going on, Mrs Dixit failed to give this exchange much thought.
Mrs Rampersad knocked on the door at 9.30 a.m. She was holding a tray covered in foil.
‘It would be technically difficult to fake a coma,’ she conceded, handing over the tray.
Mrs Rampersad followed Mrs Dixit into her kitchen. Mr Dixit would not have approved of the neighbour so brazenly walking in, but it felt good to have someone else’s energy inside her home.
‘I didn’t sleep well,’ Mrs Dixit confessed.
Mrs Rampersad, sitting herself at the kitchen table, sniffed.
‘Were you thinking about finances?’
‘Not particularly…’
‘He won’t be earning, lying there. It’s practically a holiday. Will you have to go back to work?’
Mrs Dixit thought about the florist she used to work at, ten years ago, which was now a dry cleaner’s you could also get your keys cut at.
‘He’s made provisions,’ Mrs Dixit replied uncertainly. Instinctively, she knew it was not good to be talking about private matters so publicly. Mr Dixit would loathe it.
‘Provisions, huh? That’s nice. Very nice.’
This information seemed to put Mrs Rampersad at ease, and she leaned back in her chair. ‘Men are a real mystery,’ she said, opening her eyes wide.
Is she waiting for me to say something? Mrs Dixit wondered. After what seemed like a very long time, Mrs Rampersad hauled herself to her feet again.
‘Do you need another ride to the hospital?’ she asked.
‘Thank you, I’ll take a taxi.’
‘Lucky you, with all those provisions.’
After her neighbour had gone, Mrs Dixit examined the baking tray. Under the foil was a kind of loaf. It smelled of ginger and oozed something sticky when prodded. She busied herself rearranging the fridge to accommodate the massive tray, realising it was the closest to content she’d been since the call from the hospital.
Len was the driver.
‘It’s a terrible, terrible thing.’
‘Terrible,’ she repeated.
‘It could happen to anyone, at any time.’
‘Anyone,’ she mumbled. But it hadn’t happened to anyone. It had happened to her husband.
‘How are you taking it?’ Len asked in his slightly farmer-y West Country accent, looking at her in the rear-view mirror, intrusively, she felt. Mr Dixit had not liked Len, historically. He said Len had a way of making people feel uncomfortable, and good ambience was vital, especially with the new customer rating systems.
How am I taking it? Mrs Dixit pondered. She wanted to say ‘in my stride’ but that didn’t sound right. She was aware anything she said would be filtered back to the other drivers, and potentially Cliff at Control. Mrs Dixit regretted the taxi now, even with the inevitable discount. Mrs Rampersad was right, it was a luxury, and could she afford it? The documents she’d found had been inconclusive. They were insured up to the eyeballs for almost everything, except, it seemed, accidents at work. She should have taken the bus.
Len cleared his throat noisily.
‘You don’t think of Asians being in comas.’
‘What?’
‘In movies and TV. It’s always white people, isn’t it?’ Mrs Dixit began to grind her teeth. ‘But I guess statistically, based on population size, there’s a much higher chance of an Asian going into a coma compared to a white person. If you think about it.’
Quickly, Mrs Dixit wound down the window, and the cold air was good.
Watching Mr Dixit lying there now, she realised she missed him. It was unfair. That was the word. To have him so near, and yet not himself. Mrs Dixit thought about crawling up beside him on the bed and lying with him for a few minutes, but she was disturbed by another new nurse.
‘His mother was in earlier,’ the woman said cheerily.
‘Has she gone?’ Mrs Dixit asked, panicked.
‘I think so. It was an hour ago.’
Mrs Dixit sat back down again and tried not to appear flustered.
‘My mother-in-law is a bit of a nightmare too,’ the nurse added kindly.
‘Did she say anything? About him?’
‘No. She just sat. Very good posture.’
It was strange knowing that the other Mrs Dixit had been sitting in this very chair – it would have been the first time they were in the same room for fifteen years. A chill passed through Mrs Dixit’s body.
‘Don’t forget to talk to him,’ the nurse said, tucking in the sheet more securely. ‘It really helps, you know.’
Alone, Mrs Dixit found it difficult to speak.
‘I don’t like Len either,’ she said at last. ‘His cab smells of feet.’
The bus ride home was full of schoolkids, so Mrs Dixit hid at the rear. They seemed to spill everywhere, these children, squawking. That was the word. The girls hit