'Toby's right, Mum,' I said.
Toby flicked his hair out of his eyes and gave me a huge, dazzling grin. Grace sighed. Mum sighed too.
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'I know Toby's got some very good ideas,' she said. 'But what would your dad say? You know what he thinks about computers. He'd never agree to have one in the shop. I'm sure he wouldn't like the coffee and cake idea either. He'd think I was trying to turn the shop into a cafe.'
'You could do it while Dad's still in hospital,'
I said.
'Oh Prue, I wouldn't dare,' said Mum. She paused. 'Would I?'
She went on about it after Toby went off, clutching his Victorian volume in his carrier bag. She talked about it on the bus all the way to the hospital.
'Perhaps now he'll see we have to change with the times,' she muttered. 'We could try out this computer idea, especially if we got it for almost nothing. And I could maybe ask one or two customers if they'd fancy a cup of coffee. I could try it out for free first, to see if they liked the idea. What would be the h a r m in that?'
'That's it. Mum, you tell Dad,' I said.
But when we got to the stroke unit Dad had something to tell us.
He wasn't in bed as usual. He wasn't even in his pyjamas and dressing gown. He was sitting bolt upright on one of the plastic chairs, dressed in his old suit, the one he'd been wearing when he'd had his stroke. He even had his tie neatly knotted. He clutched a notebook on his lap.
'Oh Bernard, you look wonderful, dear! Quite your old self!' said Mum.
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'You look ever so smart, Dad,' said Grace.
'Hello, Dad. You really do look great,' I said.
He nodded at us all, taking his time, like a king on his throne waiting for his u n r u l y courtiers to settle down. Mum wedged herself into another plastic chair a n d Grace and I perched uncomfortably on the end of the bed.
Dad cleared his throat. We sat expectantly.
He raised the notebook lopsidedly, his good hand doing most of the work. He fumbled with the pages, trying to get it open at the beginning.
Mum leaped up to help but he glared at her furiously, so she subsided again. Dad fiddled with the flimsy paper. I saw my own careful printing. It was my truncated version of his Magnum Opus! It hadn't got lost at all.
Dad cleared his throat once more. 'I – Bernard King – think – think – think – my – home-town
– of – Kingtown – reflects – the – moral –
degeneracy – of – our – current – unstable –
and – unsatisfactory – age.'
He said it very slowly, without expression, struggling at each word, his mouth working as if he was chewing toffee, his eyebrows going up and down with the effort. But he said it, the entire sentence.
'Bravo!' said Mum, clapping him, t e a r s pouring down her cheeks.
'Brill, Dad! Like, wow!' said Grace.
Dad winced at each word but for once let it ride. He looked at me triumphantly.
'I thought you'd thrown it away, Dad!' I said.
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'Aha!' said Dad.
'You seemed totally fed up with the whole idea of reading aloud,' I said.
'With – you,' said Dad.
'So you've been secretly practising all by yourself?'
Nurse Ray put her head round the door. 'I should say so! He's been at it night and day for weeks, head in that book, mutter mutter mutter.
I offered to help him but he wouldn't be having it. Wanted to teach himself, bless him.'
Dad huffed, irritated by her tone.
'Ooh, don't get shirty with me now, Bernard,'
Nurse Ray said. 'You know you love me really, don't you, darling?'
Dad rocked backwards and forwards at her presumption, and she laughed at him.
'Have you told them your good news?' said Nurse Ray.
'Good news,' Dad agreed.
'It's splendid news, Bernard, seeing you reading your own book!' said Mum. 'Can you manage a bit more?'
Dad shook his head. 'Good news – going home!'
'Yes, dear, you carry on making progress like this and you'll soon be better and able to come home,' said Mum.
Dad tutted at her. 'Going home now,' he said.
'Today. Now!'
'Well, not just yet, dear. When the doctors say so,' Mum said, flustered.
Nurse Ray was nodding at her. 'He's right!
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That's why we've got him all dressed up a t r e a t in his suit. Dear God, I had to tie t h a t tie for him three times and he still wasn't satisfied.
