Page 20 of Summer Escapes on the Scottish Isle (Coorie Castle Crafts #2)

Freya scurried around the house one more time, making sure everything was perfect – or as perfect as she could make it, considering she’d had to improvise a fair bit.

No doubt her dad wouldn’t be pleased with the way she’d organised his sitting room, but beggars couldn’t be choosers and she’d done her best with what she had available.

Earlier this morning, Rhona had knocked on her door to tell her that she’d seen a card in the window of the post office with a riser chair for sale, along with a commode, so Freya had hurried to the main street to see for herself.

She’d bought the chair (not the commode, though) and having wrestled it into the van with some considerable cursing, mostly under her breath, it now sat next to her dad’s bed, angled towards the TV.

It meant that the room was more crowded than she would like, but there was little she could do about that, unless…

Freya shook her head. She’d imposed enough on Mack already – she couldn’t ask him to help her move one of the armchairs into her dad’s bedroom.

Anyway, it wouldn’t be long before it would have to be moved back down again.

From what she’d read online, Dad should be able to manage the stairs by himself in a few weeks, if not before.

Crossly, she recalled the visit from the two ladies from social services and their recommendation that she had a stairlift installed.

Honestly! Where did they find these people?

Dad didn’t need one and he certainly didn’t want one, although she had every intention of persuading him that a rail going up the stairs would be a good idea.

After all, he wasn’t getting any younger.

Future-proofing, it was called; however, she suspected there would be a limit to how much future-proofing her dad would allow.

She wished she’d been able to put the handrails up before he came home, because she had a feeling he’d object to those too, so that was an argument waiting to happen. It would have to happen on another day, though, because right now she was too concerned about her dad getting home safely.

With worry a low-grade whine at the back of her mind, Freya drove to the hospital. After finding a parking spot, she dashed inside and was relieved to see her father fully dressed and sitting in the chair next to his bed, waiting for her, his bag at his side.

‘Have you got everything?’ she asked, giving him a kiss.

He nodded.

‘I’ll just check.’ She opened the bedside cabinet. It was empty.

‘Stop fussing,’ he grumbled. ‘Can we go?’

A nurse appeared. ‘All set, Vinnie?’

‘Yes. Please, can I just go?’

She laughed. ‘He reminds me of my wee dog when I take him to see the vet. He can’t wait to leave and pulls on the lead like billy-o until we’re outside.’

Vinnie gave her a baleful stare.

‘I know, I know,’ the nurse said. ‘You want to go. Let me call a porter.’

‘I don’t need a porter.’

The nurse said firmly, ‘Yes, you do. He can wheel you out while your daughter brings the car round.’

‘It makes sense, Dad,’ Freya argued.

He sighed, then nodded.

She followed the nurse into the corridor. ‘Is there anything in particular I should make sure he does, or doesn’t, do? The internet has given me a wealth of info on broken hips, but…’

‘There’s a fact sheet in his bag, along with his tablets, and he’s got his first outpatient appointment with the physio booked.’ The nurse hesitated, then said, ‘He’s had a major operation and the road to recovery will be long, especially with—’

‘Nurse? Nurse! We need a bedpan over here!’ a woman yelled, and the nurse glanced down the corridor. ‘It’s urgent! Hurry.’

‘I’m being summoned. Have a safe journey.’ And with that, she was gone, leaving Freya wondering what she’d been about to say.

Assuming it couldn’t have been important, she returned to the ward to wait for the porter. In no time at all her dad would be home, and Freya could get on with the job of nursing him back to health.

‘Dad, go sit down, I don’t need any help.’ Freya was preparing lunch.

It was only soup and a crusty roll, but her father appeared to think she

needed supervising. ‘It’s minestrone,’ she said. ‘Your favourite.’

‘I like Heinz. That doesn’t look like Heinz.’ He shuffled closer to the stove and peered suspiciously at the pan.

‘I made it myself,’ she told him.

‘Is that what you were doing? I wondered what the noise was.’

‘I was chopping vegetables.’ She dipped a clean spoon into the soup. ‘Here, have a taste. It’s rather yummy.’

Vinnie sipped at it cautiously. ‘It isn’t Heinz,’ he repeated, and her heart sank.

‘Shall I nip out and get you a tin?’ If it made him happy, she’d fetch him one from the corner shop. She’d eat a bowl of the home-made one herself, and freeze the rest so it wouldn’t go to waste.

‘You’ve made this now.’

‘It’s no bother. If you don’t like it, I can—’

‘I didn’t say I didn’t like it. All I said was that it’s not Heinz.’

He hadn’t had to say it; the implication had been enough.

