The Butterfly Storm (11 page)

They are distributing the next day’s lunch menu round the ward by the time I go back. The curtains are
open and Mum’s propped up against pillows.

‘What’s the choice?’ I sit on the plastic chair.

She doesn’t look up from the piece of paper clutched in her hands. ‘Cottage pie, baked cod or cheese
and tomato quiche.’ She lets the menu drop on to the sheet. ‘Let’s forget the small talk, shall
we?’

‘You want us to talk about it right now, do you? Dredge up the past and my father and all the shit
that happened, right after you’ve had an accident?’

‘You didn’t care about leaving me four years ago, so why bother coming back now?’

I shrug. ‘I am beginning to wonder.’

‘Did you know about Darren?’ Her voice is strained, yet there’s a calm authority to her
question.

I shake my head. ‘No. I knew you were both in the accident, but… I had no idea what they were
going to tell you.’

There’s constant movement up and down the ward; the gentle thud, thud, thud of a trolley and dull
ring of the ward phone. The drone of subdued talk between patients and relatives is mixed with the
welcome antidote of nurses’ lively chatter.

‘So it took an accident for you to visit,’ she says.

I could be ten years old again, getting told off for trailing my bike through the hallway. But I’m
not her little girl any longer. I grab my bag and stand up. The chair scrapes along the
floor.

‘I came because it was the right thing to do and yes it might be too little, too late but I’m here,’ I
say. Mum is rigid and so pale. She raises her hand to stop me walking off and I falter. ‘Are you
going to say something to make me want to stay or are you going to start spouting lies
again?’

She wipes her eyes with the back of her good hand. I tug a tissue from out of the box on her bedside
cabinet and pass it to her.

‘You should go now,’ she says.

Back in my hotel room, I long for the familiarity of my bedroom in Greece. I have comfort food: a bucket
of KFC and a bar of fruit and nut. I open the window but outside it’s airless. The room reeks of
fried chicken. It seemed like a good idea at the time but now I feel queasy. Emerging from
the shadows of the hospital into sunshine, I didn’t know what to do with myself. Passing
KFC reminded me I hadn’t eaten anything since a piece of cold toast earlier that morning.
Biting into crunchy coated chicken took me back to Monday lunchtimes as a junior designer
at an advertising company in Bristol. Our ‘sticky finger’ lunch we called it – not at all
sophisticated but it helped us get through Monday mornings. It wasn’t the same eating it on my
own.

The heat from outside suffocates. I wash my hands in my very own steam room, the en-suite is like
a sauna. I fill an empty bottle with water and drink half of it. Fried chicken lies heavy on my stomach.
The can of coke I downed makes me feel bloated.

Leaving the window wide open, I close the curtains on the growling traffic bumper to bumper on the
road below. No air comes in but I want to rid the room of the fried chicken smell clinging to my
nostrils. It’s a characterless room with plain cream walls, tidy blue and yellow bedspread, obligatory tea
and coffee making facilities and TV all crammed in. The bed’s comfy enough. I plump up the pillows
and settle myself on top of the covers.

I think of Mum, crying herself to sleep. I’ve never seen her look so weak, as if somewhere inside her
a light has been switched off. For the moment at least, until she’s better, I can steer our relationship in
the direction I want it to go in. Until now, it had always been the other way round, her moulding me
into what she thought I wanted to be.

I was always known as Leila’s daughter, never Sophie Keech in my own right. I grew
up in her slender shadow, dwarfed by her larger than life personality. She made friends
with complete strangers. She was as confident as I was awkward, as flirty and feminine
as I was tomboyish. I wonder how much we’ve really changed. I snuggle into the pillows.
Tomorrow, after sleeping away her emotions, she might find my unannounced presence a little
easier.

The next thing I know my mobile’s ringing. I open my eyes and blink a couple of times. I’m
half-sitting, half-lying on the bed, propped up against pillows. My neck aches. My fingers find the
answer button.

‘Hello.’

‘What took you so long?’ Alekos asks.

‘I must have fallen asleep.’

‘What time is it there – nine?’

I glance at my watch. ‘Near enough. I’ve been asleep for hours.’

‘How’s your Mum?’

‘Out of intensive care…’ I pause, not sure what else to say.

‘But?’

‘Her boyfriend died in the accident.’