Like I said, Bernard, you need a nice comfy sweatshirt and a pair of trackie bottoms, then you can whip them on and off in seconds.'
Dad said a very rude word to show what he thought of sweatshirts and trackies.
'He can come home right this minute?' said Mum.
'Now!' Dad said impatiently.
'We had a case conference yesterday and we all agreed that Bernard's more t h a n ready to leave us,' said N u r s e Ray. 'He's made t h a t perfectly clear!'
'But he can't walk!' said Mum.
'He can stand, and shuffle a few paces with his Zimmer if he puts his mind to it. We're willing to a r r a n g e some out-patient physiotherapy – if His Lordship co-operates!'
Dad shook his head at this.
'But how will he get about?' Mum said weakly.
'We'll let you borrow a wheelchair from the unit, and if you get in touch with this phone number here someone will come out and assess the sort of chair Bernard will need for the future.
They'll install h a n d supports in the bathroom and give you a commode if necessary.'
'Not!' said Dad. 'Right. Home. Now.'
He looked at us. His eyes swivelled from Mum to Grace to me. He breathed more quickly, his mouth working. 'Not want me?' he said.
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'Oh Bernard, of course we want you back! It's j u s t such a shock. But it's lovely, a lovely surprise,' Mum burbled.
Grace and I were still so stunned we couldn't say a word.
'I've got Bernard's bag all packed, and he's got all the medication he needs for the next few weeks. Make sure he takes his Warfarin.'
'Rat poison!' said Dad.
'Yes, but you're not a rat, darling, and it's thinning your blood nicely so you don't have another stroke,' said Nurse Ray, putting her arm round him. 'I shall miss your grumpy little ways, Sugar Lump!' She gave him a big kiss on his whiskery cheek.
Dad huffed again, but he patted her with his good hand.
Then we had to get him home.
'Will the ambulance men come and collect us?'
said Mum.
'No dear, we can't spare an ambulance. Can't you take him in your car?'
'We haven't got a car,' said Mum. 'We can't take my husband on the bus!'
We had to call a minicab and manoeuvre Dad into the front, Mum and me heaving him onto t h e seat and tucking his legs in, while he snapped at us impatiently. Then Mum squeezed into the back seat, Grace and me squashed in beside her, with the wheelchair collapsed in the boot.
It cost £11.50 to get home. Mum could only 228
just scrape up enough money from her purse, and the cab driver had to do without a tip.
We s a t Dad in t h e wheelchair a n d t h e n struggled to get him up the step and into the shop. Dad snuffled up the stale smell of book as if the room was full of roses.
'Home now,' he said.
It was a terrible struggle getting Dad upstairs.
The physiotherapist had taught him how to do it. He had to put his good foot up on the first stair, steady it, then somehow swing the bad one up beside it, balance, get his breath back, start again with his good foot up . . . Taking things one step at a time had a whole new meaning. We laboured over each step with Dad, Grace calling encouragement from the banisters, me walking backwards leading Dad up, Mum behind, her arms outstretched, ready to catch him whenever he faltered.
Dad was drenched in sweat by the ti
me he got to the top. He insisted t h a t he wasn't ready for bed though – he'd had enough of lying in a bed in t h a t extremely-rude-word hospital. He was out of breath and his words were going 230
again, but we certainly caught the gist of his meaning.
We helped him into his armchair. He sat propped up on all the cushions we could find, his feet sticking out on the leather pouffe. He looked horribly stiff and uncomfortable in his suit but he wouldn't let Mum loosen his collar and tie or even put his slippers on. He clutched my mini version of his Magnum Opus like a Bible. Every now and then he fumbled the pages open and read out a further line or two.
Sometimes he simply repeated the first paragraph. Each time Mum reacted with awe and astonishment, and Grace and I clapped and commented too.
Mum made Dad a scratch supper of egg and bacon and sausage and beans and chips.
'If only I'd known you were coming home today I'd have made a special steak and kidney pud for you,' Mum said, though she had no money left in her purse. The fridge was nearly empty.
The three of us went without the fry-up, making do with beans on toast.
Dad only picked at his meal, negotiating his way shakily round the plate with a fork. When he put it down he smiled at Mum. 'Lovely grub!'
he said.
