Chapter 40
HAL
Monsieur Noakes! Monsieur Noakes!
I look up, confused, to see a man’s face just inches from my own. My head aches, my throat is dry and sore, and I have absolutely no idea where I am.
He grins, fires off something in rapid French, then disappears from view. I’m just about to try to sit up, when another guy begins to wheel the contraption I’m on through a set of double doors. And I’m on the move.
I’m in a hospital.
Then I remember, the back of the Mercedes drawing closer and closer. My sudden turn of the wheel. There was an accident. A sudden, awful thought. ‘Is everyone else OK?’ I ask.
He says something in French with a shrug. In my frazzled state and with my very limited French, I’m not exactly sure what he’s talking about. But his body language tells me either that he doesn’t know or that he doesn’t understand English.
I try to sit up, leaning on my elbows. It’s painful, but just about possible.
‘Non, monsieur,’ a voice says, and someone gently pushes me back down.
Then I’m in a room, not entirely sure how I got there. There’s a woman writing something down from a monitor. ‘Hello?’ I say weakly.
‘Oui, hello, monsieur,’ she says, coming over to the bed, her smile wide.
‘What happened?’
‘You were in an accident, monsieur.’
Well duh! I want to say. ‘Yes, but is everyone all right?’
‘You were very lucky,’ she tells me. ‘It could have been much worse.’
‘But…’ I say, weakly, trying to find the words in my foggy brain to ask her DID I HIT THE OTHER CAR?
‘Your wife is here,’ she says. ‘She is coming up shortly, I think.’
‘I don’t…’ I begin. Then it hits me that the only person they could possibly mistake for being my wife is Sarah. And if it’s her, if she’s here and coming up, then she must be OK.
By the time that particular penny has dropped, she’s gone in any case, and I lay my head back on the pillow.
I’m experiencing a curious mix of dizziness and adrenaline.
Part of my brain is urging me to leap from the bed and run out of this place; the other part is urging me to lie still, close my eyes.
I’m agitated, but clearly on some sort of medication too.
I notice, for the first time, that there’s a needle going into my arm, and an IV bag hanging by the bed. I wonder what I’m being given.
I’ve closed my eyes again, so when a hand touches my arm, it makes me jump.
‘Sorry! Sorry.’
I open my eyes to see Sarah there, her face pinched and worried, a little like she’s been crying. I suddenly hate myself for doing this. What was I thinking? That I’d race up to her like some sort of white knight on a very rusty steed and sweep her up into my arms.
No matter what I do, how I feel, all I seem to bring that woman is grief.
‘Thank God you’re OK,’ I croak.
Her brows knit together. ‘What are you talking about? It’s you who… You were in an accident, Hal, don’t you remember?’
‘Yes, I do. I just… I couldn’t remember all of it. I wasn’t sure… did I hit your car?’
‘No. No, you swerved.’
Thank God. I close my eyes for a moment, relieved that the only person I hurt, physically at least, is myself.
‘But Hal, I do have some difficult news,’ she says, taking my hand.
I try to work out what that could be. The only person in that crash whom I care about is her and she is clearly OK, physically at least.
‘What?’
‘It’s Betty,’ she says. ‘She didn’t make it.’ She looks at me with such tender concern that I’m not sure how to react.
I mean, I do love that camper. I have worked on her lovingly and given her a name.
And she’s taken me on many adventures. But moments ago, I wasn’t sure if Sarah was OK, if her driver was OK.
I thought I might have hurt a human, hurt someone I loved.
I was fond of the old rattle-bag, but I do still have perspective.
‘It’s fine,’ I tell her, and her face relaxes.
‘Thank God. I was terrified of telling you.’
‘You never have to be terrified of telling me anything,’ I say, my voice feeling more natural, although the back of my throat is still stiff and sore.
She opens her mouth for a second as if she’s going to say something. But then she shakes her head, almost imperceptibly.
‘I’ve told Vivian. And I tried to ring Louis, but he didn’t answer,’ she says.
‘Oh no. Don’t tell Louis. I’m OK. I want him to have a good break. It’s his honeymoon.’
‘You’re his dad.’
‘Yeah, and whatever is bruised or broken will still probably be bruised and broken in a few days when he’s home.’
She nods. ‘OK, if you’re sure.’
We’re silent for a moment, then I ask her. ‘So what exactly is bruised or broken? I mean, how bad is it? I know I had surgery but…’
‘They haven’t spoken to you?’
‘They might have. I’m a bit—’ I twirl my finger in the air to indicate both dizziness and borderline lunacy.
She laughs. ‘Well, at least that hasn’t changed.’
‘Hey, aren’t you meant to be nice to me? I could have died!’ I quip. Her face contorts and I’m suddenly sick of myself again. ‘Sorry.’
‘No, it’s OK. It’s good you can joke,’ she says, giving me a watery and not-quite-convincing smile. ‘It’s just when you rolled down that bank, and you were unconscious… well, I just didn’t know how it was going to end.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Why were you chasing us, anyway?’
I swallow. ‘You know, I can’t remember.’
‘It must have been something important.’
