheelchair. Mum has come back and told me she hasn’t been able to get the understudy to take over in her play. She looks pale and anxious, her lipstick chewed off and her hair’s sticking up at the back. I reach across and smooth it and she jumps.
‘Sorry.’ She puts a hand to her hair.
‘It was sticking up.’ I chew my lip. There’s a clattering in the background somewhere as if someone’s dropped something. I glance at Mum and she shakes her head slightly as if to say not to worry.
Mum hastily says goodbye and leaves for the theatre.
‘You’re a good girl,’ says Nanna Beth, faintly. She looks small in her nightie and dressing gown – as if she’s shrunk in the last few months.
‘Come on then, love,’ says the porter cheerfully. ‘We’ll have you upstairs in no time.’
Ward 12 is a small room with six beds in it. All but one of them are occupied, and it must be visiting time because almost all of them have family members sitting around. There are get well cards and balloons and boxes of chocolates sitting on top of the side tables, and a low murmur of conversation. A nurse arrives and helps Nanna out of her chair and into bed while the porter wheels the chair away.
‘You’re in the best ward,’ the nurse says in a warm, deep voice that sounds like honey. Nanna, who can’t resist a good-looking man, beams up at him as she allows him to tuck the sheets around her waist and plump up pillows behind her back. ‘We’ll take good care of you here, don’t you worry.’
I watch as he walks away, whistling. It makes me think of Alex, and how he must be with the patients on his ward. He’s working on orthopaedics right now, he told me the other day, and it’s basically nothing but elderly people with broken hips. Oh and one mother of four with a broken ankle. She did it playing roller derby, apparently, and she said she was quite enjoying the peace and quiet.
Nanna Beth has closed her eyes again.
I take the opportunity to message Alex back.
She’s in a ward. Mum’s gone to the theatre.
A moment later, Alex replies.
You must be exhausted. Where are you sleeping?
Mum’s place, I suppose. x
His answer flashes straight back.
When I said let me know if there’s anything I can do, I meant it. x
Alex has heard enough stories about my childhood as we’ve walked around London to know exactly why the prospect of staying with Mum doesn’t exactly fill me with joy. I spent most of my life growing up at Nanna and Granddad’s little house, because Mum was almost never around. If she wasn’t off with one boyfriend or another, she was on some hare-brained money-making scheme. She’d only been seventeen when I was born, and she’d been happy to let my grandparents bring me up.
‘Hello, lovey,’ says a different nurse, walking into the room. ‘Just going to take some observations.’ She picks up a clipboard and writes something down, taking Nanna’s pulse and blood pressure.
‘It’s all go here,’ Nanna says, faintly.
‘Do you know what’s happening?’ I ask. ‘How long will she be in?’ I feel a bit stranded, waiting for something to happen.
‘We’ve got Beth on some medication, which should lower her blood pressure. The doctor will be here tomorrow morning and do her rounds. She’ll take it from there.’
‘What about tonight?’ I look at the clock. It’s already half seven.
‘Well, visiting hours are over at seven forty-five,’ the nurse says, checking her watch, ‘but you can come back tomorrow.’
I feel a wave of anxiety wash over me. ‘What if Nanna needs me?’
‘Don’t you worry,’ Nanna Beth says, reaching her hand over and squeezing mine, gently. ‘I’m in the right place. You get back to your Mum’s place and I’ll see you tomorrow morning. And don’t you worry about the cat – she’s being looked after.’
I feel weird leaving her there. She looks small and faded and old against the bright white sheets, and my stomach contracts in fear at the smells and sounds of the hospital as I make my way down flights of stairs to the entrance. I can’t bear the thought of losing her.
My mother’s sent a text, at least, telling me that she’s going to be at the performance until eleven, and that the key is under the stone cat on the front step. She’s moved again, to a flat in a scruffy-looking part of town, and I have to check the map on my phone to make sure I’m on the right street. I climb yet more stairs – she’s on the third floor, overlooking rooftops and a distant view of the sea. I peer out of the window in the sitting room, looking at the dark autumn sky. Winter is creeping in. I shiver, wrapping my arms around myself. There’s a gas heater and I switch it on, clicking the button five times before it sparks into life.
I wander around the empty flat, noticing bits and pieces that Mum has brought with her from one house to the next. A green china mermaid, a painting of a naked woman gazing out of a window. Battered old tea, coffee and sugar canisters. I fill the kettle and switch it on, checking in the fridge for milk. Amazingly, there is some, and when I sniff it, it’s even fresh.
I make a cup of tea, rummage around in the cupboard in her room to find a blanket, and curl up on the sofa to watch television, and worry about Nanna.
James texts to ask how it’s going. I reply vaguely, explaining that Nanna’s fine, Mum’s off at a performance, and everything will hopefully become clearer in the morning. He’s all for coming down tonight, but the thought of trying to negotiate Mum meeting him, and dealing with everything that’s going on – I’m just too tired, and I can’t face it. But as I put the phone down and my stomach growls – making me realise I haven’t eaten since this morning – I can feel fear curling into the room like overnight mist from the sea. I don’t want Nanna to die. I’ve already lost Grandpa.
My phone buzzes again.
You surviving?
It’s Alex. I reply straight away.
I’ve left her in a ward full of old people, I type. And I’m worried I’m going to lose her. I’ve hardly got any family.
She’ll be okay. His message comes through quickly. You’re made of pretty strong stuff. You’ve always said that comes from your Nanna Beth. What have they said?
They’ve given her some medication and the doctor will be there tomorrow.
Are you going to be there?
Should I be?
Definitely. Get there for visiting hours – I had a look for you, they start at ten. The doctors won’t do their rounds until after then, so you can just tell them you want to be in on the conversation. Get your nanna to say she wants you there.
I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s nice to have someone onside who knows what they’re talking about, and it occurs to me that Alex has such a kind, reassuring manner that he must make a really good nurse.
I will, I write. And then add, Thanks – I really appreciate it. Xxx
That’s what friends are for, he replies. Another text appears a second later. It’s just one single x.