Mum looked so happy she made me want to cry. Dad was now so tired he could barely hold his head up. He conceded t h a t he might be ready for a lie-down now.
It took almost an hour for Mum to help him 231
to the bathroom, get him undressed and into his pyjamas and lying down with a hot-water bottle. Grace and I weren't allowed to help during most of this performance, but we were summoned into the bedroom to say goodnight to Dad.
He looked much smaller in bed. Even his pyjamas seemed too big for him now, the sleeves flapping round his bony wrists. He nodded at Grace and me, and then held his cheek sideways in an oddly stiff way. We stood still for a moment, puzzled. Then Grace realized. She rushed forward and gave Dad a big kiss on the proffered cheek.
'Welcome home, Dad,' she said.
'Good girl, good girl,' he said.
I pecked at his cheek too.
'Good girl, good girl,' he repeated. 'Good – to
– be – home,' he added, and then he closed his eyes.
We tiptoed back into the living room. The three of us slumped in silence, wondering what on earth was going to happen now.
Dad's docile good humour didn't last. He woke early on Sunday and had the three of us running round all day long. He insisted t h a t we help him all the way downstairs to the shop and then got in a state because a few books had been moved around. He imagined some were missing, remembering books from years ago, insisting t h a t someone had stolen them out of the cabinet.
He bashed at t h e broken lock as if it had 232
happened yesterday and swore at Mum as if she was personally responsible.
'Useless! Useless!' he screeched at her.
She cooked him another fry-up for his lunch but this time he frowned at his plate, his good hand tipping it.
'What's this?' he said.
'It's one of my special mixed grills, Bernard,'
said Mum.
Dad sighed. 'Sunday! Where's . . . where's . . . ?'
It took him two m i n u t e s of struggling a n d thumping, the egg and bacon congealing on his plate. 'My – roast – beef – and – Yorkshire!' he said in a rush.
Mum sighed too. 'Bernard, we haven't been able to afford roast beef for years, you know that.
I'm sorry, I wish I could have made you a pie or a casserole, but I'm a bit short of housekeeping money just now.'
'Useless! Useless!' said Dad, as if poor Mum had been frittering it away on champagne and caviar.
'Mum isn't useless, Dad,' I said. 'She's done her very best since you've been ill, but we've got hardly any money left. There are all these scary letters saying they're going to send the bailiffs in. We're going to have to do something, work out a plan.'
'Rubbish!' said Dad.
'I'll show you the letters, Dad.'
'Let your dad eat his dinner first, Prudence,'
said Mum.
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'Don't want it,' Dad said petulantly, pushing his plate away.
'Then let us eat it. We're all starving hungry,'
I said.
Dad glared at my impudence. I showed him the sheaf of threatening letters. He held them at arm's length, barely glancing at them.
'Rubbish,' he repeated, and then he tried to tear them up. Luckily he was too fumbly to do more than rip the edge and crumple them. Mum gathered them all up anxiously.
'We can't just tear them up, Bernard,' she said.
'Prue's right, we can't just ignore things. We need a plan.'
'Rubbish!' said Dad. He said it again and again, embellishing it with his favourite swearword. Mum tried to soothe him but he told her she was useless.
When we'd finally got him to bed t h a t evening we were all exhausted. We hadn't dared bring up the most important thing of all – school.
'You should have let me tell him, Mum,' I said.
'But he was in such a dreadful state. He simply couldn't have borne it. I wonder if he's in a lot of pain with his bad arm and leg. Maybe that's why he's been so bad-tempered,' said Mum.
'You don't get pain if you have a stroke. His affected limbs just feel heavy, I'm sure.'
'Still, it must be awful for him,' Mum said.
'It's awful for us,' I said.
'What do you think he's going to say about school?' Grace said anxiously.
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The phone had gone twice today, one call from Figgy, one call from Iggy, but Mum had r u n to the phone and said Grace was too busy to talk.