I lift a finger and brush a little hair from her forehead. ‘Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter now. I’m sorry. It must have been so traumatic for you.’
‘I’ll survive.’
We fall silent and I can hear the sounds of the hospital beyond the room, the wheels of trolleys or beds being manoeuvred from one place to another. Distant voices.
‘It’s your leg,’ she says at last.
‘My leg?’
‘Yeah. You were lucky, they said. Minor concussion. But a bad break; a problem with blood supply that they had to correct with surgery. There was a chance… well, as I said, you were lucky. I think they put a metal plate in it. But it’s going to be OK.’
I am aware for the first time that my leg is encased in a thick plaster cast, raised on a pillow. How did I not notice that before? I look at the rest of my body where it’s exposed – my arms, my other foot. There are bruises, scratches but everything else seems reasonably OK.
I let out a single ‘Ha!’
‘What?’ she says, leaning forward.
‘We’re matching now. Twins,’ I say. My voice sounds slightly raspy and I cough to right it.
‘Not quite. You got the fancy plaster cast. I’m stuck with this stupid boot.’
‘I like the boot. You know. Much more modern than that white plaster stuff.’
She laughs. ‘Do you want me to autograph it?’
‘I’ll be the envy of the ward.’ We smile at each other, then she breaks away, glances at my leg briefly then down at her lap.
‘Did they say when I’d be able to get out of here?’
She looks doubtful. ‘I reckon it’ll be a few days.’
‘Yeah.’ I study my cast. My toenails, I realise, could have done with a clip a few days ago.
‘I’m going to get a hotel nearby.’
‘Don’t do that.’
She looks confused. ‘Why not?’
‘Just… you should go. Go home, get on with your life. I’ll be OK.’ It sounds so forlorn when I say it that I try to follow it with a wide smile.
Clearly my wide smile looks borderline alarming as she makes a face. ‘Are you feeling OK?’
‘Yes. Sorry. It’s just… I really, really appreciate that you want to do that.
But I feel as if I’ve taken you away from your life for far too long already.
That stupid journey, all those stops. Putting you in hospital.
Then trying to… thinking you were travelling back with me.
As if you’d want to do that! Now, this. You should be home by now. ’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘But I do! I feel bad enough having messed myself up like this. I don’t want to mess your life up too, Sarah.’
‘You’re being ridiculous.’
‘I’m not. Think about it. I interrupted your life back then… you know, with the pregnancy and everything…’
‘But Louis—’
‘I know. It’s turned out amazingly and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
All those things. But the fact of the matter is that your life was on a brilliant course and I wrecked it.
Then I probably made things harder over the years by not…
I just didn’t realise how much more I could have done before it was too late.
And now I’ve stopped you getting back to your job. It’s too much.’
Sarah looks as if she’s about to cry, which makes me feel even more wretched. Even more sorry for her. Even more sorry for myself.
‘Hal, that’s ridiculous. You haven’t wrecked anything… well, except Betty. We all do things that affect other people. If anything, a lot of it is my fault. I didn’t ask for more help with Louis. I let Mum scare you off.’
‘Yeah, but what sort of man—’
‘Hal, you were just a boy back then. And Mum was… is… Believe me, mightier men have fallen.’ She grins.
I laugh, in spite of myself. ‘Well, that’s probably true.’
‘Of course it is. And you know, everything that happened with the journey, my leg. I asked you to take me. I didn’t have to.
I could have taken the train. Or hired a chauffeur I guess – although that never would have occurred to me before Mum…
Plus, I didn’t tell you I was feeling sick. A lot of this rests on me too.’
Our eyes meet. We smile. There’s real affection there. She means it. But somehow it makes me feel even worse.
‘Even so,’ I say. ‘You’d be better off going.
I can take it from here. I promise. And honestly, if it makes you feel any better, I’m going to ask them to discharge me as soon as humanly possible.
I can get treatment back in England. As soon as I’m safe to travel, I’ll…
well, do you know how your mum hired that Mercedes? Because that might be the best option.’
‘If they let any of us near their company again!’ she says jokily. ‘That chauffeur got more than he bargained for.’
‘Ha. Good point. Well, yes, fingers crossed.’
‘I’m not going, you know, Hal. I’m staying,’ she says. ‘You’d do the same, and don’t pretend you wouldn’t.’
I would, too. But this woman has wasted too many years on ridiculous, clumsy, unlucky me. ‘Not sure I would,’ I tell her, feeling sick at my own words. ‘You know. We’re not… together. We’re barely friends, really. I mean, I care about you, obviously. But we both have lives apart from each other.’
She’s welling up now and I hate myself even more. But at least it gives me the impetus to say what I’m going to have to say.
‘I don’t want you to stay, Sarah. I’m fine. Really. Please, do me a favour and just go home.’
She fixes her eyes on my face, her pupils darting rapidly, studying my expression, maybe looking for signs that I’m joking or lying or that I’m going to say something more, take back my words. But when our eyes meet, I hold her gaze.
So she nods. ‘OK,’ she says, her voice quiet, slightly wobbly. ‘OK. So… I’d better go.’
I nod back, not trusting myself to speak. Instead, I close my eyes.
When I open them, I’m alone.