‘Where’s your walker?’ she asked, realising he didn’t have it with him.

‘I don’t need it.’

‘You do ,’ she insisted. ‘You can’t rush these things, Dad. It’ll take time to get back on your feet.’

‘I’m on my feet now,’ he pointed out. He was, but precariously. He was holding on to the worktop for dear life.

‘I’ll get it,’ Freya said, and went into the sitting room. When she returned to the kitchen, she found him by the little table, trying to pull out a chair.

‘Let me.’

‘I can do it!’ he shot back crossly.

Freya planted the walker in front of him and reined in a sigh. Getting cross back at him wasn’t going to help matters, but he’d only been home an hour and he was already trying her patience. She needed to do some plain speaking.

‘Dad, the way you’re carrying on, you’re going to have another fall and then where will you be? Back in hospital, that’s where.’

Slowly and carefully, Vinnie lowered himself into the chair, using the table for support.

His face was drawn, his skin grey. He needed food, then he needed to rest. After that, she’d make sure he did his exercises, and if she had time she’d try to find a drill in the shed.

Those handrails weren’t going to put themselves up and she was worried about him coping in the bathroom.

The raised toilet seat should help, but she’d feel happier if he had something to hold on to instead of the wash-hand basin.

She noticed her dad patting his shirt pocket. ‘If you’re looking for your glasses, you left them in the sitting room,’ she told him.

‘I know. I’m after my tablets.’ He produced a blister pack with a flourish. ‘Got them.’

‘Shall I pour you a glass of water?’

‘Aye, that would be grand.’

‘You should have said you needed to take your painkillers. I would have fetched some for you.’ She felt awful, thinking he’d struggled out to the kitchen to get a drink. She should have anticipated that and made sure he had a jug within easy reach of his chair.

She said, ‘Why don’t you go back to the sitting room? You’ll be more comfortable there, and if your hip hurts too much, you can have your soup later.’

Freya had broken her arm when she was a child, and she hadn’t forgotten the unbearable ache and how sick it had made her feel.

‘I’ll have it now,’ he said.

‘It’s no bother, Dad, I can—’

‘They’re not painkillers. They’re my cholesterol tablets.’

‘Ah, I see.’ The vice chancellor was on medication for high cholesterol, and he was also on tablets for his blood pressure. She wasn’t surprised that Sean Pickles’s blood pressure was raised, since he had a stressful job – or so he kept telling her.

Reassured that her father wasn’t in pain, and that the cholesterol tablets were nothing to be concerned about, Freya turned her attention to the soup once more.

‘Would you like butter with your roll?’ she asked, then had second thoughts.

‘Are you allowed butter if you’ve got high cholesterol?

’ Sean was always telling her how he adored cheese but wasn’t allowed to eat it.

‘I’ve not got high cholesterol. My cholesterol is fine.’

‘But you just said—’

‘That’s what the tablets are for, so I can eat like a normal human being and not like a rabbit. Aye, I want butter.’

That told me , she thought, taking the butter dish out of the fridge and putting it on the table a tad more forcibly than she’d intended.

‘Watch you don’t break it,’ Vinnie grumbled.

Giving the soup a final taste, Freya deemed it ready, so she ladled a generous portion into two bowls and took her seat at the table.

They ate in silence, Freya ignoring the tremor in her father’s hand as he lifted the spoon to his mouth. The daft old sod was trying to do too much, too soon. Stubborn, that’s what he was, and proud. He’d never admit that the journey from Broadford this morning had taken it out of him.

Freya reconsidered her plan to put up the handrails today. Having a rest was more important for her father right now, and he didn’t need to be disturbed by drilling. He’d probably refuse to have a nap if she suggested it, so she’d have to use cunning if she wanted to get him to rest.

‘What do you usually do in the afternoon, Dad?’

‘Not much. Watch a bit of TV, potter in the garden if it’s fine, read the paper if it’s not. I fetch one every morning, along with any bits I might need. It gets me out of the house.’

‘Would you like me to fetch you a paper after lunch?’

He huffed. ‘They don’t have many in. They’ll all be sold by now.’

‘We could watch a film?’

Her dad huffed again. ‘I don’t like the modern stuff.’

‘I’ll find an old one,’ she assured him, hoping there’d be something on. ‘Or we could watch a documentary?’

‘I wouldn’t mind listening to The Archers .’

‘OK, we’ll do that, then.’

‘I don’t need babysitting,’ he stated, using the last of his roll to wipe his bowl clean. For someone who’d complained that the soup wasn’t Heinz, he’d managed to polish off the lot. He added, ‘Haven’t you got anything to be getting on with?’