'He's not going to like it, not at all, especially when he realizes it's Wentworth. He'll be so angry with me,' Mum said. 'But what was I to do? I couldn't risk getting prosecuted. What if they'd taken you girls into care? I never wanted you to end up at Wentworth, I tried going to Kingtown High, but they've got two hundred already on their waiting lists. Oh Prue, help me make your dad understand. Maybe you could say it was all your idea? Then he might accept it more willingly.'
'OK. But I don't think he's going to accept it at all,' I said.
'But we will keep going, won't we?' said Grace.
She pushed her hair back behind her ears, her chin jutting in the air. 'We have to keep going to Wentworth, Mum.'
'Do you really like it there, chickie?' said Mum.
'Well . . . it's OK. The lessons aren't quite as hard as I thought, and some of the teachers are kind. But it's Iggy and Figgy. They're my friends.' Grace's blue eyes filled with tears. 'I've never had proper friends before. They're just like t h e bestest friends in all the world. I couldn't bear it if I couldn't see them any more.'
Mum patted her h a n d comfortingly. 'What about you, Prudence? I expect you feel the same way about Toby.'
'Well . . .' I couldn't stop Mum thinking Toby 235
was my boyfriend. 'I have to stay at Wentworth too, Mum. I know you think it's had a bad effect on me but I know I'd argue back anyway, whether I went to Wentworth or not.'
'I know you're very good at arguing,' said Mum.
'I worry about you, Prue. I've no idea what goes on in that head of yours. I just want you to be happy, dear. If staying at Wentworth makes you happy then let's hope your dad sees reason.'
We all hoped Dad would sleep late so t h a t Grace and I could be off and out before he started shouting for attention. We'd heard poor Mum getting up with him to help him shuffle to the bathroom at least three times in the night.
But at half past seven he demanded another trip to the bathroom – and then asked to be bathed.
'Can't it wait till later, dear? The girls will need to use the bathroom soon.'
'Girls – can – wait!'
Grace and I h a d to go and use the dank outside loo in the back yard and then wash ourselves as best we could at the kitchen sink. r />
'Let's make a dash for school now,' I said. 'We'll get ourselves a sandwich and just clear off.'
We weren't quick enough. There was a commotion from u p s t a i r s . Dad h a d slipped getting out of the bath, and Mum couldn't get him up by herself.
'Girls! Girls, come here quickly!' she called.
'Pretend we haven't heard. We can still make a r u n for it,' I said.
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'But what if Mum can't budge Dad? He can't stay on the bathroom floor all day,' said Grace.
'OK, OK.'
We trudged upstairs. Mum was grappling with Dad. He'd wound a towel round himself like a nappy. He was trying to preserve his dignity but it made him look like a giant baby.
'Come on then, Dad,' I said, seizing him under the arms.
Mum hauled at his bottom half and Grace pushed and pulled at his midriff. Between us we got him to his feet, and then Mum wrapped his old plaid dressing gown round him.
'Phew! What a . . . what a . . . performance, '
said Dad as if it was all our fault. He breathed heavily, trying to compose himself.
'Sit down a minute, Bernard,' said Mum, steering him to the loo. She closed the seat and pushed him onto it.
'I'm fine, I'm fine,' he said, but he slumped sideways, his chin on his chest.
I caught Grace by t h e wrist and s t a r t e d tugging her out of the bathroom as
unobtrusively as possible. Dad looked up.
'You girls – early birds!' he said.
Then he focused on our clothes. He blinked.
'Green?' he said. He looked at me, he looked at Grace. 'Peas in pod!'
Grace giggled nervously. Mum sat down heavily on the edge of the bath. I stood still. We didn't say anything – but he suddenly got it.
'School!' he said. He said it softly first. Then 237
he drew breath. 'School? School? SCHOOL!' He was bellowing now, sweat standing out on his forehead.
'Oh Bernard, calm down! You know it's not good for you to get so worked up,' said Mum.
She tried to mop his brow with a flannel but he batted her away. He was trembling with fury.
'School?'
'I h a d to send them, dear. They were threatening us with prosecution, you know that.
I didn't have any alternative.'
'Rubbish!' said Dad. He was squinting at the motif on my blazer. 'Wentworth,' he read, rolling his eyes. 'Wentworth!'