God, woman. I’m surprised you’re not sautéed.’
‘Oh no, darling,’ she seemed to echo as if in another room, ‘there was the divinest of breezes with both doors open.’
‘So now I take it, we’re playing host to every airborne bug in Edingley. Charming.’
He slipped a hand inside his jacket and counted the steady, rhythmic beats of his life. Still he couldn’t be sure of this. Not with things in slo-mo as they were.
His wife smiled and he smiled back and thought: yes, I’m doing well here.
Tinkling out the pleasant refrain of the outer life with one hand.
Mutely thumping out the discordant base of the inner riot with the other.
He swallowed and forced himself to speak in what he considered was a sufficiently melodious manner.
‘Seen much of the Unspeakably Behaved today?’ he asked, tunefully he imagined.
‘What do you think?’
‘Well, it is half term. For some. At Imogen’s is she?’
Jennifer handed him the drink, looked hard at him and dragged a vicious hand back though her grey roots. He knew the gesture and raised an eyebrow. Still she said nothing, glaring at him all the while as if she were employing the sight of his face to seethe her anger up to the point of expression. She refocused on the carpet and spoke in rapid stabs.
‘Imogen, you say. You mean Imogen, whose mother I happened to bump into in the butcher’s today. Who, when I made a polite enquiry about our daughter, took great relish in informing me that they’d just, that very morning as it happened, received a divine postcard from Boston. Not Lincolnshire of course, she simpered over a pound of best mince, the other Boston, you know, the one just west of Ireland.’
‘Jennifer, my dear, I hate to say I told you so. But I did say at the time, do try and work on a boy. A lot less heartache. A lot less bloody …’
‘Well, I’m glad you can take it in your stride.’
‘Go on then. Theories?’
‘Chromosomally deficient, three.’
‘Boy? Man? Men? ERE?’
‘Beg pardon?’
‘Edingley Rugby Eleven?’
‘Yes, of course, Sherry. Flippancy, that’s the ticket. I … I …’ Jennifer rose, sniffed shamelessly and marched through the open doors of the conservatory. She paused to count something on her fingers, turned and said acidly, ‘Indian hemp, nine.’
Sheridan thought for a moment, then moaned, ‘C’mon, Jennifer. Now that is ridiculous.’
He felt his chest constrict.
She strode back in the living room and clutched the wings of his chair. Defiant of the odd gasp and sob, she declared that, sure as she stood here, she had smelled marijuana on Folucia’s clothes and in her room and in the bathroom. And there was no mistaking it. It was marijuana. Besides, was she or was she not, as each day passed, taking on the appearance of – she didn’t know, ‘One of those new age whatever-they’re called-s?’
Sheridan waited for his heartbeat to steady then calmly asked whether Jennifer had any further evidence. She told him that she wasn’t sure but perhaps she had noticed a sort of far away look in Folucia’s face of late. He reached back, rested both his hands on hers and smiled. He spoke slowly and possibly condescendingly.
‘I’ll wager my golf clubs against your aspidistra that the Unspeakably Behaved’s countenance comes courtesy of a chromosomally challenged, unspeakable whatsitsname; that the whatsitsname is in the singular, and that, in your olfactory ignorance, you are failing to appreciate the subtlest of all-the-rage perfumes, again courtesy of the whatsitsname. Opium or something. That’s a perfume, I believe. But, further evidence pending, I shall have a word with the suspect.’
‘Sherry, she lied to us.’
‘She’s fifteen, just done twelve rounds with puberty, she’s allowed the odd prevarication.’
‘Well, in my day the age of dissent was eighteen.’
‘And well worth the wait I dare say. But times change.’
‘Humph. Well, I hope you’re right, Sherry. Well, sort of. But you know how I loathe disturbances. Anyway, how was work today?’
‘Oh, expletive dash faecal matter, four.’
*
Coronary thrombosis, more commonly known as a heart attack is the result of a blood clot (thrombus) which impedes blood flow in one of the coronary arteries … Symptoms range from intense discomfort in the centre of the chest … shortness of breath … giddiness … cold sweat … occasionally loss of consciousness …
He raised a hand, lay it softly on his ribcage and swallowed the panic like a hard-boiled egg.
The book remained half open, suspended temporarily at an uncomfortable right angle. He found it mildly disconcerting – a taunting metaphor for his mortal limbo. He shook his leg and the volume shut with a damp thud.
Sheridan closed his eyes and inhaled several times, attempting to bridle the demented fission of his thoughts. Naturally the notion of the GP substantiating his suspicions was a horrifying one. But, he considered, once passed the forty mark the hoodwinking was quite certainly over. Any man believing he’s still in some way young after the watershed is either a coward or a fool. So, the GP it had to be. And by God, Sheridan Entwhistle would enter and leave that surgery with a smile. Even if a dry throated, thank you, sir, for flogging me, smirk was the limit of it.
He stood cautiously and timidly walked over to the bookcase. Again he raised a hand to his chest.
‘Eleven o’clock and all is well,’ he murmured to himself and slid the family health manual back into its gap. Sheridan smiled to himself. There could be no doubt that he was a brave man and it pleased him. But, as he turned to leave and join his wife upstairs, he was struck by a notion that pleased him even more.
Like hell, would he visit the GP! He’d imagine that it had never happened – and innocently notch up his life assurance. Then he’d think about seeing the bloody doctor. Now, that, Sheridan considered, was brave.
The unfortunate episode surfaced once more. He tucked it beneath the covers of his consciousness and went up to bed.
Yantra jerked open the doors of the Bedford and the clean chill of outside gushed in, rinsing away the curdled stench of sleep.
One of the bodies beneath the blankets moaned. It sounded human so he whispered, ‘Sorry,’ and clambered stiffly out of the van.
Loch Laggan was still black as dye and as yet he couldn’t detect any hills to the West. Perhaps he’d overshot. Or perhaps, as was common here, the Loch would wake a cauldron of steam and he’d miss everything.
He could make out what might have been a bush. But being
