Like a House on Fire Read Free

shower.
    She ignores him, just goes on explaining. ‘Now you lower yourself onto the seat using the handrails and back out your walker because you’re not supposed to get it wet.’
    â€˜Right. I’ll be right now.’
    â€˜Well, I’ll just stay and turn on the taps. See, they’re low — they put them there specially.’
    â€˜Be easier if I could stand up. Reach the bloody soap myself then.’
    â€˜I’ll look out for one of those soap-on-a-rope things.’
    God, the flesh is hanging off him. His knuckles are white and waxy as they cling to the handles; he’s as scared and frail as an old, old man. Scared to turn his head or take one hand off the rail. One misstep away from a nursing home. His hair needs a cut and she decides she’ll do it later at the kitchen table.
    â€˜That’s better,’ he says as she adjusts the hot tap.
    And she can hear that he’s about to say thank you, then stops and swallows. Even without the thanks, though, she thinks it’s probably the longest conversation they’ve had for months.
    â€˜Now you need to put the brake locks on this every time you pull up, understand? Don’t forget — up with the handrails, step onto the rubber mat, both hands on the walker handles then release the brake.’
    â€˜I’m not stupid,’ he mutters, but his eyes are following her every move, the pupils dilated.
    She gets him dressed and into the kitchen, cuts his hair and shaves him. One of the casseroles, defrosted, with rice — he can manage that. Then she tears a page off the pad and lays it down in front of him, places the cordless phone handset next to him.
    â€˜What’s this?’
    â€˜Phone numbers. You’ve got some calls to make.’ She feels a surge of courage as she says it, there on the other side of the table. She taps the list. ‘People to ring and thank, now you’re home.’
    â€˜Don’t bloody start that nonsense. I didn’t ask for any of those do-gooders to come around.’
    â€˜Frank,’ she says. ‘I’m not arguing with you, I’m telling you. If you ever want another favour done, and believe me you’re going to be calling in a few, ring and let people know how much you appreciate what they’ve done for you.’
    â€˜Or what?’ He looks strange, fighting to maintain an attitude of derisive scorn as he sits there in pyjamas, his hair neatly combed and the muscles wasted on him after all these months on his back.
    â€˜What do you reckon?’ she says, exasperated. ‘We go under. We sell up.’
    And when he looks at her with familiar, narrow contempt, she picks up the hand mirror, lying there next to the scissors on the table, and a steady exhilaration pumps through her as she deliberately angles it to face him.
    â€˜Take a good look,’ she says, ‘and get on that phone.’
    In bed, already planning in her mind the tasks of the next day, she listens to the fan ticking over their heads and feels the forgotten, heavy presence of him lying beside her. She thinks about the physiotherapist at the hospital, lifting Frank’s legs and folding them against his body, turning him on his side and gently bending his arms from shoulder to hip. Flexion, she’d called it. Exercises to flex the muscles and keep the memory of limber movement alive in the body, to stop those ligaments and tendons tightening and atrophying away.
    â€˜Just like this, Mr Slovak,’ she’d said, that calm and cheerful young woman. ‘You can do these yourself, just keep at it,’ and she’d taken Frank’s hand and made his arm describe a slow circle, then flexed the elbow to make it touch his chest. Down and back again, over and over; a gesture like a woodenly acted entreaty. ‘Do you want me to leave you this page of instructions on these movements, to jog your memory?’
    Frank, submitting hatchet-faced to the