She turned to face him. ‘I’ve made a vegetarian cottage pie,’ she said, pleased he was regaining his appetite. This dish had become one of his favourites and she’d put time and effort into making it. ‘Eloise is coming as soon as she can dismiss her class.’ Eloise was a primary-school teacher at a school not far from where she lived with her parents – about an hour away.
‘Any chance of some meat?’ Jacob asked. ‘I really fancy some tonight.’
‘Well, yes, if that’s what you prefer,’ his mother said, surprised. ‘I’ve got some steak in the freezer. I’ll take it out as soon as we get home.’
‘Count me in,’ his father said chummily, glancing at his son in the rear-view mirror. Neither of them were vegetarians except when Eloise joined them for a meal. Jacob knew that given a choice his father would much rather have meat than Quorn or soya beans any day. He threw him a conspiratorial wink in the mirror.
‘Oh Jesus!’ Jacob exclaimed as the rectory came into view. A large Welcome Home bunting was draped across the front of the house and bunches of balloons festooned the porch. ‘Did you have to?’
‘It was your mother’s idea,’ his father said, ignoring the blasphemy. They only used Jesus Christ’s name with reverence.
‘We can soon take it down,’ Elizabeth said, feeling a little hurt. She’d wanted everything to be perfect for his homecoming. ‘I thought you’d like it.’
‘Suit yourself,’ he said with a shrug.
Clearly they were going to have to continue to make allowances during his convalescence. It was almost impossible to imagine how frustrating it must be for a lad of Jacob’s age to have to deal with chronic illness and then a major operation. But at least now he was home, and with time, patience and understanding, nature would do the rest. Allow at least six months, the surgeon had said, then gradually life will return to normal.
Mitsy, having heard the car draw up, was now barking furiously on the other side of the front door.
‘She’ll be pleased to see you,’ Jacob’s father said as he finished parking.
‘But remember not to let her lick your face,’ his mother warned. ‘And to wash your hands after stroking her.’
Jacob nodded. More guidelines from the dos and don’ts list to reduce the risk of infection.
His parents carried his bags into the house and Mitsy was immediately at his feet, panting and wagging her tail excitedly. Jacob automatically bent to stroke her and as he did so felt a sharp jabbing pain in his chest. He straightened. It was his own fault; he’d been warned to avoid sudden movements until his breastbone was fully healed. Leaving the dog, he went over and sat in one of the armchairs by the fireside. Another Welcome Home banner hung from the mantelpiece with more bunches of balloons either side. They’d certainly gone to town, he thought, and with a niggle of guilt wondered if he shouldn’t have been more grateful. His mother was now in the kitchen sorting out his medication. She meant well.
‘I’ll take these to your room,’ his father said, picking up his case and rucksack.
Jacob stifled a sigh of frustration, resenting his dependence on them. He watched the fire for a few moments, unsure of what he should be doing now he was home. It felt strange, after all those weeks in hospital. ‘I’m going to my room for a while,’ he said at last.
‘Yes, of course,’ his mother said, stepping in from the kitchen. ‘You’re bound to feel tired to begin with. I’ll bring up your tablets. Would you like a snack and a drink to see you through to dinner?’
‘Just a drink,’ he replied, heaving himself to his feet.
‘Tea, fruit juice, milk? What would you like?’
‘A beer,’ he replied.
She laughed; they both knew he was joking for he wasn’t allowed alcohol, as it would reduced the effectiveness of his medication. ‘Just as well you weren’t a drinker,’ she said. ‘At least you won’t miss that.’
Upstairs, he found his father unpacking his case.
‘Leave that, Dad, I can do it,’ he said.
His father hesitated. ‘OK, but don’t overdo it, son. You know what the doctor said.’
‘I won’t.’
They looked at each other awkwardly for a moment, not knowing quite what to say or do, then his father cleared his throat. ‘Well, if you’re all right for a couple of hours I’ve got some parish business to attend to.’
‘Yes. Go. Do what you normally do. Mum’s here if I need anything. But I must start doing things for myself again.’
‘I know, son. But not too much all at once.’
Jacob nodded and watched him go, then looked around his room before easing himself onto the bed. Almost immediately a tap sounded on the door and his mother appeared, carrying a tray with a mug of tea, a glass of water and his pills in a small plastic pot given to them by the hospital. ‘You look comfortable,’ she said, coming over and placing the tea on his bedside cabinet. She held out the glass of water and pot of pills as if she expected him to take them while she waited.
‘Put them on there,’ he said a little brusquely, nodding to his bedside cabinet.
She did as he said. ‘Don’t forget to take them.’
‘I won’t.’ He yawned.
‘I’ll leave you to rest then,’ she said, and left.
He wasn’t physically tired as she thought – more exhausted from the narrow strip his life had become. He needed some space and time to himself, and he needed to establish some ground rules. He’d been washed, dressed and even taken to the toilet by nurses in the early days. Continuously examined by doctors who discussed him as though he was theirs, so that he felt his body was no longer his own. Everyone seemed to have a claim on it and knew more about it than he did. And all the advice about his recovery, although necessary and well meant, had become suffocating, as was being constantly fussed over, not only by the nurses but by his parents and Eloise. Some blokes might have enjoyed all the attention but he didn’t; it had reduced him to a childlike dependency, humiliating and degrading. It would be a sharp learning curve before his parents and Eloise saw him as an independent bloke again, if he’d ever been one, which he was starting to doubt.
He’d had too much time to think in hospital; indeed there hadn’t been much else to do. He’d spent hours, days thinking about his life – the years before his illness. Gradually he’d come to see that he’d never carved out an identity, a will, a personality of his own. He’d always toed the line, done as he was told and what was expected of him. He’d worked hard at school, learnt to play the organ so he could help out in church, been polite to his father’s parishioners, and had tolerated the down-and-outs and misfits who’d arrived regularly at their door in the city looking for help and a handout. Even as a teenager he hadn’t rebelled. In fact he’d been a bit of a mummy’s boy. And away at university
