Chapter Thirty-Five
Miranda
As soon as Miranda receives the call from the hotel telling her that Evelyn has been rushed to hospital in Argostoli following a suspected stroke, she abandons her lunch and runs out of the taverna. Two seconds later she has to run back in again in a total fluster, having remembered that she needs to pay. Once she’s belatedly settled up, she races to her hire car. Sorry, Poros, you look lovely, but not now, she thinks, her fingers shaking as she finds the hospital on her Maps app. She starts the engine, her mind taken up by thoughts of Evelyn, fragile and alone in a hospital bed. Is she going to be okay? Will she be well enough to finish her quest for Rose? Or, she wonders, her throat tightening, is that no longer an option?
‘Don’t you dare go and bloody die on me, Evelyn,’ she says aloud, and the words are so awful, they’re followed in the next second by an anguished sob. She won’t really die, will she? Not yet? For all that Miranda might have found the older woman annoying and overbearing at first, she has come to like her very much since then. Even yesterday, when Evelyn pushed her about Bonnie, it was the right thing, in hindsight; she was only trying to understand, to help.
‘Ididn’t even get to give you the full story,’ she says, her voice catching. ‘Ineed you to stay alive so that you can tell me what to do. Please stay alive, Evelyn. I’ll be there as soon as Ican.’
When she reaches Argostoli, the hospital, thankfully, is well signposted and easy to find. The parking gods must be on her side again too because, just as she arrives, a battered white Volvo reverses out of a nice big parking space, leaving it free for Miranda to claim. ‘Thanks, Tyche, thanks, Hermes,’ she mutters under her breath as she leaps out and locks the car. ‘Much obliged to you both.’ She wonders who the god of health is, because she could really do with sending them a heartfelt prayer of their own right now.
Inside the hospital she is directed to a ward. Evelyn is lying in bed, hooked up to a monitor, her eyes closed. For a moment Miranda doesn’t recognise her, because sleeping Evelyn is so different to the animated, vivacious woman of yesterday. Without her vibrant personality lighting up her face, she looks so small and weary. Old too. Miranda’s heart breaks a little to see that one side of her face has sagged noticeably downwards as a result of the stroke. Don’t worry, I’ll be dead soon, she hears Evelyn saying, matter-of-fact, in her head, and the thought chokes her up.
‘Well, not yet,’ she says under her breath, sitting down in the chair beside the bed and taking Evelyn’s gnarled hand in hers. ‘Not on my watch you don’t.’
She’s already spoken to one of the nurses, with the help of Google Translate on her phone, and learned that Evelyn’s stroke was a fairly sizeable one. ‘But she can still recover, yes?’ Miranda asked anxiously. The nurse, however, knew better than to give false hope. ‘We are making her comfortable,’ was the less-than-affirmative reply.
‘Hi,’ she says now, gently stroking the back of Evelyn’s hand with her thumb. For all that she has played the character of a hospital doctor for the last few years, Miranda has been fortunate enough not to spend much time in any real hospitals herself. It is strange to be present in an actual, functioning medical setting that isn’t merely a TV set filled with props. ‘How are you doing?’ she asks. ‘Ihope this isn’t all an elaborate ploy to get out of tomorrow’s road trip, Evelyn. You could have just said you were too busy or something.’
There’s no response from the other woman, and Miranda tries to reconcile herself with the fact that a response might no longer even be possible after what has happened. She knows that a stroke can damage the brain and cause long-term disability to a person. Evelyn may not be able to understand what she’s saying, even if she can hear her. If she comes round at all, she might not recognise Miranda– in fact, she might even feel alarmed to discover what she believes to be a stranger sitting beside her, holding her hand. Although– the words jog a memory from yesterday– she had said that she wanted someone to hold her hand as she died. Tears skid down Miranda’s cheeks as she thinks back to that innocent conversation they’d had, only twenty-four hours ago, little realising where they’d find themselves today.
‘Don’t die, Evelyn,’ she begs, clasping her fingers. ‘Imight be holding your hand but that’s not because I’m expecting you to die, all right?’ She swallows hard. ‘Please not yet.’
She hears a beep from a phone in the vicinity and notices that Evelyn’s handbag has been put in a nearby bedside cubby. Does that mean she was conscious when she was brought in and wanted her bag with her? Miranda frowns, worried about the safety of an elderly woman’s personal possessions being left unattended while she’s unconscious. The phone beeps again and she reaches down to retrieve it and sees a message from someone called Charles on the lock-screen. Evie, are you there? Let us know you’re okay, darling x ,
it says.
