He said no more, but the following morning around seven o’clock he took off in the farm’s forklift to meet up with Giles and Terry Yarwood in theirs. By eight they had shifted the stinking mass of an abandoned campsite over to Dean Manor’s gates, where they dumped the lot before returning to the farmhouse for one of Shelley’s scrumptious full English breakfasts.
It was just after ten when Sir Humphrey Bleasdale rang. ‘I want that filth moved off my land,’ he roared down the line at Jack.
‘Speak to your sons, they’re the owners,’ Jack told him.
Shelley could almost hear Sir Humphrey gnashing his teeth like some pantomime villain. ‘You don’t know who you’re dealing with, Raynor,’ he growled, ‘but mark my words, you’re going to find out.’
In his usual insouciant way, Jack wished the old puffball a good day and put the phone down. It wasn’t the first time Humphty Dumphty, as the kids called him, had threatened Jack, or Giles, or any of the other farmers who didn’t pay obeisance to his superior status, and Shelley knew without doubt that it wouldn’t be the last.
Present Day
Kesterly didn’t look any different from the way it always had as Gil drove them along the seafront in his silver Mercedes saloon. Vivienne hadn’t expected it to, but familiar as it was, it felt different. Everything did. She guessed a time would come when she’d be able to put the strangeness, the chaos and darkness of her feelings into words, or some order of understanding, but for now all she could latch onto that didn’t send her into panic was a bewildering sense of surrealism that made everything seem like an endless dream – or as though someone else had slipped into her skin to take over her life.
Her mother was beside Gil in the front of the car. Vivi sat behind with Mark, her head resting on the seat back as she gazed out at the calm blue sky and crazily glittering sea. The tourists were out in good numbers, to be expected on a sunny day in early summer, and in a vague, disconnected way she felt glad for them. At least their lives didn’t appear to be in any sort of crisis.
As they drove on she took in those who were picnicking or napping on the grass verge between the four lanes of the Promenade; others filled the cafés spilling onto the pavements, and still others, not visible from the car, were no doubt baking themselves on the beach or paddling in the slushy waves.
Did they realize how important it was to cherish every minute of every day?
She was just learning the lesson herself, and still had a very long way to go.
Almost two months had passed since she’d gone from being a perfectly healthy person (or so she’d thought) to someone who was only alive thanks to tireless and dedicated expert care, and the massive cocktail of drugs she was now dependent on. Learning what life was going to be like for the foreseeable future – no more work, limited and careful exercise, constant assessments, pain management where needed, special diets: the list was endless – had been a shock she hadn’t yet come to terms with, and she didn’t feel confident that she ever would. This was nothing like the life she had planned for herself. She was an invalid now, someone who could only survive on medication and the hope of a new heart. It was as though she’d suddenly become old. The worst of it might have been the advice to refrain from physical intimacy until she was strong enough to cope with the strenuous nature of it, but since she didn’t have a partner it was hardly an issue. And it was never going to be one, for what chance did she stand of ever finding anyone in Kesterly, or anywhere, who’d want to take on the hassle of a sick woman whose condition was only going to get worse, unless a miracle came along in the shape of someone dead so she could live?
The horror of that was too hard to think about, so she didn’t.
While being assessed for a new heart she’d read stories online about those who’d managed to get their lives back on track after the transplant, and who’d even gone on to greater things. There was no reason, she’d been told, for her not to be one of their number. There was no guarantee that she would be, either, for in amongst the many upbeat stories had been just as many – more, even – telling a much sadder tale: waits that had gone on for years only to end in death; mad dashes to a transplant centre to find the donor heart wasn’t suitable; post-operative immunosuppressive drugs causing cancer … The only good news in all this, as her mother saw it, was that she hadn’t been rejected for transplant, which could have happened, since some people were too sick for the procedure. If she were one of their number she’d know for certain that she wasn’t likely to make it beyond a few months. As it was, she probably wouldn’t anyway.
Her mother had been there every day throughout the transplant assessment and the surgery, only a few days ago, to fit her with an ICD – implantable cardioverter defibrillator. There had been much discussion about going straight for a VAD – Ventricular Assist Device – and Vivi had prayed with all her might that it wouldn’t happen. She’d read much about that too, the open-heart surgery to attach the pump to the left ventricle and aorta with drivelines connecting her heart, through the skin, to a controller and batteries that she’d have to take everywhere with her. Plenty had been written by those who had one about the pain of it, the fear of it stopping, and the dreadful things that sometimes happened if it did.
She’d wept with relief when the decision had been taken to hold the VAD in reserve for the time being.
Gina had shared the relief, but Vivi had turned away when her mother had broken into a smile. She was glad her mother was there, but she couldn’t bear to see her clutching at straws that were little more than thin air. Nor did she want to see her fear and worry, nor how shattered and gaunt she looked as one setback was overcome, only to be replaced by another. This was obviously affecting her deeply, but there were times when Vivi had needed to wallow in her terrible, wrenching emotions alone. Surely running a marathon for such a deserving cause was a good thing, not something to be punished for, so why had it turned into this? It was small comfort – maybe no comfort at all – to be told that it would have happened sooner or later anyway. Her heart had been weakening for a long time without her knowing it, and now it was a virtually useless vessel of such pathetic performance that it could fail at any time. It was a pump that had run out of thrust, a muscle that was atrophying like a flower past its bloom.
This time next year, or maybe even before that, there would very likely be an empty space where she was now, just Mark in the back seat of the car, an empty chair at their table, a bedroom that would no longer be used, someone they wouldn’t have to consider when they bought gifts and made plans. All that would exist of her would be the memories her friends and family shared, or maybe she’d be a ghost, moving amongst them unseen, unheard and unable to reach out and touch them.
‘It’s quite natural for you to be feeling blue and frightened right now,’ the psychologist had told her before she’d left hospital. ‘It’s a lot to take in, but you’ll find it becomes easier as you gain strength and your coping mechanism comes to the rescue.’
‘What if none of it shows up?’ she’d asked. ‘No strength, no coping mechanism, no hope even?’
The psychologist hadn’t seemed to doubt that it would all kick in at some point, and probably sooner than she expected. He’d then talked about the counselling that would be available any time Vivienne required it.
Reading reports from other heart patients, Vivi knew that the counselling promise wasn’t one to rely on. There had been too many cuts to the NHS budget to guarantee anything, least of all treatment for mental health when the costs of her physical needs were running into many tens of thousands of pounds.
Why didn’t they save the money