Misspent Youth

44. BACK HOME

THE HOSPITAL HAD ISSUED TIM CRUTCHES, his case nurse ordering him to keep his weight off his sprained ankle for at least a week. His cuts and grazes were sealed away to heal behind artificial skin. An electronic monitor bracelet gripped his wrist, its sensors linked to the hospital through the datasphere. “Only for another twenty-four hours,” the doctor told him. “We just want to be certain you’re on the mend.” Tim nodded meekly; his head was still woozy from the drugs they’d used to make him sleep.

He limped out to the taxi with Alison, wincing as he eased himself into the backseat. She sat beside him, watching him with attentive concern.

“I’m all right,” he insisted.

She smiled tightly, and nodded.

The physical pain was almost nonexistent compared to the hot embarrassment he was feeling. “Thanks,” he said awkwardly.

“What for?”

“Taking me back. I was a bit of a fool.”

Alison lit a cigarette, ignoring the glare the driver gave her in the mirror. She waved the smoke away from Tim. “Actually no, you were a big fool. Don’t ever do anything like that again, do you hear? I’m too old to be getting these kind of shocks.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“I should bloody well hope not.”

“Did Dad call again?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“Not much. He was upset that you didn’t want to talk to him.”

“Huh!” Tim turned to stare at the landscape through the taxi’s window.

“Tim, he does love you. More than I do, even. And all this has made me realize just how much you really do mean to me. You’re making him suffer badly by not taking a call.”

“Good. Maybe he’ll know what it’s like.”

“It’s not the same, Tim. What he and Annabelle did was pretty awful, I know. But you’re his son, and you were injured, rushed to the hospital. He’s desperate with worry.”

“Not desperate enough to come back.”

“That’s not fair, either. It’s difficult, not like when he and I were young, and there were dozens of trans-Atlantic flights every day.”

“Maybe.” He sank back deeper into the seat, scowling as his shoulder protested. He simply wasn’t used to pain or illness of any kind; whenever bugs got passed around at school he always seemed immune to them. “Was he really concerned?”

“Very much, yes. Look, you don’t have to say much, just stick your tongue out at him and make a farting sound if that’s what you want. Show him you’re alive and kicking. It would mean an awful lot to me, you know. I hate this whole business.”

Despite himself, a tiny smile played along Tim’s mouth. “Does it have to be a farting sound?”

“That’s my boy.”

THE REPORTERS WERE THANKFULLY STILL ABSENT from the entrance to the Manton estate. By some miracle, news that he’d had an accident hadn’t yet leaked from the hospital. They drove past the estate’s regimented houses, where disapproving residents watched them from their patio chairs. When they reached Alison’s bungalow they couldn’t park in the drive. A van and a pickup truck were already occupying it. The van belonged to a commercial house-cleaning company, while the pickup had the name of a landscape gardener printed down the side. Behind them was Sue’s Merc coupe. Tim blinked at it as he lumbered out of the taxi. He shot Alison an astonished look. She merely shrugged gamely.

The back of the pickup was already full of hedge trimmings, branches pruned from trees and shrubs, and a half dozen black polyethylene bags bulging with cuttings and weeds. Three men were working hard on the front garden, cutting the privet bushes back into shape and spreading mulch over the freshly weeded borders. Tim hadn’t ever known the bushes were topiary. A big mower robot was trundling across the lawn, shaving the grass down to a golf-course neatness and scarifying the abundant moss.

Tim was just about to ask what was going on when his mother came out the front door. Without a word she put her arms around him and hugged tight. Tim didn’t protest what the embrace was doing to his wrenched shoulder.

“I love you,” she whispered. “Don’t you ever ever do anything like that again.”

It looked like that was shaping up as the theme of the day. He tried to give her a reassuring smile when she let go, but it faltered when he saw the tears glinting in her eyes. She wiped them away quickly.

“I’m sorry,” he told her earnestly. “That wasn’t me. Really. That was somebody else, somebody stupid. He’s gone. Honestly.”

“Thank you.” She kissed his brow, then straightened up. “Come on, let’s get you inside.”

Tim was sure he must have been away for a month. The cleaning crew had magicked a complete transformation on the inside of the bungalow. Carpets were still slightly damp, smelling faintly of chemicals but revealing colors he’d never seen before. Wooden furniture had been polished to a smooth sheen, while painted wood had brightened by several shades. Windows were now fully transparent. His bed was made up with freshly pressed linen that he recognized from the manor. “Mrs. Mayberry brought it over,” Sue said. The wardrobe was full of his clothes, all neatly laundered. Two plastic boxes were crammed with other essentials from his room, crystals loaded with software and games, PCglasses, his personal datasphere interface module, peripherals, books, badminton racquet and shuttlecocks, along with a whole load of other junk.