Miranda bites her lip, wondering what to do. Charles– is that Evelyn’s ex-husband? She’s sure she heard his name mentioned in one conversation or another. The fact that he’s calling Evelyn ‘darling’ and ‘Evie’, the fact that he sounds concerned about her, convinces Miranda that he’s someone who ought to know what has happened. If she can get into Evelyn’s phone, anyway. It’s locked, just the last message visible on screen, but she suddenly remembers Evelyn’s rubbish passcode– one-two-three-four– and types it in. She’s doing this for Evelyn’s sake, only, she tells herself as she opens the message thread between Evelyn and this Charles person. She’s not snooping, she’s merely—
Oh gosh. The thread consists of many photos, sent by Charles today, of Evelyn with another woman who Miranda is guessing must be Rose. Evelyn and Rose caught laughing at a private joke in someone’s sunny garden, their faces luminous with affection and humour. Evelyn and Rose, much younger, in bikinis on a beach– a British beach that is not super-hot by the looks of things, Miranda thinks with a smile, because Rose appears to be brandishing a Thermos flask like a trophy, and Evelyn has a tartan picnic blanket round her shoulders as a shawl. Ah, and there they are on their wedding day, or civil partnership, whatever it was called back then– the two of them in white dresses, flowers in their hair, looking at one another as if there is nobody else in the world.
By now Miranda has scrolled back far enough to see the message from Evelyn that must have prompted these pictures. Having a wobble. Do you think Rose really loved me? Please be honest. ‘Oh, Evelyn,’ she says aloud, devastated that the sleeping woman beside her could have wondered such a thing. ‘She adored you! Inever met her but Ican see it in every picture. She loved you so much. You two looked great together!’ Her voice trembles– she has perfected that voice-quaver as an actress, wheeling it out with ease for many emotional scenes over the years. She’s not acting now though.
She makes a note of Charles’s number, then calls him from her own phone. ‘Hello, Charles?’ she says when he answers. ‘My name’s Miranda. I’m sitting with your friend Evelyn in hospital– Isaw your name come up on her phone and thought—’
‘Good God,’ he interrupts. ‘Is she all right?’
‘She. . .’ How she would love to soften the truth, but she mustn’t. ‘No,’ she says after a moment. ‘Idon’t think she is. She’s had a stroke, and. . .’ She realises, too late, that she doesn’t have much factual knowledge she can give him. ‘I’m with her, but she’s asleep at the moment.’ Asleep or unconscious? She isn’t sure, but ‘asleep’ is definitely nicer to hear. ‘Ijust thought Ishould tell someone who knows her. Iwasn’t sure if she has any close family members who’d want to be informed, or. . .’
‘Couple of nephews,’ he says. ‘I’ll let them know. Thank you. This is very kind of you. You know, Ithought something odd was going on because she sent me the most peculiar message about– Well, it doesn’t matter. But it was very unlike her.’
‘Iwas with her all of yesterday– Iwas driving her around the island because she wanted to find somewhere to scatter what’s left of Rose’s ashes,’ Miranda tells him, the words pouring out. ‘She seemed absolutely fine then. Imean– a bit tired, and a wee bit emotional, but. . .’
‘Are you—’ He breaks off. ‘Sorry, Idon’t understand. Do you work at the hotel where she’s staying or are you a friend from London?’
‘Neither. I’m staying at the same hotel as Evelyn and. . .’ Miranda glances over at her, feeling a rush of affection. ‘She was kind to me. Befriended me. Sweet-talked me into being her chauffeur for yesterday, too. Not that Iminded.’ She dashes the tears away with the back of her hand. ‘I’ve only just met her really, but already Ifeel like I’d do anything for her, if you know what Imean.’
‘Ido know what you mean.’ She hears the emotion in his gruff voice, then; the reality is catching up on him. ‘Well– leave it with me. I’ll contact the nephews in case they want to fly out there. Iwould come over myself but I’m recovering from an op, unfortunately. Hip replacement last week. But tell her we all love her, won’t you? Me, Hazel and the boys– we all think the world of her. And we hope she’s going to be okay. But. . .’ His voice really cracks then. ‘But if she’s not, would you be so kind as to let me know?’
‘Of course Iwill,’ Miranda says. ‘Whatever happens, I’ll keep you posted.’
