When You Are Mine(65)

‘I didn’t realise you had such a large family,’ she says.

‘They’re a clan.’

‘I’m sorry about your father.’

‘He’s going to be fine, apparently.’

She glances at Henry, who seems to be purposely avoiding her.

‘What happened to Mrs Goodall?’

‘She’s safe.’

‘Did you see him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he see you?’

I nod and glance at the door, waiting for Mary to return. ‘I can’t talk about it now.’

‘Right. Sure. I’ll go.’

Her coat is lying across the back of a sofa. One of my cousins has to lean forward for her to retrieve it. She feels the pockets, checking for her keys and then remembers that Henry drove her.

‘I’ll ask him to drop you home.’

‘No. That’s OK. I can take a bus.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Uh-huh.’

She slips out so quietly that nobody else notices or will remember her being here.





35


‘He’s in the last bay,’ says the nurse.

She is leading me between beds that are bathed in a soft light and partitioned by machines and curtains. Most have visitors sitting in semi-darkness, heads bowed and talking in whispers, saying prayers, making promises. All except for Edward McCarthy, whose laugh is like an empty barrel rolling down a hill.

I find him propped up by pillows, entertaining his audience of two. Constance is half-sitting on the bed, stroking his hand. Clifton is slouched in an armchair, his legs spread wide, glancing at a TV on the ceiling, which is showing the football with the sound turned down.

I watch them for a moment, hiding in the shadows, taking a mental inventory.

‘Hello, Daddy.’

His face breaks into a grin and he opens his arms. ‘Man has to have a heart attack to see his own daughter.’

‘It usually takes something dramatic,’ I say, accepting his embrace.

Constance doesn’t quite know how to greet me. Her right wrist is in a brace.

‘What happened?’

‘I think I overdid the CPR.’

‘Yeah, my ribs feel broken. Go easy next time.’

‘There won’t be a next time,’ she says, punching his shoulder. He overreacts and she is suddenly all over him, apologising. He winks at me. I scowl at him. Why am I pandering to his ego?

‘Only two visitors allowed,’ says the intensive care nurse, who is sitting on a stool, almost hidden by the machines.

‘I’ll go,’ says Clifton. ‘I need to medicate.’

‘You’re going for a smoke,’ says Daddy. ‘Don’t let Finbar have one or Poppy will gut you like a fish.’

I take the chair, which is still warm from his body.

‘What happened?’

‘My heart stopped for twelve minutes. I should have been a goner.’ He glances at Constance, and I see the love. I don’t feel jealous or resentful. Everybody deserves to be loved like that.

An orderly arrives, wheeling a trolley bed. He’s wearing earbuds and has tattooed arms that poke from the sleeves of his tunic top.

‘Edward McCarthy?’

‘That’s me.’

‘We’re moving you to the York Ward.’

After checking his full name and date of birth, the beds are lined up and Daddy shimmies from one to the other, trying to hide the pain involved. Pillows are arranged and the sides of the bed are raised.

‘I should tell the others,’ says Constance. Immediately, I have visions of a McCarthy convoy escorting the transfer, making it look like a mafia funeral.

We’re moving along the corridor to the service lift. As the doors open, we’re joined by a tall slim woman in dark blue surgical scrubs. A pair of glasses hangs around her neck and honey-blond hair peeks from beneath a cloth cap that is tied around her head. Her eyes are expressive, but her demeanour is very no-nonsense, like a private school head girl or one of those high achievers who wears her success like a crown. She picks up a clipboard from the end of the trolley bed.

‘Mr McCarthy. How are you feeling?’

‘Much better, thank you,’ he replies, unsure of who she is.

‘Good. Most people don’t survive a heart attack as serious as yours.’

She scribbles a note on the clipboard.

‘I’m taking you into surgery tomorrow at ten o’clock.’

‘And you are?’

‘Your surgeon. Emily Granger.’

‘But you’re a …’

She arches an eyebrow and waits for him to finish the statement. He hesitates and she does it for him.

‘A woman?’

‘You’re so young,’ he says, recovering.

Dr Granger smiles knowingly. ‘That’s very flattering, but I’m forty-one.’

‘You look younger.’

She hooks the clipboard onto the frame of the bed.

‘Who would you rather hold your heart in their hands?’ she asks, showing him her long delicate fingers. ‘A guy who swings a golf club like an axe, or a woman who can micro-suture wings onto a butterfly?’

It’s not a question she expects to be answered. Instead, she begins talking him through the operation, how she will take veins from his thighs to use for the bypasses.