The Switch(61)

Fitz smiles. ‘I held the phone so she could see Martha and the baby. She’s on a flight back now.’

‘Good.’ Not quite good enough, in my opinion, but there we are. I get the impression Yaz is somebody whose gambles have so far always paid off – perhaps it will do her some good to realise that you can’t always cut everything quite so fine.

We turn a corner and I inhale sharply, my hand going to the wall for support. There is a young woman in a bed. Her hair is curly and her face is drawn with exhaustion.

‘Mrs C?’ Fitz says. ‘Martha’s just through here.’

I turn away with a lurch of nausea. This place is not doing me any good.

‘Are her family here now?’ I ask. My voice shakes.

‘Yes,’ Fitz says hesitantly. ‘Her dad’s in with her.’

‘She doesn’t need me, then,’ I say. ‘I think I’d better go home.’

He looks as if he’s thinking about going with me, but I’m glad he doesn’t offer to when I walk away. It’s impossible to find an exit in this endless place. At last I push my way out of the hospital and take a gulp of dry, polluted air.

I call Leena. My hand is almost shaking too much to find her number on this wretched telephone, but this is important. I can do this. I just need to – this blasted thing – would it – there, it’s ringing, at last.

‘Grandma, hi!’

She sounds lighter than usual, almost breezy. I was cross with her last night, but I’m worn out, and so much has happened since yesterday – I haven’t the energy to argue with her. It’s the traditional British solution to a family disagreement, anyway. If you act as if it didn’t happen at all, eventually pretending not to be cross becomes actually not being cross merely through the passage of time.

‘Hi, love,’ I say. ‘I’m just calling to say Martha’s baby has been born. A little girl. They’re both safe and well and her family is here.’

‘Oh no!’ She pauses. ‘I mean, not oh no, but I missed it! This wasn’t meant to happen for weeks! I’ll call her – I should come down and visit! I’ll check trains.’ I can hear her typing away on the computer in the background. There’s a pause. ‘Are you all right, Grandma?’ she asks.

‘Just a little shaken, being back in a hospital. Thinking about our Carla. Silly, really.’

‘Oh, Grandma.’ Her voice softens; the typing stops.

I close my eyes for a moment and then open them again, because I can’t stay steady on my feet with them shut.

‘I think I should come home, Leena. I’m being daft, sitting around down here.’

‘No! Are you not enjoying yourself?’

I stumble; I’d started walking, making my way to the taxis parked outside the hospital, but my balance is off with the phone to my ear. My spare hand grasps for the wall and my heart thunders. I hate the feeling of falling, even when you catch yourself.

‘All right, Grandma?’ Leena says down the phone.

‘Yes, love. Of course. I’m fine.’

‘You sound a bit shaky. Get some rest, we can talk about it tomorrow. Maybe even face-to-face, if I’m down in London seeing Martha.’

Leena coming back to London. Yes. Things are straightening up again, going back to how they ought to be. I’m glad. I think I’m glad, anyway. I’m so tired, it’s difficult to tell.

*

Back at the flat, I sleep for a few hours and wake feeling awful: groggy and sick, like the start of the flu. There’s a text on the mobile phone from Bee, inviting me out for tea. I don’t think I’ve got it in me, I reply, then fall back asleep before I can even explain why.

An hour or so later, there’s a knock at the door. I lever myself up out of bed. My head hurts the moment I’m upright; I wince, holding my palm to my forehead. I get to the door eventually, though it takes me so long I don’t expect whoever knocked will still be there. I feel awfully old. I don’t think I’ve quite shaken that feeling from when I stumbled outside the hospital.

It’s Bee at the door, holding a large paper bag in her arms – food, by the smell of it. I blink at her, confused.

‘Eileen, are you OK?’ she asks with a frown.

‘Do I look terrible?’ I ask, smoothing my hair down as best I can without a mirror.

‘Just pale,’ Bee says, taking my arm as we move inside. ‘When did you last eat or drink?’

I try to remember. ‘Oh, dear,’ I say.

‘Sit yourself down,’ Bee says, pointing to the chair Martha got me when I told her I couldn’t cope with the ridiculous bar stools they sit at for mealtimes. ‘I got comfort food. Sausages and mash with gravy.’

‘Takeaway sausages and mash?’ I ask, staring in bemusement as she begins to pull steaming Tupperwares out of the paper bag.

‘The joys of Deliveroo,’ she says, smiling and putting a large glass of water in front of me. ‘Drink that. But maybe not too fast. Jaime always throws up when she drinks water too fast if she’s poorly. Leena texted to say Martha’s had the baby – she guessed you’ve been looking after her, not yourself. And now you’re a bit wobbly?’

I nod, rather shamefaced. I’ve been daft, sleeping on floors, forgetting to eat properly. I’m seventy-nine, not twenty-nine, and I’d do well to remember it.