She hangs up and, as she slides Evelyn’s phone back into her bag, she hears a rustle and feels a plastic bag against her fingers. ‘Rose, is that you?’ she finds herself asking, then shakes her head at her own question. Talking to a plastic bag is possibly a new low. But then a whole other question occurs to her. What will become of Rose’s ashes if Evelyn. . . if Evelyn is unable to scatter them? Should Miranda do that for her? ‘Iwill, if it’s going to be too much for you,’ she whispers. ‘A promise is a promise, right? I’ll find the perfect spot for her, don’t you worry about that.’
Evelyn lets out a little moan, smacking her lips together, then moves her head on the pillow. ‘Are you okay?’ Miranda asks her. ‘It’s me, Miranda. I’m right here with you, Evelyn.’ In the next moment, she remembers what Evelyn had said about her basic death list; that she had wanted to hear a particular piece of music playing as she slipped away. Was it Bach? Whether she’s dying or not, maybe Miranda should put it on for her anyway; it might be soothing. She remembers hearing a radio programme about the astonishing effects music can have on people with damaged cognitive function, how it can reach a part of them when language has become unavailable.
Miranda doesn’t know anything about classical music; she’s the sort of pleb who only recognises famous pieces if they’ve been on adverts. But Evelyn definitely mentioned a specific piece– a concerto, Miranda thinks– and, although she can’t remember it off the top of her head, she might do, given a prompt. She quickly Googles ‘Bach concerto’ on her phone and scans the results that appear. Concerto For Two Violins, no, it wasn’t that. Concerto in A Minor– nope. Harpsichord Concerto in D– definitely not. Bloody hell, how many did he write? Brandenburg Concerto, she reads next, and a tiny synapse flashes in her brain. That was it. Although– oh, help– there are loads of Brandenburg Concertos, she realises. Typical. ‘Which one do you like best, Evelyn?’ she asks. ‘Send me a telepathic message if you can.’ No telepathic message comes but she goes for number three. They might be here long enough that they get to hear all of them, let’s face it, she figures, setting the music playing quietly from her phone.
It’s like magic. Barely have the first few notes sounded than Evelyn’s eyelashes flicker as if she’s surfacing from a dream, and then her eyes open fully. She stares at Miranda, looking bewildered.
‘Hi,’ Miranda says softly. ‘Hi, Evelyn. You’re in hospital. You’ve had a stroke.’ There’s no immediate response. Is Evelyn making any sense of this? she wonders dolefully. She gives her hand the tiniest of squeezes. ‘I’m Miranda, I’m staying at the same hotel as you. In Kefalonia. And—’ Her voice cracks a little. ‘And it’s nice to see you awake again.’ She presses her lips together, trying to regain control of herself. ‘Although– well, Iturn my back on you for five minutes, and you go and end up in here.’ She’s trying to be light-hearted but Evelyn still just looks confused. ‘I’m joking,’ she says. ‘Sorry. How are you feeling?’
Evelyn’s mouth scrunches up as if she’s trying to say something. Her eyes flick to Miranda’s phone on the bedside table, playing Bach, and then back up to Miranda.
‘Ihope Igot the right one,’ Miranda says. ‘Icouldn’t remember exactly what you said, so Iwent for number three. But Ican put on a different one if you. . .’
A rusty sound comes from Evelyn’s mouth. Her whole face is screwed up with the effort. ‘Vi. . .’ she says after a moment. ‘Dar. . .’
Miranda has absolutely no idea what she’s saying but doesn’t want to discourage her. ‘Are you trying to say “five”?’ she wonders aloud. ‘You want Concerto Number Five?’
A tiny shake of the head. Evelyn gives it another go. ‘ Vi ,’ she says again, ‘DAR.’ There’s frustration in her eyes that it’s so difficult to communicate. ‘Car-uh. Re-or.’
Car-uh. Re-or. Miranda’s brain works frantically. She’s desperate to understand. ‘Karma?’ she guesses, taking a leap into the darkness. ‘Are we talking about karma again?’
Evelyn nods. Yes! her eyes say, the relief of connection apparent. ‘Vi dar,’ she repeats.
Then Miranda gets it. ‘Five stars,’ she says, not sure whether she’s closer to laughing or crying. How she loves this woman. ‘Five stars on my karma report– is that what you’re saying? You’re signing me off, are you? I’ve passed?’
Evelyn nods again. ‘Passed,’ she agrees, her voice thick and sibilant. Then she shuts her eyes, breathing heavily as if the exertion has worn her out.
Tears roll down Miranda’s cheeks. ‘Thank you, Evelyn,’ she says. ‘You’re a legend. You’re the absolute best.’