Chapter 13
BECKETT
‘Hey, how was the lunch date?’
Beckett stopped dead. He hadn’t intentionally overheard Sofia’s surreptitious comment to Mary from the other side of a pillar, but he absolutely waited to earwig the answer.
Mary had a tiny baby. Who had a father somewhere. Whatever had happened to her, it couldn’t have been good. The last thing she needed was a date.
‘Are you joking? The last thing I need right now is a date.’
He released a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, nodding in agreement, even while his heart sagged with disappointment.
Although, depending upon Mary’s circumstances in the future, it didn’t mean there couldn’t ever be a date. In the meantime, Beckett was more grateful than he would have thought possible to have her as a friend.
‘Oh, you know what I mean. Did you enjoy the market?’
He really should move away.
‘Oh. Oh, Mary. I’m sorry. Come here.’
He did move, then, at the same moment Sofia started ushering Mary to one of the sofas, so their paths crossed anyway.
‘Hey,’ he stammered, resisting the urge to flick Sofia’s arm off Mary’s shoulder and replace it with his. ‘Is everything okay?’
Clearly not, but it would have been wrong to ignore the tears on his friend’s face.
‘Yes, honestly. Yes. I cried earlier this week when Bob’s umbilical cord fell off. I’ve become a person who gets emotional about a dried-up scab.’ Mary gave a weak laugh. ‘I don’t even know if I’m crying because I had such a nice lunch, or, well, because…’
‘Because I made a tactless comment?’ Sofia shook her head. ‘I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t joke about things that are none of my business. Sometimes my natural curiosity bulldozes through the line into intrusive. I’m sorry.’
‘No, it’s fine. Like I said, I’m overreacting.’
Beckett’s glow at Mary’s lunch comment was severely tempered by how upset she was at the thought of it being a date. Irritated, he could deal with. Incredulous, even. But upset ? He couldn’t begin to process what that meant. Apart from that he’d never ask her out, ever.
At that moment, Gramps called from one of the other sofas, asking if they’d finished yakking and could they take him home before he missed Tipping Point , causing Mary to briskly wipe her face, stick on a smile and give Sofia a quick hug before turning to Gramps.
‘Have you enjoyed yourself?’ she asked.
Beckett braced himself for the answer.
‘He had a whale of a time!’ Bill said, pausing as he strolled past.
Gramps huffed. ‘Maybe a small fish of a time. A minnow. Or a sea slug.’
‘Okay, so next week shall we aim for a seal, or a small walrus?’ Bill asked, his grave tone betrayed by the glint in his eyes.
‘I have to do this again?’
‘Excuse me?’ Bill pulled his head back, affronted. ‘You promised me a rematch.’
Gramps looked smug. ‘Sucker for punishment, this one. Fair enough. Same time next week. No cabbage.’
As Gramps insisted on heaving himself up, then started shuffling with Mary towards the foyer, Beckett waited behind in a daze.
He’d tried a day centre, back when Gramps first came home from the rehabilitation place.
The plan that the healthcare team had come up with included Gramps attending various groups on top of his physiotherapy.
He had either refused to go back after one visit, or made sure he wasn’t welcome.
‘I don’t suppose you do any home-care work?’ Beckett asked Bill, before he could move on.
Bill raised his eyebrows. ‘Only at my own. Our lass has moved in with three kiddies while her sailor’s on deployment. Believe it or not, I’ve come here for a break.’
‘Do you think anyone here could recommend someone?’
He looked thoughtful. ‘I’ll ask around, let you know.’
‘Thank you. I’d appreciate it.’
Since the initial support from the recovery healthcare team had tailed off, Beckett had been navigating the social-care system alone, an organisation he’d come to view as a behemoth as frail and infirm as most of its older service users.
Endless waiting for appointments with people who simply shunted them onto another waiting list. Wrangling with forms and files, policies and procedures.
Trying to get his grandfather seen as a person, not a problem.
Tanya had been an ally of sorts, at least before she’d grown sick and tired of Beckett taking her for granted.
