Love Lessons Read online

  She used the back of the cornflake packet so t h a t it would stand up stiffly. She drew our bookshop, dutifully painting each individual book red or green or brown or blue, although they merged into each other as one long book blob. Then she drew Dad, a little skinny man with a frowny face. She drew Mum, a big blobby woman with black dots for eyes and similar dots all over her dress. All the dots r a n so t h a t it 39

  looked as if Mum and her dress were weeping copiously. She drew me in a corner, reading a book, my hair very thick and bushy so my face seemed hidden by a black cloud. She drew herself wearing her favourite pink panda dress, like a big raspberry meringue.

  'Have you finished? That's so good,' I said.

  'It's not. I'm rubbish at painting. I could see the way I wanted it to be in my head but it won't come out right on the paper,' Grace sighed.

  She looked at it worriedly. 'I've made Dad too small.'

  'He is small. Smaller t h a n Mum.'

  'He looks like a stick, like he'll snap any minute,' Grace wailed. 'Help me make him look bigger, Prue.'

  'He's fine,' I said, but I stopped applying delicate touches of gold ink to the Angel's halo and helped her lengthen Dad's arms and legs.

  'He still doesn't look right. He's like one of those insect thingies with long legs,' said Grace.

  'Daddy-longlegs,' I said.

  We laughed though it wasn't a bit funny.

  Grace looked as if she might cry again any minute.

  'I wish Mum would come back,' she said. 'Is it lunch time yet?'

  It was only just gone eleven but I made her French toast to cheer her up. We had another round each at half past twelve, and finished all the flapjacks in the tin, and ate an overripe b a n a n a mid-afternoon.

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  Mum didn't get back till five. Her eyes were red, a n d she was clutching a sodden handkerchief.

  'He's dead!' I whispered.

  I started sobbing. So did Grace.

  'No, no, he's not dead. There, girls. I'm so sorry

  – you must have been very worried. I was in such a state I forgot to check I had any change for the phone call. I had no idea they would take so long. It's a nightmare, a total nightmare. Your dad's going to be so angry with me when he realizes he's in hospital. Well, maybe he does know. It's hard to tell.' Mum started crying too.

  'Is he still unconscious then, Mum?'

  'Well, his eyes are open and maybe he understands. But he can't speak, you see.'

  'What do you mean? Has he done something to his throat?'

  'No, no. Your father's suffered a stroke, girls.

  It's affected his speech and he can't use his arm and his leg.'

  'But he'll get better, won't he, Mum?' said Grace.

  'They don't know, darling. It's too early to tell at this stage.'

  I went running out of the room. I threw myself on my bed. I couldn't bear it. I knew it was all my fault.

  A stroke is such a strangely inappropriate term to describe what's happened to Dad. The word

  'stroke' implies something soft and subtle. Dad looks as if he's been bashed repeatedly down one side. His head lolls, his mouth droops, and his right arm and leg sag as if they're broken.

  Mum had warned us but it was still terrifying walking along the ward of the stroke unit and going into Dad's room. The man slumped in the bed was a Guy Fawkes caricature of our father.

  We stood on the threshold of his room, all three of us. Dad's eyes were closed, but he mumbled something.

  'Hello, Dad,' I whispered, forcing myself to walk over to his bed.

  His eyes snapped open, making me jump. He frowned at me. There was a little dribble down 42

  his chin. He tried to wipe it away, looking agonized.

  'Shall I wipe it, Dad?' I asked.

  He made vehement mumbles, making it plain he didn't want to be helped at all. He carried on struggling after his chin was dry. He kept flinging his unaffected leg out from under the bedclothes, hoping t h a t the rest of his body would follow.

  'Lie still, dear. Try to relax,' said Mum.

  Dad's contorted face was a n y t h i n g b u t relaxed. He tried again and again.

  'He's trying to get out of bed to go home,' I said.

  Dad glared at me, groaning. He resented me talking about him rather t h a n to him.

  I went closer, though I really wanted to r u n away, out of the room, down the ward, right out of the hospital.

  'Dad, you can't go home just yet, you're not well enough,' I said.

  Dad wouldn't see reason. He became more and more agitated, and when Mum tried to tuck him back under the sheets he punched her arm. It was the weakest, feeblest punch in the world, but it made her cry.

  'Now, now, there's no need for tears,' said a nurse, bustling in and putting her arm round Mum. She was nearly as large as Mum, but in an exuberant, voluptuous way. She had glossy brown skin and magnificent plaited hair. 'Mr King's doing splendidly, my dear. Aren't you, lovie?'

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  She nodded at Dad and t h e n stuck a thermometer in his mouth before he could groan at her. He spat it straight out defiantly.

  'You're a naughty boy,' she said, laughing. 'You want to have a little game with me? Watch out, though, laddie – I might well stick it somewhere else if you t u r n awkward on me.'

  Dad decided to subject himself to a thermometer in his mouth after all.

  'There now. That's the ticket.' The nurse winked at Mum. 'We'll soon get him trained, eh?'

  Mum simpered uneasily. 'He hates hospitals so,' she said.

  'Well, we're none of us here by choice,' said the nurse. 'I'd much sooner be at home with my feet up watching Corrie on the telly.'

  Dad groaned again, gargling slightly with the thermometer.

  'Hey, hey, watch out or you'll swallow it,' said the nurse. 'OK, let's see how you're doing.'

  'How's his t e m p e r a t u r e ? ' Mum asked anxiously.

  'It's fine, dear, just fine. You're doing well, Mr King,' the nurse said. 'Let's just tidy you up a bit in honour of your visitors.' She smoothed his pyjama collar and combed his sparse hair with her long brown fingers. He did his best to bat her away, groaning something t h a t sounded very much like a bad swearword.

  The nurse seemed to think it was too. 'Ooh!

  In front of your wife and daughters! I'll wash your mouth out with soap if you're not careful,'

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  she said cheerily. She raised her eyebrows at Mum, and then shook her head. Mum shook her head back, though she glanced anxiously at Dad.

  The nurse smiled at me. 'So what's your name, dear? I'm Nurse Ray. Little ray of sunshine, that's me.'

  'I'm Prudence,' I said, wincing, because I hate my name so much.

  'And what about you, sweetheart?' said Nurse Ray, going over to Grace. She'd been skulking fearfully in a corner the whole time.

  'I'm Grace,' she whispered.

  Dad groaned as if the very sound of her name irritated him.

  'Don't look so worried, sweetheart,' said Nurse Ray, chucking Grace under the chin. 'Daddy's only grumpy because he's had his stroke. He'll be his usual self in no time, I'm sure.'

  Grace stared at her. Dad was very much his usual self, even incapacitated by his stroke. He didn't have any other self. He was permanently grumpy.

  'Go and say hello to your dad. It'll cheer him up,' said Nurse Ray.

  She encouraged Grace forwards until she was in Dad's line of sight. He saw her approaching.

  He groaned again.

  'Hello, Dad. I've made you a Get Well Soon card,' Grace said bravely.

  Dad made little attempt to look at it.

  'Hold it up above Daddy's head so he can see it properly,' said Nurse Ray.

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  Grace waved her card around in the air above Dad. He moaned, his eyes swivelling, as if a v u l t u r e was circling above him. He made another attempt to get his leg out of bed. He heaved himself halfway up with his good arm, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead.

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