‘Shit, Sophie, why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I didn’t know until today. I was there when they told her. I was expecting to see her pissed off, not
upset. I had no idea.’

All I can hear is his breath in my ear. ‘I should be there with you,’ he eventually says.

I bite my tongue as I find the TV remote, switch the telly on and mute the sound. There is a re-run
of
Only Fools and Horses
on.

‘What did she make of you turning up?’

‘She’s not happy, as expected,’ I say, flicking through MTV, Living and E4. I get glimpses of
programmes I haven’t seen for ages. ‘Where are you anyway? It sounds quiet.’

‘Outside, waiting for Demetrius to pick me up,’ he says. ‘We might go to Olympic Beach, get a
pizza.’

‘Your Mum can spare you, can she?’

‘We both had tonight off, remember.’

‘Sorry, I forgot. I’m a bit wound up, that’s all.’ I switch the TV off. The room goes dark. At night
its compactness makes it seem quite cosy.

‘Baba wants help putting some lights up above the sign tomorrow. Like this place isn’t lit up
enough as it is. I swear you can see it from over a kilometre away. What are you going to do this
evening?’

‘Nothing much. Going to watch a bit of telly. Read my book. Sleep.’

‘Are you seeing your Mum tomorrow?’

‘In the morning.’

‘I’ve been asked to play in the volleyball match at Paralia on Friday.’

‘That’s great.’

‘It’s one of the last matches of the season,’ he says. He tries to stifle a yawn. ‘Mama and Baba send
kisses and hope your Mum gets better soon so you can come home.’

‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow,’ I say.

‘Okay. Love you.’

‘Night.’

When the light on the mobile dies the darkness is only broken by car headlights flashing
past. Alekos’ words tumble around my head as I tuck my hand beneath a pillow and hug
it.

After more than twelve hours’ sleep, I should feel refreshed, but I don’t. I fumble across the room in my
pyjamas and pull the curtains open to a sunless day. The sky’s the colour of a ripe bruise. The traffic’s
snarled up, heading in the opposite direction from last night. I close the curtains and switch on the
bedroom light. Having a bathroom to myself is a luxury and I take a leisurely shower. In Greece the
four of us share one bathroom plus the outside shower in summer and taking more than ten minutes
results in Alekos or Takis impatiently knocking on the door. They moan about Despina the
most.

Enclosed in the en-suite’s plastic curtains, I let the warm water pummel my skin. I long to step from
the shower on to grass thirsty for rain and feel morning sun on my bare shoulders. Instead, I step on to
a bath mat and rub myself down with a thin towel that fails to soak up any water. I wipe the steamy
mirror with a handful of toilet paper until I can see my reflection. There never used to be any
arguments over the bathroom when I lived at home with Mum. She took long, scented baths in
the evening, while I preferred a quick shower in the morning. The few times I brought a
boyfriend home, Mum, forgetting we had company, wandered round the house with only a towel
wrapped round her. She even held serious conversations with my boyfriends, undressed like
that.

By the time I finish drying my hair rain is drumming against the window. This is the England I
remember: temperamental and unpredictable.

At the hospital I take the stairs despite a lift pinging open as I pass. It feels better this morning, knowing
what to expect, knowing Mum will be, at least physically, okay. I think I’ve gone into the wrong ward
because there’s a man sitting at what I thought was Mum’s bed. I carry on walking when I recognise
the woman in the bed next to the door. All I can see of Mum is her plastered leg sticking out and her
good hand playing with the edge of the sheet. The man’s broad shoulders hide the rest of
her.

I stop at the end of her bed and say, ‘Morning.’

Mum doesn’t smile but her friend does. He has perfect white teeth and laughter lines.

‘Sophie, this is Robert.’

Robert is already on his feet. He grips my hand firmly. ‘It’s so good to finally meet
you.’

‘Hi. I presume you’re the Robert who sent the flowers.’

‘Yes,’ he replies. ‘Lovely, aren’t they?’ The three of us gratefully turn our attention from each other
to the lavender. We stare in silence for just a little too long.

Robert breaks our trance and gestures to the chair. ‘Please, sit down.’

‘No, no, I’m fine really,’ I say, glancing between him and Mum. ‘I’ve spent the last couple of days
sitting on a plane or coach or in a hotel room. It makes a change to stand.’