She at least knew the system and in the initial days had offered sympathy and the occasional word of advice.
Now, he was forced to yet again entrust Gramps to a stranger, and he’d seen how badly that could turn out enough times to be losing sleep over it.
To have something as simple as a recommendation, to know someone who could offer one.
Beckett appreciated that in the way only a man with no friends or family could.
* * *
Once back in Bigley, Gramps immediately fell asleep in front of the television, so Beckett made coffee and Mary started to wade through the boxes of material and costumes. This rapidly became a game of ‘guess the plot’ as they pulled out increasingly baffling outfits.
‘Okay, so this banana hates Christmas. He’s fed up with it being all about the clementines and sultanas, the cranberries rubbing their big moment in all the other fruits’ faces. Barnie’s being rude and – yes, obviously that’s the banana’s name, what would you call him?’
Beckett pulled an impressively serious face. ‘It’s not about me. What would the Christmas Day Twins call him?’
‘Barnie, actually.’ Mary gave a smug nod, dropping the banana costume and holding another one up against her. ‘So, he’s sulking in the bowl when everyone else’s gone carolling, and suddenly the magical Christmas Eve toad appears.’
‘A magical Christmas toad?’
‘ The magical Christmas Eve toad!’ Mary’s eyes, looking more grey than blue today, became round. ‘Please don’t tell me Gramps never told you about her?’
‘It’s a her?’ Beckett furrowed his eyebrows. ‘Toads are always male.’
‘Then how do we get toad tadpoles?’
‘In stories, I mean.’
‘Not to the millions of children who have grown up enthralled by tales of the magical Christmas Eve toad. Susan, to her friends, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘So, anyway, Sue gives the old pep talk, Christmas spirit, let poor Russell the Brussel enjoy his chance to shine, everyone hates him the rest of the year, blah blah blah, when suddenly, up pops the evil Boxing Day… um, let’s call it a saxophone?’
* * *
Once Bob’s cries interrupted the silliness, Beckett sorted the costumes and fabrics by colour and packed them back up while Mary fed him.
Beckett had to work hard at not grinning like a chump the whole time.
He wanted to ask if they’d stay for dinner, but that felt too much, on top of lunch and everything else.
The ‘date’ comment was still ringing in his ears.
Besides, Gramps had woken from his nap extra antagonistic and foul-mouthed.
As understanding as Mary might be, Beckett didn’t want to risk Gramps ruining what had been the best day – for both him and Gramps – in such a long time.
He arranged to pick her up on Sunday for the first carol-concert rehearsal, where Mary could measure the cast for costume sizes, and by which time she’d hopefully have come up with some basic ideas so she knew what to measure for (three days felt like an age away).
Beckett then called a taxi, seeing as getting Gramps back in the car would take more time and effort than any of them had the energy for.
‘Thank you,’ Mary said, giving his wrist a quick squeeze as Jakob, probably the only other Sherwood Taxis driver he’d trust, pulled up.
Her thumb skimmed the bare skin at the edge of his hoodie sleeve, sparking a cascade of memories from the day they’d met, swiftly followed by that almost primal urge to protect her.
‘I haven’t laughed that much in… well, since moving here, for sure. ’
‘I’m still crushed at how mercilessly you mocked Monsieur Peppercorn. Please don’t bring it up again.’
‘Oh. But I will. It’s my new favourite festive tradition. From now on, Christmas won’t be Christmas until I’ve seen you squeezed into those peachy bloomers.’
Beckett ducked his head, his arm feeling bereft as she let go and grabbed the pram handle. His heart fizzing like a Catherine wheel. If he unzipped his hoodie, she’d be able to see it glowing through his T-shirt.
From now on. He couldn’t quite believe Mary was here this Christmas, let alone dare to imagine she might be part of his future.
He’d wear those damn bloomers every day if it meant he got to see her smile.
* * *
On Friday afternoon, Beckett met with the registered manager from a local domiciliary care company. He wasn’t sure whether them being available at such short notice was a good sign or not.
It didn’t take long to find out.
