CAROL MARINELLI - English Doctor, Italian Bride

‘Poor pet!’ Carmel always fussed over Hugh, in a way she never did over Bonita. ‘We should ask him to eat with us more often—he can come and have a nice meal when he exercises Ramone.’

‘I’m sure he’s got other things to be getting on with,’ Bonita snapped as her mother shot her yet another warning look, but Bonita wasn’t about to be deflected, her own disappointment slipping out as she stated the obvious. ‘He didn’t even want to come to the barbeque.’

‘Hugh’s not coming?’ Her father frowned and instantly Bonita felt guilty for upsetting him, but, hell, what did they expect? As if Hugh was going to bring Amber to one of their get-togethers.

‘He’s working, darling,’ Carmel said, smiling at her husband while simultaneously freezing Bonita with a look! ‘You know how busy he is, but he did say he’d try to come.’

Why did they constantly make excuses for him? Bonita thought, more than a little rattled now.

It was as if the fact his mother had died when he was young and he’d been raised in a boarding school was excuse enough for Hugh to pick and choose when he turned up, excuse enough to bed half his fellow medical students and then work his way through the rest of the hospital personnel.

Every exploit, every broken heart, every late or non-arrival had been brushed off and forgiven by her brothers and parents.

Well, all bar one, Bonita thought, closing her eyes on the beginning of a thumping headache. She wondered how forgiving her father would be if he knew how badly the fabulous Hugh had treated his own daughter.

‘How long did Hugh say you’d be off work for?’ Carmel asked despite Bonita’s closed eyes.

‘I’ve got two weeks in this contraption, and then it all depends. Another two to four weeks…’ Bonita let out a weary sigh and opened her eyes as an impossible thought dawned. ‘After my knee last year and everything, I’ve only got five days’ sick leave left.’

‘Well, you can’t go back before you’re ready—they’ll understand that!’

‘I know,’ Bonita replied, ‘it’s just…’

‘And you don’t need to worry about money. It’s not as if you’re not going to be going out much or anything.’

‘I know!’ Bonita said, irritated, because her mother didn’t get it, thinking of the rent that would still have to be paid, half the electricity bill that was tucked behind the fridge, and the fact sick pay didn’t give shift allowance.

‘We’ll sort it out a bit later!’ Carmel broke into her thoughts, gave Bonita a tired smile that showed maybe she did get it after all, and that they’d talk about it away from her father.

‘You can do some work here,’ Luigi said later, when after a doze on the sofa they had dinner and, with far less gusto that Bonita, he tried to work his way through some home-made mushroom soup. ‘You can work on the till.’

‘She’s not going to be able to work the till and pack bags with one arm,’ Carmel huffed. ‘She can’t possibly work at the shop.’

‘She can answer the phone!’ Luigi said.

‘What—and tell them to hold while she puts down the receiver to write things down? A one-armed helper in this place is as useless as tits on a bull!’ Carmel said, in her usual manner. ‘And she can’t help with the wine-tasting, because she won’t be able to pour.’

‘I have got one arm!’ Bonita said indignantly. ‘I’m sure I can manage the wine-tasting!’

‘Are you going to call me down from the stables to pull a cork?’ Carmel snapped. ‘And, anyway, you don’t even like wine! The customers will know you have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘So you’re basically saying that I’m useless!’ Bonita bristled, hoping for a dash of guilt from her mother, not surprised when it never came.

‘Pretty much—yes!’ Carmel responded, then turned to her husband. ‘You’ll just have to keep her company, Luigi—stop her moping about the place.’

Taking another gulp of her soup, Bonita was about to give her mother another smart reply, another surly Sorry even, but her spoon paused midway, and it was there again, something in her mother’s eyes that she’d seen at the hospital.

What was it Hugh had said as she’d been going under?

Dipping buttered bread into the soup, Bonita tried to recall, but it was like chasing a dream, tiny little fragments of conversation, like scooping water with a net, the words slipping away…

‘It might help… The best thing that ever…’ She could hear those words again, hear his voice lulling her as she had drifted off.

Was her mother, in her no-nonsense way, letting them both off the hook?

Telling them both that there wasn’t a thing she could do?

Maybe just her being here with her father would be a help on its own….

‘Have you heard from your young man?’ Luigi asked, pushing away his nearly full plate.

‘He isn’t my “young man” any more.’ Bonita smiled. ‘It’s over between Bill and I, Dad.’

‘You’re sure about that?’ Luigi checked. ‘You were together a long time. Maybe he’ll change his mind.’

‘He’s not going to change his mind.’

‘Then he’s a fool,’ Luigi said darkly. ‘What sort of man would finish with his girlfriend at a time like this?’

‘Come on, Gig,’ Carmel interrupted, calling him by his pet name, ‘have a little bit more soup.’

It was the closest, Bonita realised, they’d ever come to admitting that her father was so ill and, yes, it was a question that plagued her family and colleagues—how could Bill have even thought about breaking up with Bonita now, when she had so much going on in her life? Only Bill wasn’t the bastard they all made out. Bill, as it turned out, knew her almost better than she knew herself.

Bill, ending it when he had, had solved a massive dilemma for Bonita—just not one she could ever reveal.

‘Bill’s a nice guy, Dad. It just didn’t work out between us, we weren’t right for each other.’

‘And it took you three years to work that out!’ Luigi huffed. ‘He should have done the decent thing by you ages ago.’

‘Why don’t you have a bath?’ Carmel said, and this time Bonita was grateful for the interruption. According to her father’s rules she and Bill should have long since been married—that they had been dating for three years and there wasn’t even a ring to hurl at Bill was proving impossible for her father to understand. ‘I’ll give you a hand.’

Her mother bathing her was not an option, and Bonita immediately shook her head.

‘I’ll have a wash at the sink.’

‘Suit yourself,’ Carmel said, picking up the plates, trying hard to pretend it didn’t matter that Luigi had only managed two spoonfuls of soup. ‘But, I’m warning you, I won’t have time to help you in the morning. If you want to go for your appointment half-washed, then it’s up to you! Oh, and by the way, your hair smells of vomit!’

A farmer’s wife she may be, but Carmel would—Bonita realised as they headed to the hallowed sanctum of her parents’ room, which was on the other side of the house to the ‘children’s’ bedrooms—actually have made a very good nurse.

‘We’re all set up for it in here!’ Carmel smiled as she flicked on the light in her bathroom. There was a little stool perched in the bath and a hand-rail the occupational therapist had arranged to be inserted, along with a handheld shower. Even groggy from the day and with one arm out of action, Bonita, could, in fact, have a decent wash.

Carmel would have made a lovely nurse actually because when for the first time she could really remember Bonita had to strip in front of her mother, instead of saying it didn’t matter and she’d seen it all before, Carmel held up a towel. Then, once Bonita was seated, Carmel gave her a moment before she dealt with the practical and covered her daughter’s arm with a large garbage bag. Then she chatted away, wiping imaginary spots off the shower as her daughter washed.