‘I have to go have breakfast,’ she explained. ‘Give my love to Hen…’
‘Actually, Henry’s here and he would like to say hello.’
Mrs Dixit felt tension in her chest, as if threaded strings around her ribcage had been tugged tighter.
‘Hi,’ came the high-pitched voice of her nephew, before she could protest. His voice triggered long dormant thoughts about her own children, how they might sound, or look, how they might behave in this world, when she still had hopes of having them.
‘Hello,’ Mrs Dixit replied, feeling cornered. ‘How are you, Henry?’
‘Good.’
There was a long, uncomfortable silence.
‘How’s school?’
Another interminable pause.
‘Good.’
‘Are you enjoying your karate class?’
‘Sort of.’
More dead air.
‘Can you put your mummy back on for me, Henry?’
‘He’s shy,’ her sister began. ‘He takes after you. That’s why…’
‘Must run,’ said Mrs Dixit, putting the phone down quickly.
To punish herself for being so rude to her sister, she decided to do a deep clean.
Taking out her bucket with her yellow gloves from under the kitchen sink, Mrs Dixit attacked the kitchen, before blitzing the shower, bath, and toilet. By midday, every surface was gleaming, and she felt exhausted, but there was still the vacuuming to do, and she thought it was most orderly to start from the basement and work up. Once she’d carried the hoover down the stairs, however, she stood tentatively at the study door. Usually, Mr Dixit cleaned it himself, using only the mini hand-held vacuum so as not to disturb the trains and throw up unwanted dust particles. Would he object to her using the bigger machine? Still undecided, Mrs Dixit plugged the vacuum in at the wall and turned it on. The sound was courage-building. She didn’t quite burst open the door, but opening it with some vigour, she quickly turned on the lights, and pulled the noisy machine through the doorway after her.
She’d only vacuumed a few feet when she looked up from the carpet, and noticed the main table. The contents were obscured by sheets of carboard, seemingly to protect what lay underneath. Mrs Dixit turned off the vacuum cleaner with the heel of her foot and stood before the cardboard layers. Carefully, she lifted off the closest panel. She gasped. Beneath, lay Chomley – a miniature version, but complex. There were tiny people, and a tiny park, with a tiny dog running on a leash. There were tiny trees, and shops, and the station, the tracks running through the town centre and around its circumference. There was so much detail, and it fascinated and worried Mrs Dixit in equal measures. When did he have the time? Whenever she was napping, or reading, or cooking, or ironing or went to bed early, of course – all the moments he could steal away without her noticing, which was often. Mr Dixit was careful never to seem too eager, but she’d always known on some level that this was where he most wanted to be. But to repair model trains, not to create… this… this piece of art.
Why hadn’t he shown her his work? Didn’t he trust her? Did he think she would mock him? It was beautiful! She felt frustration then, and an anger coiling around her spine, and Mrs Dixit was afraid she might smash something with her fists, so she trundled the vacuum cleaner out of the study quick smart, before any mishap could happen.
She was still in a foul mood by the time she arrived at the hospital. Restlessly, she sat next to her husband.
‘The whole of Chomley…’ she muttered under her breath.
‘What?’ came a man’s croaky voice, startling her. She looked around nervously. All the patients were in their beds, seemingly asleep. Maybe she’d imagined it, or the noise had come from the hallway?
‘Is there anyone… listening?’ she asked uncertainly.
‘We’re all listening,’ came the voice again, making Mrs Dixit jolt.
It came from the bed opposite; she was almost certain. He was sitting more upright than the others, with his hands on his chest as if he had closed his eyes for forty winks, rather than being unresponsively unconscious.
‘What did you say?’ she asked, watching for a reaction, but there was no tell-tale movement. ‘I can see you,’ she said, more loudly, emboldened.
Still nothing.
Mrs Dixit had to fight the urge to throw one of her shoes.
Later, at the nurses’ station, she explained what had happened.
‘Maybe a patient woke up?’
‘Possibly.’ The nurse, the Filipino one, looked doubtful. ‘It could have been a groan? Are you sure he definitely spoke?’