The
Quick Shop bell. She’d heard it since the age of twelve. A pop in for crisps,
coke and a chat with Mr. Dennison, then pick up a bottle of voddie or southern
comfort before leaving. A complicit understanding negated any questions on Mr.
Dennison’s part. It’s for Sheila. Everybody knew it was for Sheila. The words
burst forth. ‘I might just as well have poured the vodka down her throat.’
Dr.
Kamat allowed the silence to hang. ‘Miss Hutchens...’
Nancy’s
vision finally blurred over. ‘I took the coward’s way out. I didn’t do
anything. I just sat by and let it happen.’
‘We
will do all we can,’ Dr. Kamat tried to assure. ‘I will leave you to speak with
her now.’
Nancy
allowed Dr. Kamat to lead her to the head of the ward where he nodded before
departing.
Nancy
parted the curtained cubicle to encounter one pervading colour: beige. Sheila’s
peroxide hair wilted over her jaundiced face. Without her makeup, Sheila’s eyes
looked small. Beneath the bed sheets, Nancy spotted a swollen ankle and a dressing.
All beige. Nancy shifted her eyes away.
Sheila
beckoned at Nancy. ‘Hi’ Babe, comer over ‘ere.’
Nancy
was reluctant to do so. Sheila seemed perky considering what had happened. She
was enjoying the attention. She seemed almost childlike. ‘Come on, Nance,’ she
persisted. ‘You don’t have to stand there like that. Come ‘ere.’
Nancy
stepped over. A faint blend of malt whisky and disinfectant wafted over her.
Sheila encircled Nancy within a profusion of squeezing, patting and sloppy
kisses. A seldom occurrence, the exchange was awkward. Nancy emerged feeling
robbed somehow. The embrace was not for Nancy but her mother. Sheila breathed
the words onto Nancy’s cheek. ‘You know I love ya, don’t ya?’
The
sentiment needled. Love. The word
only seemed to emerge at times like these. Nancy pulled away. ‘You’re still
pissed.’
Sheila
put on her self-pity. ‘Don’t be mean.’
‘You’re
still pissed. You only speak that way when you’ve had a few.’
Sheila
withdrew her arms and crossed them over her chest. ‘Well done, Nancy, you’ve
just spoiled the moment, like you always do. Go over there, then. Go on. Sulk.
I don’t care.’
A
sour lump pulsed in Nancy’s throat. ‘Stop it, Mum.’
But
Sheila was done with Nancy for now, waving her off. ‘You’re forever sulking at
me from the doorway like you’re…you’re eavesdropping or somethin’.’ Nancy
watched her mother turn away, her croak dipping to a grumble. ‘I don’t know
what the fuck you want from me anyways.’
A
monitor bleeped somewhere. Nancy picked up her bag. ‘I’ll come by tomorrow,’
she said staunchly. The sour lump continued to pulse. ‘I’ll bring some mags and
chocs, Okay, Mum?’
Sheila
didn’t reply.
On
exiting the ward, Nancy saw Neil and Alexis pushing the doors open. Alexis
clutched a showy bunch of roses. Neil carried a bright pink envelope. They
didn’t see her. Nancy took the stairs to avoid crossing paths. She took a quiet
route from the hospital back to Bedworth. She turned off Eaton Street and
cruised past the Glebe Hollow shops. She then pulled up behind the Hatchet Inn.
The
tavern typified many in the area. A particularly dour example of a prewar brick
building with a sagging roof, Glebe Hollow’s meeting place had a shallow profile,
being only twenty feet or so deep. Edwardian cornices had since crumbled and an
upstairs window had been boarded up. Nancy had not stepped inside since the age
of eighteen. Sheila had spent more of her waking hours in there than anywhere
else.
