Death on the Lake by Jo Allen (early reader books TXT) 📗

That would be a recipe for discord. The last thing Becca needed was George telling her she’d let a good man slip through her fingers. ‘I’ve brought him some of Mum’s millionaire shortbread. I didn’t stay long last time, so I owe it to him.’

‘I expect we’ll see you around.’

‘I expect so.’ She turned and marched up the path, the plastic tub of shortbread under her arm, and rapped hard on the door before she opened it and went in. ‘Uncle George, it’s Becca.’

There was no answer. Instantly concerned, she lifted her head and listened for the sound of him snoring, but there was nothing.

He might still be in bed, unable to get up. A slow dread filled her, because she was almost certain she knew what she’d find. She was a district nurse and she stumbled on the dead too often for comfort, but she was used to it. It was different when it was one of your own. She’d feared this moment for a long time. ‘Uncle George?’

In passing she laid her hand on the kettle and found it just warm, with George’s pipe abandoned beside it. Crossing the kitchen, she opened the door that led out into the hallway and found him, sprawled at the foot of the stairs.

He was still alive. She saw that immediately as she dropped to her knees beside him but she checked the pulse anyway, and found it weak. His face had collapsed into a travesty even of what it had been before and his skin was grey where it had once been white. Breath rasped in his throat.

‘Uncle George, it’s Becca. I’m going to look after you until an ambulance gets here.’ Tweaking his top button free, she rolled him gently into the recovery position, then ran through to fetch a blanket from his bed. On the way back she diverted out into the front garden and looked along to where Jude and Ashleigh were still standing, she tying her walking boot, he watching. ‘Jude!’

He must have recognised the sound of an emergency, because he turned on the instant. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Yes. George has had a stroke.’ She’d thought she was calm but her own breathlessness surprised her. ‘Can you call an ambulance? I can never get phone signal up here and he doesn’t have a landline.’ He was a stubborn old man who believed his neighbours owed him their help and support and who was determined to die in his house instead of in a hospital. And now he was reaping the whirlwind.

‘Sure.’ Jude was already reaching into his pocket for his phone. ‘What else shall I tell them?’

‘It looks like a bad one. I don’t think he’s been there too long, and I don’t think he’s hit his head or anything. I’ve put him in the recovery position and I’ll keep him warm.’

‘Right.’

She ran back in, returned to her knees beside him and spread the blanket over him. ‘Uncle George. Can you hear me? It’s Becca.’

He shifted a little. She leaned in towards him. If she’d been a little earlier she might have got there in time. She might have been able to do more for him. Time was crucial and she didn’t know how long had passed. ‘You’ve had a stroke, but it’s all right. We’ll get you to hospital and you’ll be fine. I expect you’ll be able to come back here before very long.’ A lie, because there was no way anyone would allow him to come back to the house unless he made a full recovery, and she couldn’t see that happening. Over my dead body, she imagined her mother saying, outraged. ‘Can you move your arm?’

A convulsive twitch of the face was the only reply.

‘Okay.’ Watching the second hand on her watch ticking on, Becca understood. The worst was happening and she was watching his life ticking away with it. ‘The ambulance must be on its way by now. Jude called it. You remember Jude? A friend of mine.’ She searched his face for some flicker of recognition and saw nothing.

‘Becca.’ From her place on the floor she saw Ashleigh O’Halloran’s walking boots — expensive ones, relatively new — stopping at a discreet distance. ‘Jude’s on the phone to the ambulance now. Is there anything else I can do to help?’

‘I don’t think so.’ It’s too late. Becca fought back a tear. There was nothing she could do to help him, probably nothing anyone else could do to help him, and all she could offer was calm professionalism and affection to see him out. She didn’t even know if she could deliver that. She reached for his hand and held it, the frail fingers listless in hers. ‘Uncle George. I brought you some of Mum’s millionaire’s shortbread. I’ll make sure we take it in the ambulance so you can have it in the hospital, all right?’

There was some kind of response, half-cough, half choke. ‘Don’t try to talk. It’s okay.’ Surely it was forgivable to lie to the dying? ‘There will be plenty of time later.’

‘I’m going to make you a cup of tea,’ Ashleigh said. ‘The ambulance might be a few minutes yet.’

‘I have to stay with him.’

‘Of course. But you can have a cup of tea at the same time.’

‘When you’re in the ambulance,’ Becca said, aware of her voice beginning to tremble, falling prey to a cold feeling in her gut and a gathering sense of loss that was premature but not by much, ‘I’ll call Mum and get her to come up and meet us at the hospital. And when you’re well enough to have visitors Kirsty will come, too. They don’t really allow babies in the hospital but maybe I can have a wee word with whoever is on duty and they’ll let her bring Rosie in to see you. They might do that, for me. And you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Because she’s such a sparkler, and you always make