Following the disastrous picnic in the park, Gabs had decided that enough was enough. She had little in common with Alice and Mavis, and they certainly hadn’t been any help to her. When Mavis phoned to arrange the details of the next meeting (it would be her turn to host it), Gabs would make her excuses, and that would be that. She didn’t need Alice and Mavis in her life, and she was pretty sure that the feeling was reciprocal.
Then came Alice’s phone call. Gabs had been in a particularly good mood, and the idea of trying out make-up was irresistible. She had immediately forgotten her resolve never to see Alice again and had had a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon playing with Alice’s very expensive samples and flirting with Alice’s dishy son. She had been able to offload some of her worries, too, and Alice had proved to be a sympathetic listener. Perhaps the Basic Theology meetings could continue after all.
In the meantime, there was Steph.
Steph was fretting, and of course Gabs was the only person she could talk to. Gabs did her best to be understanding, but she still thought her sister was mad. She also thought it was high time that the ineffectual Clive was informed of his impending fatherhood.
“He needs to get used to the idea, too,” she said as Steph was revisited by her breakfast for the third morning in succession. “Besides, why should you be the only one to suffer?”
“He’ll be awfully upset.” Steph rinsed out her mouth and dried her face. She looked terrible.
“Good,” said Gabs. “You’re upset. I’m upset. I guess now it’s his turn, don’t you?”
“I suppose.”
“Right, then. You’d better phone him.”
“Do I have to?”
“You have to. No time like the present. Where’s your mobile?”
Gabs fetched Steph’s mobile and watched her as she dialled Clive’s number.
“What shall I say?” Steph whispered.
“Tell him you need to see him.”
“What if he asks why?”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Steph, give it here.” Gabs took the phone from Steph. A man’s voice answered.
“Is that Clive?” Gabs said.
“Yeah. Who wants to know?” The voice sounded jolly, with a hint of flirtatiousness. Gabs reckoned she’d soon put a stop to that.
“Steph’s sister wants to know,” she said. “Remember Steph? From church?”
“Yeah. I remember Steph. Course I do. You’re the sexy sister, are you?”
“Not so fast, Romeo,” said Gabs, thinking that Clive seemed to have grown up a bit since she last saw him. “Steph needs to see you.”
“What about?”
“You’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?”
“Will you be there?”
“I’ll be there,” said Gabs grimly.
“I’ll come to your place, then, shall I?”
“You do that. Tonight if possible. Seven o’clock be okay?”
“Fine. I’ll look forward to it.”
Gabs rang off and handed the mobile back to its owner.
“How was he? What did he say?” Steph wanted to know.
“He sounded fine. A bit too fine, if you ask me. But he’ll sober up soon enough when we tell him the good news.”
“Oh, Gabs. Don’t be too hard on him. He’s really nice when you get to know him.”
“I’m sure he is. And I’ll be perfectly reasonable, provided he’s prepared to face up to his responsibilities.” Gabs patted Steph’s shoulder. “Now don’t worry. Put on a bit of slap, and get yourself off to work. We’re both going to be late.”
Today was one of Gabs’ days for working for Care-at-Home, the agency that employed her, and she was looking forward to it. It was good to work with real people for a change, rather than the spoilt, wealthy clients who, it seemed to her, spent an unhealthy amount of time (and money) compensating for what they imagined to be their sexual deprivations. The elderly people she visited were always pleased to see her and good for a chat, and while Gabs was rarely able to stay long, she liked to feel that she left them in better spirits than when she arrived. Occasionally if the workload was light, she would style someone’s hair for them or do their nails; Gabs understood how much this could mean.
“Hair’s like a lawn,” she told one woman as she put in a few heated rollers. “If the lawn’s neat, you can get away with murder in the garden. Same thing with hair. If your hair looks good, the rest of you doesn’t matter so much.”
“Is the rest of me that bad?” the woman asked, but with a smile.
“The rest of you is just fine.” Gabs gave her a hug. “This —” she waved the hairbrush — “is just the icing on the cake. Trust me.”
That afternoon, Gabs had a meeting with her supervisor. Mrs. Grant was relatively new to the job. A stern, hatchet-faced woman, she ruled her little empire with a rod of iron, and was very much in the job for the money. She seemed to care little for her clients, and even less for their carers, and Gabs couldn’t stand her.