The plastic chair remains empty between us. Mum makes no effort to talk, wanting certainly me, if
not both of us, to leave her in peace.

‘So how do you know each other?’ I ask, deciding polite chit-chat is better than silence.

‘We’re friends, and neighbours of course,’ Robert says, looking at Mum. She rubs the sheet between
her fingers and seems to stare straight through him. ‘I’m the pub landlord.’

‘Are you just visiting today?’

‘No, I’m staying in Norwich until the end of the week. My daughter gave birth to a son last month,
my third grandchild, so I’m spending some time with them.’

He looks too young to be a grandfather. I suppose he must be well into his fifties but he wears it
well, his middle age appearing as handsome ruggedness.

‘My son’s down for the day too, he’s parking the car.’ He glances at his watch. ‘In fact he’s been
ages.’

‘Who’s running the pub?’ Mum asks.

‘Marcy today, then Ben’s in charge.’

Mum’s eyes widen.

‘The responsibility will do him good, Leila. It’s not for long and it’s not like it’s weekend business.
Anyway, Marcy’s around to keep an eye on him.’ Robert pauses. ‘Do you need me to let anyone know
business-wise?’

Mum shakes her head. ‘I was on holiday. Everything can wait. Maybe check my emails when you go
back home.’ She stops talking and rests her head against the pillow.

Robert turns to me. ‘What do you do, Sophie?’

‘I’m a chef.’

‘Really.’ He sounds interested and surprised. ‘I’ve got a restaurant at
The Globe
.’

‘Robert,’ Mum’s voice is weak. ‘I feel sick.’ Her ashen face whitens as the blood drains
from her cheeks. She leans forward and closes her eyes. Robert looks anxiously along the
ward.

‘Here Mum, have a drink.’ I pour water from the jug on the bedside cabinet into a plastic cup.
Robert leaves us; his shoes squeak up the ward. Mum takes the cup from my hand. Her
wrists look as if they will snap with the effort. She brings the cup slowly up to her lips and
takes a sip. Soft lines cling to the corners of her eyes. Her eyelashes are long even without
mascara. She takes another sip of water. Robert returns with the reassuring footsteps of a
nurse.

‘I hear you’re not feeling too good,’ the nurse says, slipping a container on Mum’s lap. ‘How does a
sleep sound, Leila?’

Mum nods and lies down.

The nurse turns to us. ‘I think she might be getting a little ahead of herself. Too much talking for
one day.’

‘We’ll go get a coffee,’ Robert says, ‘and let her rest a while.’

It’s impolite to say no, so without meaning to, I find myself sitting in the middle of the packed hospital
restaurant with Robert. When I talk he pays full attention and when he talks he doesn’t lose eye
contact. It’s an intensity that’s quite appealing at first. I’m intrigued and a little puzzled by him and
his relationship with Mum.

‘How long are you here for?’ Robert asks. He takes his coffee black, one sugar. He stirs it while
looking at me.

I shrug. ‘For as long as she needs me or allows me to stay. I want to help. Catch up. You
know.’

‘She’s going to need looking after for quite a while and she’s not going to like it.’

‘You know her well then.’

‘She’s going to be driven mad not being able to do much.’

I have a cappuccino sprinkled with chocolate. I melt the chocolate top into the coffee. In Greece,
when we go out in Katerini there’s a bar that always serves cappuccinos with smiley faces etched into
the froth. I always order one, even in the middle of August.

‘Excuse me, I must just let Ben know where we are.’ He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out his
mobile and sends a text.

‘You work together at the pub?’

‘For the time being, yes. Ben’s finding his feet.’ He doesn’t explain further, instead he asks, ‘Where
are you staying?’

‘The Travelodge.’

‘You realise it’s going to be a little while before Leila is discharged.’

‘Yes, I know. I didn’t really think about that at the time. I just wanted to be here.’

Robert takes a sip of his coffee. It’s the first time since we sat down that he hasn’t looked directly at
me. His forehead creases. He leans forward and catches my eye. ‘Why don’t you stay at Leila’s? It’s
crazy you paying for a hotel room.’

‘No, it’s fine, really. It’s close to the hospital. I’ve got everything I need.’

He shakes his head. ‘I’ll talk to Leila. Her house needs looking after anyway. You can get it ready for
when she comes home.’