Love Lessons Read online

  'Toby's right, Mum,' I said.

  Toby flicked his hair out of his eyes and gave me a huge, dazzling grin. Grace sighed. Mum sighed too.

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  'I know Toby's got some very good ideas,' she said. 'But what would your dad say? You know what he thinks about computers. He'd never agree to have one in the shop. I'm sure he wouldn't like the coffee and cake idea either. He'd think I was trying to turn the shop into a cafe.'

  'You could do it while Dad's still in hospital,'

  I said.

  'Oh Prue, I wouldn't dare,' said Mum. She paused. 'Would I?'

  She went on about it after Toby went off, clutching his Victorian volume in his carrier bag. She talked about it on the bus all the way to the hospital.

  'Perhaps now he'll see we have to change with the times,' she muttered. 'We could try out this computer idea, especially if we got it for almost nothing. And I could maybe ask one or two customers if they'd fancy a cup of coffee. I could try it out for free first, to see if they liked the idea. What would be the h a r m in that?'

  'That's it. Mum, you tell Dad,' I said.

  But when we got to the stroke unit Dad had something to tell us.

  He wasn't in bed as usual. He wasn't even in his pyjamas and dressing gown. He was sitting bolt upright on one of the plastic chairs, dressed in his old suit, the one he'd been wearing when he'd had his stroke. He even had his tie neatly knotted. He clutched a notebook on his lap.

  'Oh Bernard, you look wonderful, dear! Quite your old self!' said Mum.

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  'You look ever so smart, Dad,' said Grace.

  'Hello, Dad. You really do look great,' I said.

  He nodded at us all, taking his time, like a king on his throne waiting for his u n r u l y courtiers to settle down. Mum wedged herself into another plastic chair a n d Grace and I perched uncomfortably on the end of the bed.

  Dad cleared his throat. We sat expectantly.

  He raised the notebook lopsidedly, his good hand doing most of the work. He fumbled with the pages, trying to get it open at the beginning.

  Mum leaped up to help but he glared at her furiously, so she subsided again. Dad fiddled with the flimsy paper. I saw my own careful printing. It was my truncated version of his Magnum Opus! It hadn't got lost at all.

  Dad cleared his throat once more. 'I – Bernard King – think – think – think – my – home-town

  – of – Kingtown – reflects – the – moral –

  degeneracy – of – our – current – unstable –

  and – unsatisfactory – age.'

  He said it very slowly, without expression, struggling at each word, his mouth working as if he was chewing toffee, his eyebrows going up and down with the effort. But he said it, the entire sentence.

  'Bravo!' said Mum, clapping him, t e a r s pouring down her cheeks.

  'Brill, Dad! Like, wow!' said Grace.

  Dad winced at each word but for once let it ride. He looked at me triumphantly.

  'I thought you'd thrown it away, Dad!' I said.

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  'Aha!' said Dad.

  'You seemed totally fed up with the whole idea of reading aloud,' I said.

  'With – you,' said Dad.

  'So you've been secretly practising all by yourself?'

  Nurse Ray put her head round the door. 'I should say so! He's been at it night and day for weeks, head in that book, mutter mutter mutter.

  I offered to help him but he wouldn't be having it. Wanted to teach himself, bless him.'

  Dad huffed, irritated by her tone.

  'Ooh, don't get shirty with me now, Bernard,'

  Nurse Ray said. 'You know you love me really, don't you, darling?'

  Dad rocked backwards and forwards at her presumption, and she laughed at him.

  'Have you told them your good news?' said Nurse Ray.

  'Good news,' Dad agreed.

  'It's splendid news, Bernard, seeing you reading your own book!' said Mum. 'Can you manage a bit more?'

  Dad shook his head. 'Good news – going home!'

  'Yes, dear, you carry on making progress like this and you'll soon be better and able to come home,' said Mum.

  Dad tutted at her. 'Going home now,' he said.

  'Today. Now!'

  'Well, not just yet, dear. When the doctors say so,' Mum said, flustered.

  Nurse Ray was nodding at her. 'He's right!

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  That's why we've got him all dressed up a t r e a t in his suit. Dear God, I had to tie t h a t tie for him three times and he still wasn't satisfied.

  Like I said, Bernard, you need a nice comfy sweatshirt and a pair of trackie bottoms, then you can whip them on and off in seconds.'

  Dad said a very rude word to show what he thought of sweatshirts and trackies.

  'He can come home right this minute?' said Mum.

  'Now!' Dad said impatiently.

  'We had a case conference yesterday and we all agreed that Bernard's more t h a n ready to leave us,' said N u r s e Ray. 'He's made t h a t perfectly clear!'

  'But he can't walk!' said Mum.

  'He can stand, and shuffle a few paces with his Zimmer if he puts his mind to it. We're willing to a r r a n g e some out-patient physiotherapy – if His Lordship co-operates!'

  Dad shook his head at this.

  'But how will he get about?' Mum said weakly.

  'We'll let you borrow a wheelchair from the unit, and if you get in touch with this phone number here someone will come out and assess the sort of chair Bernard will need for the future.

  They'll install h a n d supports in the bathroom and give you a commode if necessary.'

  'Not!' said Dad. 'Right. Home. Now.'

  He looked at us. His eyes swivelled from Mum to Grace to me. He breathed more quickly, his mouth working. 'Not want me?' he said.

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  'Oh Bernard, of course we want you back! It's j u s t such a shock. But it's lovely, a lovely surprise,' Mum burbled.

  Grace and I were still so stunned we couldn't say a word.

  'I've got Bernard's bag all packed, and he's got all the medication he needs for the next few weeks. Make sure he takes his Warfarin.'

  'Rat poison!' said Dad.

  'Yes, but you're not a rat, darling, and it's thinning your blood nicely so you don't have another stroke,' said Nurse Ray, putting her arm round him. 'I shall miss your grumpy little ways, Sugar Lump!' She gave him a big kiss on his whiskery cheek.

  Dad huffed again, but he patted her with his good hand.

  Then we had to get him home.

  'Will the ambulance men come and collect us?'

  said Mum.

  'No dear, we can't spare an ambulance. Can't you take him in your car?'

  'We haven't got a car,' said Mum. 'We can't take my husband on the bus!'

  We had to call a minicab and manoeuvre Dad into the front, Mum and me heaving him onto t h e seat and tucking his legs in, while he snapped at us impatiently. Then Mum squeezed into the back seat, Grace and me squashed in beside her, with the wheelchair collapsed in the boot.

  It cost £11.50 to get home. Mum could only 228

  just scrape up enough money from her purse, and the cab driver had to do without a tip.

  We s a t Dad in t h e wheelchair a n d t h e n struggled to get him up the step and into the shop. Dad snuffled up the stale smell of book as if the room was full of roses.

  'Home now,' he said.

  It was a terrible struggle getting Dad upstairs.

  The physiotherapist had taught him how to do it. He had to put his good foot up on the first stair, steady it, then somehow swing the bad one up beside it, balance, get his breath back, start again with his good foot up . . . Taking things one step at a time had a whole new meaning. We laboured over each step with Dad, Grace calling encouragement from the banisters, me walking backwards leading Dad up, Mum behind, her arms outstretched, ready to catch him whenever he faltered.

  Dad was drenched in sweat by the ti