“I’ve received a complaint,” she said before Gabs had even had time to sit down.
“Oh yes?” Lesser mortals found Mrs. Grant terrifying. Gabs, however, did not.
“Yes.” Mrs. Grant picked up a folder and opened it.
“Okay.” Gabs leaned back in her chair and waited.
“Well, aren’t you going to ask me what it’s about?”
“You asked me here, so I guess you’re going to tell me.” Gabs inspected her fingernails. One of them was broken. Damn.
“Miss Kershaw phoned. She says you left her with wet hair.”
“Oh, does she?” Miss Kershaw was an exceptionally difficult woman. She was always complaining, and usually no one took any notice. This was beginning to feel personal.
“Yes, she does.” Mrs. Grant leafed through her file. Gabs knew that she was playing for time, waiting for some kind of reaction. But Gabs wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. “So, what do you intend to do about it?”
“I could pop back and dry it tomorrow?”
“Don’t be impertinent, Gabriel.”
Gabs stood up. “Look,” she said, “you know and I know that that woman’s an awkward old bat. I’m about the only person who’ll go near her now, and believe me, I don’t do it for love. If she doesn’t want me around anymore, that’s fine by me.”
“She has a contract with this agency. We’ve agreed to see to her — her personal needs.”
Gabs knew that Miss Kershaw considered her personal needs to be many and that she was also very rich. The agency would be most reluctant to lose her as a customer. Since Gabs was pretty well the only carer she would tolerate, the agency also needed Gabs.
“Okay. What do you want me to do? Grovel?”
“That will not be necessary. But I think an apology might be in order.”
“No chance,” said Gabs.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said, no chance. I’m not apologising to that old bag.”
“Really, Gabriel! That’s no way to speak about a client!”
“Suit yourself,” said Gabs cheerily. “But I’ve put up with more than my fair share of lip from that particular client, and if she doesn’t like me, she doesn’t have to have me.”
“Just a word would be enough, I’m sure.” Mrs. Grant was beginning to look desperate. “If you could just give her a quick phone call? I told her you would.”
“Sorry, but no. I’m prepared to go on visiting her — and you should thank your lucky stars that I am — but that’s it. No apology.”
“I’m not accustomed to being spoken to like that by a member of my staff!”
“Well, that’s tough. But if you’re going to take notice of people like Miss Kershaw, I can’t guarantee that you won’t be spoken to like that again.” Gabs grabbed her bag and made for the door. “I’ll see you on Wednesday.”
Game, set, and match to me, thought Gabs to herself as she walked down to the carpark (normally she favoured taxis, but for her agency work, her car — a bright pink mini — was essential). As she drove off, she felt almost sorry for Mrs. Grant. The poor old trout had probably been looking forward to giving Gabs a dressing-down, but had ended up practically begging her for that apology. Gabs knew that her dislike for Mrs. Grant was equalled only by Mrs. Grant’s similar feelings towards her, and that if it had been any of the other carers, Mrs. Grant would have dealt with the complaint herself. This afternoon’s interview had been intended as a show of strength, but it had backfired badly, and Gabs guessed that her supervisor wouldn’t take her on again in a hurry.
When she got home, she found Steph cooking supper.
“Soufflé okay?” Steph asked, whisking egg whites in a bowl.
“Fine.” Gabs would have preferred something more substantial, but she realised that Steph was trying to show her appreciation in the only way she knew — by cooking something complicated — and so it would have to do.
After their meal, Steph brushed her hair and put on some lipstick.
“He’s the one who should be doing that,” Gabs observed. “You have nothing to fear, you know.”
“I don’t think this shade would suit Clive,” said Steph in a rare attempt at humour. She put down the lipstick. “Oh, Gabs. I’m so nervous. What on earth am I going to say?”
“D’you want me to handle it?” After all, she’d done all the ‘handling’ so far.
“Oh, would you? I know I’m a wimp, but I just don’t know where to begin.”
“You’re not a wimp. You’re just too nice — that’s your trouble.”
“But you will be — you will be…”
“Gentle with him?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll do my best. Depends whether he behaves himself.”
Clive arrived promptly at seven. He too had apparently made an effort; his hair was carefully spiked and jelled, and he reeked of cheap aftershave.
