The Only Story(36)

‘Point One. I’m not a go-between. Whatever you say stays in this room and it doesn’t get leaked back. Point Two. I’m not a shrink, I’m not some kind of advice centre, I don’t even much like listening to other people’s woes. I tend to think they should get on with it, stop moaning, roll up their sleeves and all of that. Point Three. I’m just an old soak whose life hasn’t worked out and who lives alone with her dogs. So I’m not an authority on anything. Not even crosswords, as you once pointed out.’

‘But you love Susan.’

‘Course I do. How is the dear girl?’

‘She’s drinking too much.’

‘How much is “too much”?’

‘In her case, anything at all.’

‘You may be right.’

‘And she’s on anti-depressants.’

‘Well, we’ve all been there,’ says Joan. ‘Doctors hand them out like Smarties. Especially to women of a certain age. Do they do any good?’

‘I can’t tell. They just make her woozy. But a different kind of woozy from what the drink does.’

‘Yes, I remember that too.’

‘So?’

‘So what?’

‘So what should I do?’

‘Paul, dear, I’ve just told you I don’t give advice. I took my own advice for so many years and look where it got me. So I don’t do that any more.’

You nod. You aren’t too surprised either.

‘The only advice I’d give you …’

‘Yes?’

‘… is have a swig of what’s at your elbow.’

You obey.

‘OK,’ you say. ‘No advice. But … I don’t know, is there something that I ought to know and don’t? Something you can tell me about Susan, or about Susan and me, that would help?’

‘All I can say is that if everything goes belly-up and pear-shaped, you’ll probably get over it and she probably won’t.’

You are shocked.

‘That’s not a very kind thing to say.’

‘I don’t do kind, Paul. Truth isn’t kind. You’ll find that out soon enough as life kicks in.’

‘It feels as if it’s kicked in pretty hard already.’

‘That may be all to the fucking good.’ Your face must look as if it’s just taken a slap. ‘Come on, Paul, you didn’t come all the way down here so that I’d give you a hug and tell you there are fairies at the bottom of the garden.’

‘True. Just tell me your thoughts on this. Susan goes back to see Macleod every so often. Probably more than she says.’

‘Does that trouble you?’

‘Mainly in the sense that if he ever lays a finger on her again, I’m going to have to kill him.’

She laughs. ‘Oh, I do so miss the melodrama of being young.’

‘Don’t patronise me, Joan.’

‘I’m not patronising you, Paul. Of course you’d do no such thing. But I admire you for the thought.’

You wonder if she is being satirical. But Joan doesn’t do satire.

‘Why don’t you think I would?’

‘Because the last murder in the Village was probably committed by someone wearing woad.’

You laugh, and take another sip of gin. ‘I’m worried,’ you say. ‘I’m worried that I shan’t be able to save her.’

She doesn’t reply, and this annoys you.

‘So what do you think about that?’ you demand.

‘I told you I’m not a fucking oracle. You might as well read your horoscope in the Advertiser & Gazette. I said when you ran away together, you’ve got guts, the pair of you. You’ve got guts, and you’ve got love. If that isn’t good enough for life, then life isn’t good enough for you.’

‘Now you are sounding like an oracle.’

‘Then I’d better go and wash my mouth out with soap.’

One day, you return to find her with cuts and bruises to her face, and her arms held defensively against her.

‘I fell over that step in the garden,’ she says, as if it were a known hazard you had previously discussed. ‘I’m getting very trippy, I’m afraid.’

She is indeed getting ‘trippy’. Nowadays, as a reflex, you take her arm as you walk with her and keep watch for uneven pavements. But she also has a giveaway flush to her face. You call the doctor – not the private one she went to for her cheering-up pills.

Dr Kenny is a fussy, inquisitive middle-aged man, but the right sort of GP – one who believes that house calls provide useful background when it comes to diagnosis. You take him upstairs to Susan’s bedroom; her bruises are coming into full colour.

Downstairs again, he asks for a few words.

‘Of course.’

‘It’s rather puzzling,’ he begins. ‘It’s unusual for a woman of her age to take a fall.’

‘She’s been getting very trippy lately.’

‘Yes, that’s the word she used to me. And, if I may ask, you are …?’

‘I’m her lodger … no, more than that, kind of godson, I suppose.’

‘Hmm. And it’s just the two of you here?’