The Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop. Tracy Corbett

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       CHAPTER TWO

       Tuesday, 18 February

      An almighty thump from the bedroom prevented Scott from walking out of the door. He paused, waiting for further noises or cries of help to emerge, but none came. He had a job booked at a local florist’s this morning and he really needed to leave. The woman was already pissed off with him, unimpressed at having to wait four days for a call-out, so being late wouldn’t go down well. But guilt rooted him to the spot. It was no good, there was no way he could walk out without knowing if there was a problem.

      Dropping his tool bag on the floor, he went over and knocked on his mum’s bedroom door. ‘Everything okay in there?’

      There was a pause before the door opened. His mum’s nurse stood there, pristine in her blue uniform, her cheerful smile in place as always, no matter the challenge.

      Scott tried to look past her. ‘I heard a bang. Is Mum all right?’

      Oshma ushered him into the room. ‘Yes, yes, we’re fine. But we could do with a hand, couldn’t we, Billie?’ Oshma always included his mum in any conversation, despite her lack of reply.

      His mum was perched awkwardly on the side of the bed, her wheelchair upturned. He went over and eased her off the bed, holding her steady as she sagged against him. Losing the use of two of your limbs made it hard to hold your own body weight, so even with the use of her right side, it was difficult for his mum to stand, let alone manoeuvre herself around.

      She managed a smile, one corner of her mouth rising, the other remaining frozen. She mumbled something, but he couldn’t make out what.

      ‘I know you need to get off, Scotty, love.’ Oshma fussed around, bending to pick up the wheelchair. ‘But if you could help me get her into the shower, I’d be very grateful. I’m all fingers and thumbs this morning.’ Her face winced as she righted the wheelchair, leading Scott to the conclusion that Oshma’s back was playing up again. ‘Nothing like a nice shower, is there, Billie?’

      Scott lowered his mum into the chair and wheeled her through to the wet room.

      He didn’t mind helping. But if he was honest, he was still struggling to come to terms with how his life had changed in the last two years. One minute he was holding down a promising job with a big plumbing firm in London, engaged to the girl of his dreams and buying his first home, and the next he was giving notice on his job, splitting up with Nicole and relocating to care-assisted housing in Kent. It was a lot to get his head around.

      Oshma turned on the shower and unfastened the buttons on Billie’s nightie. ‘Let’s get you undressed, shall we?’

      Scott looked the other way, trying to be respectful. He couldn’t imagine it was fun having everyone stare at your broken body. He usually left the intimate bits to Oshma, figuring this was preferable than having your son do it. He busied himself by fetching towels from the airing cupboard.

      ‘Let’s get a move on, shall we,’ he heard Oshma say. ‘Let Scotty get off to work.’

      With no husband to support her it had fallen to Scott to look after Billie. And it was the right thing to do, despite its difficulties. After all, his mum had done the same for him and his sister when their dad had been killed in a motorbike accident aged thirty-four. She’d had to pick up the pieces and dig deep. It was his turn now. He had to show some mettle. But it wasn’t without a price.

      Two years ago his life had been all about him. Five-a-side footy on a Sunday, holidays abroad, saving for a convertible. He’d socialised with mates, ate out at nice restaurants and enjoyed a disposable income. Now his days were spent organising Billie’s medical needs, tending to her care requirements and, thanks to his sister, playing guardian to his eighteen-year-old nephew. He was exhausted, suspended in a constant state of worry. But his mum didn’t need to know that. He couldn’t let his frustrations show. She deserved better.

      He checked his watch, it was just gone 9 a.m. He was officially late. The woman at the florist’s wouldn’t be happy. Tough. She’d just have to wait a bit longer to get her boiler fixed. Family came first.

      At least setting up as self-employed eased the burden of constantly taking time off work, if not his on-going issues with paperwork.

      As he headed for the bathroom, Ben’s bedroom door opened. His nephew appeared carrying his new tablet. ‘I thought you’d left?’

      ‘Oshma needed a hand with Nanny. I think her back’s playing up again. How’s the gadget?’

      Ben’s СКАЧАТЬ