‘Howdy! Meryl Maverick at your service, sir.’ The fortyish woman standing on his doorstep looked as though she’d been rifling through the New Life Christmas costume boxes.
Wearing jeans that were more rip than denim, a paisley shirt and tan suede waistcoat covered in fringes that swayed distractingly as she talked, she tipped back a black felt hat and winked, only a couple of inches smaller than him in her high-heeled boots.
‘Let’s get this show on the road,’ she added, in a broad West Country accent.
They initially sat in the kitchen, so they could chat without Gramps interrupting.
‘So, how many carers do you have?’ Beckett asked once he’d made them both a drink and Meryl had removed her hat to reveal what was surely one of Dolly Parton’s retired wigs.
‘Currently, it’s me and Tiger. Had a little issue with our sub-team. Those two were health and safety mad! Always droning on about risk assessments and “following correct procedures”.’ She screwed up her face and used a sneery voice while mimicking the sub-team.
‘What a waste of blinking time that could and should be spent cheering up the poor biddies we’re here to help.
Honestly! Health and safety. Boring and boringer, I call it.
What happened to plain old common sense, I ask you?
Didn’t have all this nonsense when my gran was around, and she lived to be seventy-seven!
Imagine if some NHS boffin had insisted upon risk assessments back when the Wild West was being won.
They’d still be stuck in the east, arguing about slips, trips and falls. ’
Beckett managed a polite smile.
‘How do you cover holidays and time off sick, with only two of you? I’ll be out working, so it has to be reliable.’
‘Oh, that’s not a problem. My Barry’ll step in if we’re desperate.’
‘He’s trained in domiciliary care?’
‘Well, he helped out with Gran often enough, and I’ve already told you how long she hung on in there for.’ She did a laugh-snort that sounded so like a horse Beckett almost choked on his coffee.
‘So, he isn’t trained?’
‘To be honest, I wouldn’t worry about it. Tiger usually covers my hols.’
‘How many service users do you have at the moment? I did explain on the phone that I’m looking for at least thirty hours a week.’
‘That’s not a problemo, Mr Beckett.’
‘Dr Bywater.’ Beckett couldn’t remember playing the doctor card before, but this felt like as good a moment as any to start.
‘Right. Apologies.’
‘Service users?’
‘Look, I can cover as many hours as you like. Well. Obviously we all have to sleep at some point! I wouldn’t mind the odd trip to the saloon for a little line dance.’ More snorting.
‘Are you saying that currently you don’t have any other clients?’
‘Well, like I said. We had a whole thing with the sub-team. Spreading misinformation. Fearmongering. All cleared up now, of course. The police have said they want nothing more to do with it.’
‘Yeah. I think that’s all I need to know for now. Thanks, Meryl.’
‘Er, that’ll be Dr Mav to you,’ she said, firmly sticking her hat back on.
‘You’re a doctor?’
‘I can be anything you want me to be, sunshine.’ This would have sounded alarmingly inappropriate, except that she growled it, as if pretending to be a baddie from an old western.
Beckett stood up. If Gramps woke up before she left, he dreaded to think what would happen.
‘No, seriously, though. It’s probably best if I meet the old fella before we agree on a start date.’
Beckett opened the kitchen door. ‘This way.’
He then led her straight to the front door and opened that one, too.
‘Bye, Dr Mav.’
‘But… what? I haven’t met your grandpa yet.’
‘That won’t be happening. Today, or ever.’ He moved forward, forcing her to step backwards over the doorstep. ‘Putting it bluntly, Ms Maverick, this ain’t my first rodeo. No way on earth I’m letting a cowboy like you near my grandfather. Whose name, by the way, is Mr Bywater.’
Beckett slammed the door so hard Gramps woke up.
When he retold the meeting to Mary, later that evening, she laughed so much she snorted louder than Dr Mav had.
Something else Beckett had forgotten from his medical, sociable days – sharing a dreadful story with a safe person will usually reveal the humour hidden below the horror.
Panning for gold, as not-doctor Meryl Maverick might say.