“Thanks, Mum.”

SUE AND ALISON had obviously established some weird kind of truce. They were civil to each other the whole time. Tim sat in the living room, studying the newly manicured back garden while Sue made tea in the kitchen. He’d checked that out earlier, too; the freezer was full of new food packets, almost all of which were his favorite meals.

“Who’s taking care of all this?” he asked, waving an arm vaguely toward the clean flagstones of the patio.

“Your father is,” Sue said firmly. “He’ll see the invoices on the household account when he gets home. If he’s got a problem with that he can complain to me.”

“Oh.” Tim took a drink of his tea.

“He can’t just sling you out and expect you to cope like some sort of charity case. Whether he likes it or not, he has responsibilities.”

Tim considered that quietly. The concept of responsibility wasn’t one he’d connected with Jeff recently, nor Annabelle. But it did seem a more adult trait than the heedless exuberance they practiced. Or jumping a Jet Ski. “I’ve still got my allowance.”

“Which he’ll have to review. It was fine for when you were living at home, but now that you’re heading off for university that’ll need revising upward.”

Which was a prospect that Tim savored.

“Are you going to talk to him?” Alison asked.

“Suppose so.”

Alison told her domestic computer to connect them. Tim sat back in the couch as the big wall-mounted screen lit up, grateful to have his mother beside him. His father must have been waiting for the call: When the image came up it showed him sitting expectantly in a room with wooden floors and walls. There was a veranda behind him, with a glimpse of very blue sea in the background. It looked beautiful.

Jeff leaned forward in his cane chair, giving the screen an intent stare. “Tim. You don’t look too bad, son.”

“I’m all right.”

“I haven’t slept all night from worry.”

“It’s just some cuts and stuff.” He lifted his leg up to show the camera the thick layer of artificial skin wrapping his swollen ankle. “And this.”

“What did the doctors say?”

“Nothing much, they’re monitoring me.”

“Good. That’s good.”

Tim wondered if Jeff was feeling as discomfited as he did—he certainly looked very self-conscious. There were a whole load of things he wanted to say, maybe even shout at him again. But not with his mum and Alison in the same room.

“Uh, Annabelle says hello, and she hopes you’re all right.”

“Really?” Out of the corner of his eye, Tim could see his mother’s expression turning severe.

“Tim, I’ll be back in a few days,” Jeff hurried on. “I’d be truly grateful if I could come over and talk to you. I know I can’t put right what’s happened, but please don’t shut me out. You mean the world to me. After what happened on the Jet Ski I know that more than ever. I was really frightened for you, son. So if all you want to do is shout at me and tell me how vile I’ve been, then feel free. If that’s the price of seeing you again, I’m more than happy to pay it.”

Tim hung his head, unable to look at the camera lens. Blokes just didn’t talk all this emotional stuff, it was embarrassing. “I’ll be around for a while before I go to Oxford. If you want.”

“I do, Tim. I want that very much. And thank you for giving me the chance. I love you, son.”

“Yeah. Well. Okay. I’ll maybe see you when you get back, then.”

Jeff’s understanding smile lingered a while after the rest of the image vanished from the screen. Tim shook his head gravely, not quite sure who had been forgiving who.

“You did well,” Sue assured him. “He knows he’s the one that has to grovel.”

“I don’t think I really want that. I just…I want everything to have not happened.”

“There’s a lot of things in my life I feel the same about,” Alison said as she lit another cigarette. “You’ve just got to face them down and—”

“Move on,” Tim said. “Yeah, I think I’ve got that message now.”

HE WAITED UNTIL LATER THAT EVENING, after his mother had left and when he was alone in his room, before calling Vanessa.

“My God,” she squealed. “Are you all right? Martin called me and told me what happened. His parents were given a real dressing-down by the Tallington people for letting you out unsupervised. What were you thinking of?”

“I wasn’t, really. That was the problem. I was…I don’t know, angry with the world, I suppose.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Only when I laugh.”

Her smile of admiration was wide and sincere. Tim had never noticed before how big her smile actually was; on a face that was so compact and dainty it was almost overwhelming.

“You still staying with your aunt?”

“Till I go to Oxford, yeah.”

He hadn’t known how easy she was to chat to, either. They talked away for over half an hour, their conversation butterflying through subjects. It was strange; he didn’t try to impress her or be smart or cool. There wasn’t a lot of point—she knew him too well for that. Yet she still kept talking and joking with him. In the end he simply said: “My ankle should be all right again in a few days. Is that invitation to come and stay still open?”

“’Course it is.”