Five Winters(38)

I got up and joined in with their hug so the three of us were in one giant embrace. And all the while, the conversations we’d just had about compromise and children swirled round and round in my head until I felt as if I were going crazy. Was I compromising what I wanted most in life for Jaimie? If I were to accidentally fall pregnant, would he be like one of those men I’d described who don’t want children—in Jaimie’s case, more children—and then turn out to be delighted, devoted fathers?

“Anyway,” Mark said at last, “this is all very maudlin, isn’t it? Tell us one of your funny animal stories, Beth, to cheer us up. You must have some, from the dog walking.”

So we sat back down on the sofa, Rosie dried her eyes, and I told them about Milo, the Kama Sutra, and the sirloin steak. Rosie had heard it all before, of course, but that didn’t stop her laughing. Soon we were all laughing our heads off, including me.

“Oh, that’s so funny,” said Mark. “What did the old gang at Dalston Vets say when you told them about it? I imagine Clive was in hysterics.”

That sobered me up. Although I kept on smiling, my thoughts were suddenly on Clive and all my other friends at Dalston Vets. Beyond sending them a Christmas card, I hadn’t been in touch with them lately. It was the whole Christmas thing, I think. All the ice-skating and decorations and tacky jokes I knew they’d be enjoying. I didn’t even know who was on Christmas duty this year. Angela, who’d replaced me, maybe? Or Naomi, perhaps, now that she was back from maternity leave?

Mark was laughing again, his eyes screwed up. “I can’t stop thinking about it. D’you think the dog helps them to choose which position to try?” He put on a different voice. “What d’you think about page forty-seven, Milo? One bark for yes, two barks for no.”

I couldn’t help laughing at that. Neither could Rosie.

So we were all laughing when Mark’s mobile began to ring, and there was laughter in his voice as he answered it.

“Oh, hi, Mum. Beth’s just told us the funniest story . . .” he began, but as Sylvia started to speak, his expression changed in an instant. When he got to his feet, Rosie and I exchanged glances, stricken by a dreadful sense of foreboding. Instinctively, I reached for her hand.

“Oh God. Yes, of course. We’ll come right away. Yes, as soon as possible. I’ll text you when we’re near. All right. Try not to worry, Mum.”

“What is it?” Rosie asked. “What’s happened?”

Mark’s face was grey. “It’s Dad. He’s had a heart attack. He’s in Chase Farm Hospital.”

Rosie’s hand went up to her mouth.

“Is he all right?” I asked.

“I’m not sure. We need to get there right away. Oh Jesus, Grace has got the car, hasn’t she? How far is Jaimie’s property from here?”

“I’ll drive us,” I said, because of course I was going too. It was Richard. “They’ll be ages yet. Come on. We can call them from the road to let them know what’s happened.”

We reached the hospital an hour and a half later. Sylvia was in the family room in the coronary unit. I caught a glimpse of her through the window as we approached—her eyes glazed and shocked, staring into space, her handbag clutched on her lap. Lost. The minute she saw us, she leapt to her feet to gather us in for a hug.

“Oh, my loves. Thank God you’re here. I’ve needed you all so badly.”

Rosie pressed her face into her mother’s shoulder, sobbing. “Oh, Mum.”

Sylvia stroked her hair. “Shh, sweetheart. Shh. It’s all right. Dad’s still with us.”

“How is he?” Both Mark and I spoke at the same time, standing shoulder to shoulder, staring into Sylvia’s worry-ravaged face.

“He’s . . . they’re operating on him right now. They said . . . well, they didn’t say very much, actually. Only that the next few hours would be critical. I think we should get some news soon. We ought to. It’s been ages. You can’t imagine how . . .”

Her voice broke, and Mark ushered her to her seat again. “Sit down, Ma.” I hadn’t heard him call his mother Ma for years and years.

She sat, Rosie and I taking the seats on either side of her and Mark kneeling on the floor.

“I found him out in the garden,” she told us. “The lunch was ready, so I called him to come in. I was running a bit late, you see, because Josie wanted me to look after her kids while she nipped out. Anyway, I called to him to say lunch was on the table. Only he didn’t come. And I was mad because I didn’t want the dinner to go cold. It was a bit of best beef, you see, a treat. And the Yorkshire puddings had turned out just right. Anyway, I went out there, all irritable, saying, ‘Richard? Where are you?’ Only I turn the corner and there he is, lying on the ground, out cold.” She looked up at us with big, agonised eyes, caught up in the memory. “I thought . . . I thought, at first, he was dead. I think I must have cried out, because Josie heard me and came straight round. She called for the ambulance.”

I put my hand on Sylvia’s shoulder, unable to imagine the terror she must have felt while she waited for the ambulance to come.

“Did Dad regain consciousness at all?” Mark asked.

Sylvia gave a jerky nod. “Only briefly. He said . . . he said, ‘Oh, Sylv.’ That’s all. Then he . . . went back to sleep. And I’ve been sitting here thinking about all the things I’ve cooked him that I shouldn’t have. All the cakes and the fried breakfasts. You know your dad. Always has thought salad is . . . for . . . rabbits.”