Something in the Water by Trevor Baxendale Page A

jumped when the telephone rang in his hand.
    ‘Hello?’
    ‘Bob, how are you, dear?’
    Bob gripped the phone tighter. ‘Mum? What are you doing ringing now?’
    ‘Well, I wanted to know if you were coming up for your Dad’s birthday or not. He’s eighty next month, remember, and we’re planning a party. Everyone will be there. I rang you at the surgery but they said you’d gone home poorly. What’s the matter?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ Bob said. ‘Some sort of throat infection I think. I’m not sure.’
    ‘It’s not anything to do with what’s been on the news, is it? That sounds awful.’
    ‘What’s been on the news?’
    ‘The flu epidemic in Wales. It’s in your region, dear.’
    ‘I hadn’t heard,’ Bob said. He felt a surge of anxiety and fumbled for the TV remote as his mother continued to talk.
    ‘Have you taken anything for it? Have you made yourself a hot drink? I always used to make you a lemon and honey drink, do you remember?’ She spoke so warmly; she had never stopped thinking of Bob as her youngest boy and, whenever he was ill or unhappy, she adopted the same tone she had used when treating a grazed knee or a nosebleed when he had been little. ‘Are you eating properly? Would you like me to come over? Perhaps I could help …’
    ‘Mum, I’m thirty-eight. I don’t need to be looked after.’ He said this more harshly than he’d intended, and the silence at the other end of the line told him it had been noted. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I’m just feeling really rough right now. It’s not a good time.’
    ‘That’s why someone should come round,’ his mother said, relenting a little. ‘You need looking after, Bob. I always said so. Men can never look after themselves properly when they’re ill.’
    ‘No, really.’ Bob’s parents had moved up from Richmond to live in Hereford last year. It had been a big move for them at their age, but Robert Strong Senior was frailer than he liked to admit, and the bungalow had seemed like a good idea. His mother had come from Herefordshire originally, and she had always wanted to move back there, away from London. And Bob was not unaware of the fact that it brought both his parents that bit closer to where he now lived in Cardiff. It was only an hour’s drive from his own house to their new bungalow, and he realised now that he had not visited as often as he had originally said he would – and certainly not as often as he should.
    ‘How is Dad?’ Bob asked eventually, after another coughing fit.
    ‘He’s doing very well,’ came the reply, although judging by the tone, not as well as Mum had hoped. ‘He still finds walking difficult, and of course he can’t get up from his chair, poor dear.’
    Bob heard another voice call out from in the room. ‘What was that?’
    ‘That was your father interrupting, dear. He said whatever you do, don’t grow old …’
    ‘It’s rubbish!’ Dad’s voice piped up from the far side of the living room.
    ‘Tell him he’s doing OK,’ Bob said, ‘And I’ll consider myself lucky if I get anywhere near his age.’
    He listened to his mother recounting this and heard a muffled reply from his father. Bob squeezed his eyes shut and felt his throat stiffening. Suddenly, more than anything, he wanted to see his parents again. ‘And tell him I’ll be there for his birthday,’ he added thickly. ‘In fact, as soon as I’m feeling better, I’ll come and visit.’
    There was a definite lift in his mother’s voice now. ‘Perhaps you could stay over, even if it’s just for one night. That would be lovely.’
    ‘Yeah, I’d like that. I’ll come for a weekend.’
    ‘That’s lovely. Tell me when you’re coming and I’ll make sure I’ve got plenty in. Your father doesn’t eat much these days – he’s only having chicken soup for his dinner now – and I’ve got to be careful, so I’ll buy in specially.’
    ‘Great.’
    ‘And get better soon. You sound awful.’
    ‘OK, Mum.