With the care market carved up and divvied out to the cheapest private contractors, running costs were pared to the bone, wages pegged as low as possible. Looking after the frail and vulnerable was just another business, with people out to make profits.
Louise had a fag after Mrs Coulson. One of Carl’s duty-frees. She leant against her car, collar done up tight. There was a group of little kids on scooters and bikes playing together, Asian most of them, and a couple of white kids. They shouted to each other, excited voices and Mancunian accents ringing in the air. One of them, a little boy with glossy black hair wearing a loose tunic and trousers and an open anorak, suddenly threw down his scooter and started singing and dancing, his arms flashing like semaphore and then his hands on his waist, thrusting his hips like Michael Jackson. A little star. His mates cheered and crowed and Louise laughed.
She remembered Luke’s break-dance phase in the last years of primary school, spinning on his head and flipping back and forth like a contortionist. It was the move to high school when things had really started to sour. It was a tough school, a big comprehensive, and Luke loathed it. It was in his second year that he first got into serious trouble, for hitting another student. When Luke explained, his eyes burning, unable to sit still, that he’d exploded after weeks of low-level bullying – taunts and tricks and having his things ruined – Louise tried to get the school to drop the exclusion. They refused; it was a zero-tolerance offence, though they did give the other kids involved a week’s detention. Luke lost his faith then. Bitter at his treatment and bored senseless by many of the lessons.
One of the little kids yelled, ‘Last one to the corner’s a dumbo,’ and they all swarmed off, pedalling and scooting furiously.
It was Ruby’s audition soon; Louise must make time to watch her practise. Like Deanne said, they’d be mad not to take her, but then who knew how tough the competition was. And if there was any problem with the bursary, she simply wouldn’t be able to go. Louise wondered if she should raise the prospect of disappointment, to prepare Ruby just in case, or if that would undermine her confidence.
In the car, she reached to get the mints, catching sight of herself in the rear-view mirror: washed out, dark hollows beneath her eyes. Ten years older. More.
At the hospital, the nurse on reception recognized her and said that Dr Liu would like to see her before she left. A spurt of hope leapt in Louise’s chest. Her pulse began to race. ‘Has there been any change?’ Ready to run to see Luke, to talk to him, revel in his response, gaze into his eyes, see sense there, emotion, life.
‘No,’ the nurse said. ‘We’d always get in touch straight away if that was the case.’
‘Of course.’ The hope sputtered, guttered out, leaving an ache inside. ‘Is she free now?’ Louise asked.
‘On her break, but I can tell her you’re with Luke when she gets back.’
Louise greeted him as she always did: ‘Hello, Luke, it’s Mum.’ And kissed him, then held her palms against his cheeks. ‘Ruby’s not coming tonight, she’s making tea, well, sticking some pasties in the oven. I don’t know about you, love, but I’m knackered.’
She got herself settled in the chair by the bed but didn’t bother getting her patchwork out. Her eyes felt scratchy and dry and she preferred to take his hand, and close her eyes as she stroked his arm and talked. ‘I saw Angie last night,’ she said. ‘She’s doing all right. And Declan sends his love. And I know you’re probably lying there thinking, “What do I care and why’s she wittering on like this?” but if you don’t like it, you’ll have to wake up and tell me.’ She talked on, dipping into memories too, hoping that they might reach the parts the trivial gossip didn’t.
She was back in the present, passing on Deanne’s news, when she heard the shush of the door and Dr Liu came in.
‘Hello, Luke,’ said the doctor. She always made a point of speaking to him, and Louise liked that. ‘Shall we talk next door?’ she asked Louise.