“Well, hi,” he said when Gabs let him in. “You’re looking pretty good.”
“This,” said Gabs firmly, “is not about me. It’s about Steph. I’m just here to support her.”
“Why does she need support?” Clive dragged his gaze away from Gabs’ bosom.
“You’ll see.”
Steph was seated on the edge of the sofa, looking nervous. She greeted Clive shyly, and he gave her a dutiful peck on the cheek.
“Okay. Sit down, would you?” Gabs said, feeling that she was dealing with a pair of tongue-tied teenagers. Clive sat.
“Right. We’ll come straight to the point, shall we? Steph’s pregnant.”
There followed a very long pause, during which Steph went pale and then bright pink, and Clive stared at the carpet. Then he looked up.
“She can’t be,” he said. “Well, not by me, anyway.”
“She is,” said Gabs. “By you.”
“But we haven’t — we didn’t — well, she just can’t be.”
“It was that evening in the car,” Steph whispered.
“What evening in the car?”
“You know.”
“Would you like me to remind you?” Gabs asked. Since he didn’t reply, she went on to give such a detailed account of the events of the evening in question that by the time she’d finished, both Steph and Clive were crimson with embarrassment.
“Gabs, you didn’t have to… well, go into so much detail,” Steph said through tears of humiliation.
“Well, someone had to,” Gabs said. “Now, Clive, what are you going to do about it?”
“How — how pregnant is she?” Clive asked.
“About two months.”
“Can’t she have something done?”
“Like what?” Gabs was enjoying watching him squirm.
“You know. An operation or something.”
“It’s called an abortion, Clive, and as a good Catholic yourself, I’m sure you’ll understand that Steph won’t do that.”
“My dad’ll kill me.”
“Quite possibly. That’s not Steph’s problem. She has a dad of her own, who will probably provide the same service for her.”
“Oh, heavens! Dad! I’d forgotten about him!” Steph said. “He’ll go mad.”
“I’ll sort Dad out when the time comes. Now, Clive, the good news is that there’s help at hand.”
“What kind of help?”
“Well, it’s not what you’d call a solution, but Father Augustine is prepared to talk to you both.”
“You’ve told Father Augustine?”
“Yep. And he’ll have a chat with you both. It’ll be a start, at any rate.”
“Do we have to?”
“Bloody hell! You’re beginning to sound like Steph. And no. Of course you don’t have to. You can sort the whole thing out on your own if you’d prefer to. But I think Father Augustine would be helpful.”
“Was he — angry?”
“Just disappointed, I’d say.”
“Oh.” Clive fiddled with the frayed edge of the hole in his jeans. “So what do we have to do?”
“Make an appointment to see him.”
“Yeah. Steph, would you…?”
“No,” said Gabs. “I think you should, Clive. It’s about time you did something. Steph has been spewing her guts up for the past couple of weeks, not to mention all the worry. It’s your turn now.”
“Shall I — shall I phone him now?”
“Why not?” said Gabs, wishing now that she’d volunteered to do it for him. For then she would have had an opportunity to speak to Father Augustine herself. “Here. Take my phone; the number’s on it.”
Steph and Gabs waited as Clive stuttered his way through what sounded like a very muddled conversation. When he’d finished, he looked relieved.
“He’s ill,” he said, handing back Gabs’ phone.
“Who’s ill?” Gabs asked.
“Father Augustine.”
“Why? What’s wrong with him?”
“I didn’t ask.”
No, thought Gabs furiously. Of course you didn’t ask. Because all you’re concerned about is your own problems. The health of someone who’s offered to help you is of no consequence. She resolved to phone the presbytery herself at the earliest opportunity to find out a bit more.
“Well, did you ask to see Father Pat?”
“No. You didn’t say anything about Father Pat.”
“This is not up to me!” Gabs wanted to strangle him. “This is your problem. If Father Augustine’s not available, then it will have to be Father Pat, won’t it?”
“But Father Pat’s so fierce,” said Steph. “He’ll be furious.”
“No, he won’t. He must be used to things like this.” Gabs thought that Steph was probably right, but there was no point in worrying her further. “It’s his job to help, and you’ve been a pillar of his church. I reckon he owes you one.”
By the time Clive left an hour later, an appointment had been made for both of them to see Father Pat. Neither seemed to be very pleased about the arrangement, but at least it was a start, and Gabs, for one, would welcome someone else’s input, even Father Pat’s.
