than better. I really hope they pay some heed. It will feel far too much like parenting if I have to state it any more.
‘Everything okay?’ Tess asks over the counter as she plays the role of barista at the coffee machine.
‘Lucy’s gone home sick.’ I’m not going to go into detail with so many customers within earshot.
‘Again? That’s not great for you. Have you called George?’ Tess winks as she says it, a gesture that doesn’t come naturally to her and makes it look as if she is having an awkward facial spasm. ‘We need to make date forty become forty-one as well!’
I shake my head at Tess’s eternal optimism. ‘I am going to call him, but not for any of the reasons you’re hopeful over.’
Once Tess is back to serving customers, I decide it’s time to be brave. My first dilemma is whether to call the ward or his mobile. I decide on the latter. Somehow, as he came here to the café for our not-a-date, it feels as if there has been a slight shift from professional to personal, and ringing his mobile is in keeping with that change. I am making a statement to myself as much as George that, yes, I do want to make sure that Clive is going to be okay, that I’m no longer doing this just for the purpose of my study, that I want to make sure he won’t be forced to return home when he isn’t happy to.
The mobile rings for long enough for me to realise it is probably locked away somewhere on silent as he carries on with his shift.
‘Hello, George. It’s Keisha here,’ I say, when it goes to voicemail. ‘I wanted to get an update from you and see if there’s anything I can do to help Clive. Give me a ring back. Thanks.’
It’s about two minutes after making the call that I realise he doesn’t have my number, and even though I know it’ll probably show up on his phone log, I message it to him all the same. It’s a good job we aren’t dating. If we were, this unlocks a new level of uncool.
I wave my goodbye to a busy Tess and manage to pay in between customers without a Spanish inquisition. I’m sad we haven’t been able to talk today.
On the walk back to work, and in any unoccupied moment once there, I list some of the reasons Lucy may be unwell. The list encompasses everything from pregnancy to a rare tropical blood disorder. It almost ramps me up to the point of wanting to take my pulse for every new diagnosis I come up with.
Rather than do that, I start to physically write down the potential diagnoses. It’s for my benefit. I realise I’m annoyed at Lucy for not taking my advice. If she hasn’t seen anyone, or at least got an appointment by the time I return home, I plan to pass her the list to point out why exactly it is so important.
It’s when I’m writing down ‘urinary tract infection’ that my phone rings. It’s a relief that I’m not in the middle of carrying out a six-minute walking test, one of the standard markers we use for our studies. I always have to ignore it when that happens and Lucy isn’t here.
‘Hello,’ I say tentatively.
‘Is that Keisha?’ the voice at the end of the phone asks. I recognise George’s voice straight away. I think of his floppy fringe.
‘Yes, I hope I didn’t disturb you at work. How’s Clive?’
‘Still refusing to return home.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ I say it out loud without really meaning to.
‘It’s an unusual situation. Even the police have said so.’
‘What will they do? Surely they can’t send him home if he doesn’t feel able to return?’
‘They’re having a multidisciplinary support meeting tomorrow. I’m not really sure what his other options are at the moment. He doesn’t have any relatives he can stay with. He’s refusing to go into any kind of temporary residential care. The only thing he’s willing to consider is selling up and moving elsewhere, but the hospital can’t bed-block in the meantime. He’ll have to find some place temporarily. It’s a shame there aren’t any relatives able to house him short-term. Sadly it’s not the norm to adopt a patient. If I could have him at mine I probably would, but my parents aren’t about to agree to that,’ George states.
‘I’ve had similar thoughts. I feel so sorry for him. I wish