word? Their family home.
Alfred, pet.
She would take him home.
12 • Dirk
‘Here’s Dirk,’ said Alfred abruptly. ‘Look.’
You couldn’t miss him. That ash-white hair, and something jerky about his walk, as if he was head-butting a low brick wall. As if this habit had injured his brain … Dirk hadn’t had an easy time in life.
‘I wonder if he met his sister on the stairs.’
As he got nearer, you could see the boy was small. His head slightly bowed, he nodded on forward, blinking and grinning, glad to see his father.
May thought, he almost worships his father.
‘Is that your boy?’ It was a woman’s voice. May turned to look at her, surprised. The body in the next bed was female. She was sixty-ish – maybe seventy-ish – with a plump red face, powdered in patches, and a swatch of red hair pulled back in a bun.
Alfred must have been encouraging her
. May didn’t approve of these mixed wards.
Alfred had pulled himself virtually erect (he’s certainly thinner – they aren’t feeding him) and was grinning at the woman, a mask on a stick – if he knew what he looked like he wouldn’t do it. ‘No, this is Dirk.’
The woman smiled and nodded.
Dirk stood there, doggedly ignoring her. ‘Dad,’ he said. ‘How goes it, then?’
Dirk had always lacked social graces. Once May had worried about his shyness because she thought it would stop him getting on with girls. But as Dirk grew up, there never were any girls, and sometimes she thought that he hated women. Then she’d started wondering if he liked boys, because May had read Oscar Wilde, and Thom Gunn. Once she’d found a strange magazine in his room, with photographs of black men without any clothes, but he got very cross, and said it was disgusting, he’d just brought it home to get rid of it. There were no other signs that he liked anyone at all.
‘This is Dirk,’ said May, to the painted woman. She used the most educated voice she had. ‘I am his mother. I didn’t catch your name.’
‘I think Alfred has forgotten it,’ the woman chirped, raising one eyebrow at him. ‘He hasn’t got much memory for names.’
May looked at her resentfully.
Why is she gazing at my husband?
‘This is Pamela,’ Alfred said rather gruffly, with the hint of a smirk. ‘Dirk, say hallo to Pamela.’
‘So this is the famous journalist.’ Her smile was smarmy, lipsticky.
‘Oh no,’ Alfred corrected her, dismayed. ‘This is Dirk, the other one. I probably didn’t mention him … Darren’s flying in from Spain today.’
‘Lovely,’ said Pamela, vaguely, grandly (
but she’s not a lady, with that dyed hair
). ‘We had a château in Spain you know. We always wintered in Andalusia. Olives, oranges, wonderful light … it was almost like a religion, with us.’
‘Why did you come back then?’ May asked coolly.
‘That is a very long story, my dear. One I may well tell Alfred one day.’ The woman winked, elaborately. May stared open-mouthed at her turquoise eyelids.
‘He probably won’t be here,’ she said. ‘We don’t expect him to be here very long.’
‘Really?’ Pamela said, her voice almost pitying, then turned away in her bed, and read, and May wanted to say, I’m a reader too, I read the works of Alfred Tennyson, but she knew the woman thought she was stupid.
Alfred was looking very put out. Perhaps the family had let him down. Dirk wore scruffy denims and a studded leather jacket and his face was reddened by the wind. It somehow made his nose look bigger.
‘Why do you keep on talking to
her
?’ Alfred hissed at May, furious. ‘Can’t you see she’s trying to read?’
Ignore the injustice, May told herself. Don’t argue with him. He’s not a well man. ‘Dirk, your father’s feeling much better –’
‘I never said I was feeling better.’
‘What did you say then?’ She wanted to weep.
‘Dad, I brought you some treacle toffees –’ Dirk stood there, clumsy, at the foot of the bed, left out of the
Alfred, pet.
She would take him home.
12 • Dirk
‘Here’s Dirk,’ said Alfred abruptly. ‘Look.’
You couldn’t miss him. That ash-white hair, and something jerky about his walk, as if he was head-butting a low brick wall. As if this habit had injured his brain … Dirk hadn’t had an easy time in life.
‘I wonder if he met his sister on the stairs.’
As he got nearer, you could see the boy was small. His head slightly bowed, he nodded on forward, blinking and grinning, glad to see his father.
May thought, he almost worships his father.
‘Is that your boy?’ It was a woman’s voice. May turned to look at her, surprised. The body in the next bed was female. She was sixty-ish – maybe seventy-ish – with a plump red face, powdered in patches, and a swatch of red hair pulled back in a bun.
Alfred must have been encouraging her
. May didn’t approve of these mixed wards.
Alfred had pulled himself virtually erect (he’s certainly thinner – they aren’t feeding him) and was grinning at the woman, a mask on a stick – if he knew what he looked like he wouldn’t do it. ‘No, this is Dirk.’
The woman smiled and nodded.
Dirk stood there, doggedly ignoring her. ‘Dad,’ he said. ‘How goes it, then?’
Dirk had always lacked social graces. Once May had worried about his shyness because she thought it would stop him getting on with girls. But as Dirk grew up, there never were any girls, and sometimes she thought that he hated women. Then she’d started wondering if he liked boys, because May had read Oscar Wilde, and Thom Gunn. Once she’d found a strange magazine in his room, with photographs of black men without any clothes, but he got very cross, and said it was disgusting, he’d just brought it home to get rid of it. There were no other signs that he liked anyone at all.
‘This is Dirk,’ said May, to the painted woman. She used the most educated voice she had. ‘I am his mother. I didn’t catch your name.’
‘I think Alfred has forgotten it,’ the woman chirped, raising one eyebrow at him. ‘He hasn’t got much memory for names.’
May looked at her resentfully.
Why is she gazing at my husband?
‘This is Pamela,’ Alfred said rather gruffly, with the hint of a smirk. ‘Dirk, say hallo to Pamela.’
‘So this is the famous journalist.’ Her smile was smarmy, lipsticky.
‘Oh no,’ Alfred corrected her, dismayed. ‘This is Dirk, the other one. I probably didn’t mention him … Darren’s flying in from Spain today.’
‘Lovely,’ said Pamela, vaguely, grandly (
but she’s not a lady, with that dyed hair
). ‘We had a château in Spain you know. We always wintered in Andalusia. Olives, oranges, wonderful light … it was almost like a religion, with us.’
‘Why did you come back then?’ May asked coolly.
‘That is a very long story, my dear. One I may well tell Alfred one day.’ The woman winked, elaborately. May stared open-mouthed at her turquoise eyelids.
‘He probably won’t be here,’ she said. ‘We don’t expect him to be here very long.’
‘Really?’ Pamela said, her voice almost pitying, then turned away in her bed, and read, and May wanted to say, I’m a reader too, I read the works of Alfred Tennyson, but she knew the woman thought she was stupid.
Alfred was looking very put out. Perhaps the family had let him down. Dirk wore scruffy denims and a studded leather jacket and his face was reddened by the wind. It somehow made his nose look bigger.
‘Why do you keep on talking to
her
?’ Alfred hissed at May, furious. ‘Can’t you see she’s trying to read?’
Ignore the injustice, May told herself. Don’t argue with him. He’s not a well man. ‘Dirk, your father’s feeling much better –’
‘I never said I was feeling better.’
‘What did you say then?’ She wanted to weep.
‘Dad, I brought you some treacle toffees –’ Dirk stood there, clumsy, at the foot of the bed, left out of the
Similar Books
