Welcome to Rosie Hopkins' Sweet Shop of Dreams
Page 34

‘So, it’s your leg,’ Rosie said, taking out her blood pressure sac.
‘Good work, Sherlock,’ said Stephen. ‘Actually, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I don’t need anyone to come in any more.’
‘Really?’ Rosie said. ‘What happened to you then?’
Stephen snorted. ‘You can tell you’re new around here.’
‘How are you finding getting around?’
‘I’m entering the Olympic gymnastics,’ said Stephen. ‘Honestly, I’m fine. Tell that horse’s arse Moray he can stop these visits.’
Rosie gave him a look. ‘Could you make me a cup of tea please?
‘No,’ said Stephen rudely.
‘Well, could you get me a glass of water please?’
‘The glasses are in the cupboard behind you.’
Rosie stared him out. With a heavy sigh, eventually Stephen pulled himself out of his seat. Rosie watched him closely. His arms were heavily muscled. It was patently obvious how he was getting around, and it wasn’t by using his leg. One leg was significantly thinner than the other. Stephen lugged himself to the cupboard.
‘It’s all right, I’ve changed my mind,’ Rosie said. Stephen looked at her crossly, but it was with clear relief that he dropped back into the chair.
‘Are you going to let me take a look at it?’
‘No.’
Rosie made some rapid notes on a piece of paper.
‘What are you writing down?’
‘Well, I’ll need to tell Moray to set up a plan for when they have to do the amputation.’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Stephen. ‘It’s fine. It’s OK. I’m OK.’
Rosie put the pad down with a sigh.
‘You’re nowhere near OK,’ she said. ‘You won’t even let me see it, you won’t put weight on it, I see no evidence that you’re doing your exercises, and you’re clearly depressed.’
‘I am not depressed.’
Rosie was too quick for him and snatched up his iPod.
‘Leonard Cohen? This Mortal Coil?’
‘So that’s what they teach you at nursing university? Diagnosis by pop music?’
Rosie looked around. The kitchen was clean and tidy, at least, and a lingering scent of toast hung in the air.
‘Who’s feeding you?’
Stephen shrugged. ‘Mrs Laird comes in.’
Rosie made a mental note to track down this Mrs Laird.
‘And she thinks you’re all right, does she?’
Stephen looked as if the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. ‘I suppose. She normally doesn’t bother to wake me.’
‘And apart from that you’re here all alone?’
‘I like it.’
Rosie glanced out of the large kitchen window. There were views right across the darkening valleys, down to the white mansion below.
‘Lovely views.’
‘Hmm,’ said Stephen.
‘Which is why you were facing the other way when I came in.’
‘Look, nursey, I don’t mean to be rude, but could you go now please?’
‘I am at least going to check your blood pressure. You’ve certainly raised mine.’
Rosie came round and took his left arm, which was extremely muscular. The band would hardly fit round it. She fumbled a little as she did it, nervous around his truculence and aware that she was off her turf. He was wearing baggy cord trousers that were patently too big. Stephen said nothing, sitting as still as a statue. Rosie was peculiarly aware of him so close up.
She checked the dial: ninety over sixty. Low.
‘Well, that’s fine.’
‘Thank you, nurse,’ said Stephen.
‘What about eating?’
‘Fine.’
‘Physio?’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’
‘Sleep?’
For the first time, when he paused, Rosie glimpsed a crack in his armour. His voice, which before had sounded confident, if peeved, faltered a little.
‘Uh. I …’
Rosie waited him out. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded hoarse.
‘I never sleep at all.’
Rosie looked at him, then made a few more notes on her pad.
‘What’s that for?’
‘You’ll see,’ Rosie said. She packed her kit away.
‘You’re going now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
‘But I’m coming back.’
‘Don’t.’
‘Well, either I’m coming back or the ambulance is, when they have to take that leg off after all because of neglect.’
Stephen looked her straight in the face.
‘Nurse …’
‘Rosie,’ she said firmly.
‘Rosie,’ said Stephen. ‘You know nothing about neglect. Believe me.’
Then he picked up his iPod again, clicking it round and round like a sullen teenager and refusing to look at her.
Rosie scanned him up and down. Then she felt in her pocket and withdrew a large pink-striped paper bag of cola cubes she’d brought with her from the shop in case she met any recaltricant children. Clearly, she had. She left it sitting on the table.
Moray was hovering anxiously outside the car.
‘Can I come in?’
‘Uhm, probably not,’ said Rosie.
‘But you were in there for ages!’ said Moray.
‘Did you think he’d shot me with his gun?’
‘No! But you’ve done better than anyone else has. Better than me, better than Hywel.’
‘I didn’t really get anywhere,’ said Rosie. ‘His blood pressure is low though. Unhappily so.’
‘He let you take his blood pressure?’
‘Sorry, I know I shouldn’t have.’
‘No, no, that’s fine. That’s great.’
Moray lapsed into silence as they bumped down the hill and Rosie reflected on what she’d just seen. This Stephen Lakeman was obviously in all kinds of pain, only about 20 per cent of it physical, she reckoned, but the most crucial thing was getting someone in to take a look at that leg.
He couldn’t be up there all by himself, could he? Who lived like that? Where were his family? His siblings? His girlfriend?
‘What happened to him?’ she asked out loud.
‘God knows,’ said Moray. ‘Turned up with an injured leg, missing notes and an absolutely furious refusal to engage with anyone anywhere who might possibly be able to help him. Something about a military hospital.’