Later on, when Steph had gone to have a bath, Gabs phoned the presbytery. The housekeeper answered.
“Can you tell me how Father Augustine is, please?”
“He’s comfortable.”
This was hospitalspeak, and Gabs felt a frisson of alarm.
“Why? Where is he?”
“In the hospital.”
“What happened? I mean, is it serious?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”
“Was it an accident?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, woman, you can at least tell me how he is. That can hardly be breaking any confidences.”
“If you’re going to talk to me like that —”
“I’m not talking to you like anything! I just want to know! I’m — I’m his sister.”
“Father Augustine is an only child. He has no sisters. And since you’ve been so rude and have also lied to me, I’m afraid I have to ring off.”
And that was that.
For the next twenty-four hours, Gabs fretted and fumed. She tried phoning the hospital, but had no luck. No one appeared to have heard of a Father Augustine, and Gabs realised that his real name might be quite different. As to his surname, she had no idea what it was.
“You could try asking for the Catholic chaplain,” said Steph, who was still in grateful mode. “He’s bound to know.”
“So he is.”
Gabs phoned the hospital again. After a prolonged wait, in the course of which she had to press a lot of buttons and then listen to a rather piercing trumpet tune (was this really what the relatives of the sick needed to hear when they were anxiously awaiting news?), a man answered the phone.
“Are you the Catholic chaplain?” Gabs asked.
“I am.”
“Well, I just want to know — do you have a priest in the hospital?”
“I am the priest in the hospital.”
“No, I mean a sick priest.”
“You want a sick priest?”
“I don’t want a sick priest; I’m looking for one. He’s — he’s a friend. I want to know how he is.”
“Now, you know I can’t give out that kind of information. Unless of course you’re the next of kin.”
“I could be,” said Gabs.
“What do you mean, you could be?”
“Well, I don’t know whether he has any family, and if he hasn’t, then I could be his next of kin, couldn’t I?”
“My dear, it’s up to the patient to say who’s their next of kin. It’s not up to me. And it’s certainly not up to you.”
“So you can’t tell me how he is?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“But you know who I’m talking about? I know him as Father Augustine.”
“Not such a close friend, then.”
“Well, no. But you know who I’m talking about?”
“I do.”
“Okay. Just one question, then. Is he alive?”
The man laughed. “I think I’m allowed to say that he’s alive. Yes. I think that would be acceptable.”
“Not — not dying then?”
“Not as far as I know. Now, my dear, that’s really all I can tell you, and I probably shouldn’t have even told you that. If you really want to know how your — friend is, then I suggest you find his real next of kin and ask them.”
“So that’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Well, at least Father Augustine wasn’t at death’s door, and was therefore likely to leave the hospital at some stage. Gabs toyed with the idea of going to the hospital and trying her luck again, but decided against it. Besides, she didn’t want to embarrass Father Augustine by pitching up when he was ill in bed. That would hardly be fair. And he’d be feeling particularly vulnerable in his pyjamas.
Father Augustine in pyjamas. Gabs sighed. Hitherto she had only seen him in his dog collar or his clerical robes, dressed for his job. But in pyjamas, he’d be just like anyone else — just a no-frills man. A no-frills and very sexy man. There was something about pyjamas that Gabs had always found particularly seductive, especially as nowadays so few men seemed to wear them. But she was quite sure Father Augustine would wear pyjamas. With stripes.
“Any luck?” asked Steph, who was being quite sympathetic considering her views.
“Well, I have it on authority that he’s not dead.”
“I’ll ask about him when I go to Mass, shall I? Someone’s bound to know.”
“Please.”
“Shall I do another soufflé for supper? Or would you like a quiche?” Steph seemed to have bought more eggs. What was it with Steph and eggs? Gabs wondered. Shouldn’t it be coal?
“Steph, please, could we have something ordinary? I’m starving. I need junk.”
Steph looked at her pityingly. “I don’t know how you can,” she said, “especially as you’re supposed to be in love.”
“Believe me,” said Gabs, “being in love takes it out of you.” She relieved Steph of the box of eggs she was holding and replaced them in the fridge. “What you need — what we both need — is fish and chips from the fish and chip shop. Have we any ketchup?”