Quintin Jardine - For The Death Of Me

‘Is that why Alex left you?’

‘Ultimately, yes. He never asked me who Jan’s father was, I never told him, and I’m sure he never guessed. In truth, we barely discussed the matter. We just stumbled on for another four or five years, until he went off with his new love. . who, ironically, has three children from her first marriage.’

‘You never told us, Mary,’ I repeated quietly, my calmness restored.

‘How could I? Flora was still alive then, and she and your father were blissfully happy. What was I to do? Spill the beans and put that at risk? Make myself the most hated woman in town in the process? I’m sorry, Oz, call me weak, call me a fool, but I kept my mouth shut.’

‘But what about Jan and me, when you saw us together as kids?’

‘When I found out, you were both in your early teens. You behaved like brother and sister, even if you didn’t know you were.’

‘Mary,’ I told her, ‘from the age of. . fourteen, as I recall. . Jan and I did not behave exactly as brother and sister should. I’m not saying that she wasn’t a good girl, or that I was a bad boy, because we were pretty responsible by contemporary standards, but like any other kids of that age, there was kissing, like you just put it, there was cuddling, there was touching, there was feeling around. The older we got, the more intimate we got.’

‘I didn’t know that, though. When Jan reached puberty, we had the chat that you’re supposed to have. It embarrassed both of us, for she was very much a tomboy at that stage. I never thought of the two of you like that, honestly. When I found out. . I was shocked, terrified, even, but by then it was too late.’

‘When did you find out?’

‘I began to worry when I heard a story about you beating up two boys at school, because of something lewd that one of them had said about Jan. Then I found a condom, in its packet, in her room. I didn’t need to ask any questions after that.’

‘Did you talk to Jan about it?’

‘I asked her if she was having sex. I didn’t ask her with whom, but there was only one possibility. It’s the only time we ever had anything close to an argument. She told me very firmly that we should strike a deal: I wouldn’t ask her that question again and she wouldn’t ask me either.’

‘Even then, couldn’t you have told us?’

She reached up and touched my face. ‘And if I had, my dear,’ she murmured, ‘how cruel would that have been? No, I kept it to myself and prayed you’d never find out. And you never would have either, but for Tom.’

‘You realised when you saw him, didn’t you?’

‘How could I not? It was like seeing my own child again. But it didn’t occur to Mac at all, I promise you. He said, “He’s a real wee Blackstone, isn’t he?” but that was all.’

I looked at her. ‘Then, Mary,’ I said, ‘for the love of God, if he comes through tonight, make sure that he never finds out the truth.’

‘I’ll try.’

I couldn’t help it: I felt my eyes harden. ‘Trying isn’t an option. Make bloody certain that he doesn’t.’

Maybe I should have blamed my dad. After all, the consequences of his quick, drink-fuelled, adulterous lapse on the living-room shag pile would live with me for the rest of my life. But I couldn’t: I’d found out a couple of years before that he isn’t perfect, just as I know I’m not.

When I thought about it some more, I found I didn’t blame Mary either. The same event had doomed her marriage, which some might see as just, but it had also condemned her to live what must have been a nightmare. Those who see that as right and proper retribution are free, as far as I’m concerned, to go and abuse themselves in some far corner of the planet, for they can have none of the Christian in their soul. (Unlike Mary, who’s always been a Church member, and who’s a true believer. All the more credit to her, I suppose, that she’s come through it as best she could. Eventually. . not that night, but on one of only two other occasions we’ve ever spoken about the matter. . she confessed to me that she saw Jan’s death as a divine punishment. I told her that any God who would do a thing like that wasn’t worth an inverted candle, but I don’t think she could bring herself to believe me.)

The surgeon came to see us just before six. It was well daylight outside, and Ellie was awake. Happily, he was smiling when he opened the door. Relief came from my sister and my step-mother in waves, and even from Conrad. I have to confess, for all that I’d convinced myself that Dad would pull through, a tear came to my eye when I saw the confirmation in that big, chunky man’s face. I saw something else there too: pure exhaustion. The procedure had taken six hours from start to finish.

He looked at Mary, then Ellie, and finally at me. ‘Positive news,’ he announced, ‘I’m happy to say. We’ve replaced your father’s failed aortic valve with a metal one, and it seems to be functioning well. He’s in a recovery room just now; I’m going to keep him heavily sedated for a while, and still on the ventilator, but that’s just routine. I’m entirely happy with the way things have gone.’

‘Can we see him?’ Mary asked.

‘From a distance. He’s still under, and in theatre conditions. Once you’ve done that, I recommend that you all go home and get some rest; maybe come back in around twelve hours, if you’d like. Any questions?’

‘How close a call was it, Mr. .?’ I asked.

‘Blacker,’ he replied, ‘Cedric Blacker. As close as there can be. If there hadn’t been a doctor present when he collapsed, he wouldn’t have made it. He can thank his golfing chum for keeping him alive till the ambulance arrived.’

‘He’ll thank him, don’t you worry. So will we all. I know said doctor. He’s a gin-swilling old sod normally. Thank God he was on the ball yesterday.’

The four of us were gowned up. . Conrad held back at first, but I insisted that he join us. . and shown into the recovery room. As soon as I clapped eyes on him, lying on that bed, zonked out on whatever sedative they’d pumped into him, with a pipe in his mouth and umpteen tubes leading into and out of various parts of his body, all my euphoria disappeared. I’d never imagined seeing him so weak, so old, so vulnerable; the sight filled me with all kinds of dread. He wasn’t out of the wood yet. Indeed, looking at him, he seemed to be in the heart of the forest.

The sight of him took me back to my mother’s last illness. It took me back to identifying Jan’s body in a tiny, impersonal room in a Glasgow hospital: Jan, my lover, my wife, my soul-mate. . my sister.

It took me forward too: I imagined other people on that bed. Susie, Ellen and Prim. I saw all of them lying under that sheet. And I saw myself too; oh, yes, I saw myself, with a row of gowned people staring misty-eyed at me. Not the kids, though: I couldn’t imagine my children in such a situation. What parent can?

Once we had all seen enough. . most of the time I looked at the monitors, convincing myself that all the peaks were regular and steady. . and once I had given an update to the small group of diehard journalists who were still standing guard, we took Mr Blacker’s advice and headed home. More specifically, we headed for Dad and Mary’s, in Anstruther, with me at the wheel, Conrad beside me and the girls sleeping in the back. . my sister could sleep for Britain. I bought a bag of morning rolls, and the four of us had an old-fashioned Scottish breakfast. . much the same as a full English breakfast, but heavier on the black pudding and with potato scones thrown in. Then Ellen headed back to St Andrews, to Harvey and my nephews, Jonny and Colin, and I headed for the phone to call Susie.