The Old Girls' Network - Judy Leigh

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see him. He just stepped out in front of me.’

      ‘Well, I doubt very much he’ll be stepping out anywhere again.’

      The two women bent over him. Bisto squinted through one eye. His entire body hurt.

      ‘He stinks of booze. He’s obviously drunk so it wasn’t completely your fault, Pauline. If you weren’t such an erratic driver…’

      ‘He’s not moving, Barbara. Ring for an ambulance. Let’s get him to hospital.’

      Bisto opened his eyes. He had no intention of going inside a hospital ever again. He sat upright, blinking at the ladies’ anxious faces peering at him and grinned.

      ‘I must have died and gone to heaven. All the angels here are beautiful ladies.’

      He gazed from one face to another. A pleasant looking woman, a soft expression in her eyes, silky silver hair in a roll on the top of her head; a frowning woman with strong features, a bony frame inside a woollen coat, with steel grey curls and intense, intelligent eyes. He put a hand to his head. He was dizzy, confused, as he stared from one to the other.

      ‘No worries. I’ll be fine in a little minute. I just fell over.’

      ‘Can you stand up?’ Pauline held out a hand.

      Barbara loomed over him. ‘Put him in the car. Let’s take him to Taunton, to the hospital.’

      ‘No, I don’t need a hospital. I’ll be just dandy.’ Bisto tried to heave himself up and he yelped in pain and tottered back. ‘I think I’ve hurt my ankle – and my head.’

      Barbara’s voice boomed loud and clear. ‘Ring 999, Pauline. At once.’

      Pauline pushed Bisto’s trouser leg up, ignoring the grime on his leg, easing off his shoe and sock. His foot was filthy, long toenails curling like talons. His ankle was already swelling. She sighed.

      ‘You should have this x-rayed. It might be broken. Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr…’

      ‘Mulligan. Bisto Mulligan.’ He struggled to stand, wobbling, and grasped Barbara’s arm, leaning heavily against her. ‘Can you find me a good wooden stick? I’ll be on my way.’

      Barbara was indignant. ‘Are you a tramp?’

      The impact had blurred his vision – or perhaps it was the pain, the knock to his head. Bisto wasn’t sure, but he heaved himself up to his full five feet five inches and huffed.

      ‘I’m not looking my best today, believe me – I’ve had a few setbacks but I’m on my way to France. I have a château in the Loire.’

      Barbara laughed one single harsh sound. ‘Oh, what a perfect pack of lies. I can see what you are. You’re a vagrant.’

      Pauline put her hands on her hips and stared at the man. He was clearly in pain. He was not drunk, but she saw something in his eyes that moved her: vulnerability, sadness. She immediately felt sorry for him. She put a hand on his sleeve.

      ‘Can you get into the car? I’ll take you home. I have a friend who’s a GP and she’ll come over and take a look at your foot. Maybe you’d like something to eat.’

      Bisto looked hopeful. ‘A whisky’ d be nice. Medicinal. Just for the terrible pain.’

      ‘Are you sure, Pauline? Do you think it’s safe? Taking a man like this into our home and we’re two defenceless women…?’

      ‘I’ve always been a good judge of character, Barbara.’ Pauline stared at her sister, determined to do things her own way. ‘He’s hurt and in pain. And you and I aren’t defenceless.’

      Bisto’s ankle was very sore. His head was pounding. He leaned his weight against the two women and lurched towards the old Volkswagen Beetle.

      ‘It’s yous two who’ve banjaxed me, not the other way around.’ He narrowed his eyes at Barbara, breathing beer fumes in her face. ‘And as for you, you mad ould boot, I’m frightened to my death of you already.’

      An hour later, Bisto was sitting back in Douglas’s comfy armchair, a malt whisky from Douglas’ drinks cupboard in his hand, groaning in pain as Dr Natalie touched his bruised ankle with light fingers and examined the raised lump on his head. The doctor sat upright, brushed dark hair from her face and sighed.

      ‘You ought to have an x-ray on the ankle.’

      Bisto sipped his drink and grunted. ‘I’m fine, really. Just let me sit for half an hour and I’ll be on my way.’

      Natalie’s forehead puckered. ‘You have a bump on your head. And you can’t just go off with your ankle in this state. Rest for a while. It’s best if I don’t strap it up. A few days in hospital might do you good.’ She stood up slowly. ‘You can’t hobble on that, given how swollen it is.’

      Pauline folded her arms and looked at Bisto. He was curled in the seat, wide-eyed, like a bewildered child. She would be happy to take care of him for a day or two: it would be no trouble. ‘It was my fault, Natalie. I have a spare room…’

      ‘Don’t even think about it, Pauline.’ Barbara folded her arms tightly.

      Natalie patted Bisto’s arm. ‘You do need to rest the ankle. I’m a bit concerned about the bump to your head too. You are a little concussed. If you notice double vision or any other new symptoms, call me at once and we’ll get you an x-ray.’ She pressed her lips together. ‘I suppose, Pauline, you could give him a ride into the village later for an evening appointment with my husband? How about having a little ride to the surgery later, Mr Mulligan?’

      Bisto pushed out his arm, holding the glass towards the doctor. ‘Oh, I remember now. Your ould fella’s a doctor too. I met him in the pub. Nice sort. But I don’t know about a ride to the surgery.’ He suddenly chuckled. ‘Seems like you’re the one who’s been doing all the riding, Doctor.’ He gestured towards her belly. ‘You and your man had a very good ride, so it seems, and now you’ve got a kiddie on the way.’

      Bisto turned to Barbara, who was appalled, mouth open, her hands to her face, and laughed. ‘Mind you, I wouldn’t ride the ould one here if she had pedals. But you’re a bit of all right, Pauline. Stick another glassful in there, will you?’

      Barbara huffed, turning away. ‘In the kitchen, Pauline. We need to talk. Now.’

      Without thinking, Pauline let the third-full bottle of Scotch drop into Bisto’s open hand and followed her sister out of the room. Natalie gave Bisto an anxious glance, and trailed after the other two women.

      It was warm in the kitchen; the Aga was on and a kettle was reaching a soft boil, the spout gently whistling. Pauline reached out automatically and moved it to a cooler spot on the plate.

      Barbara was in full swing. ‘He’s not our responsibility. He should go to one of those places where they look after the homeless.’

      Natalie shrugged. ‘He needs temporary care, that’s for certain. He really needs someone to keep an eye on him for a few hours – he’s concussed. I’m sure the ankle’s just a sprain but I can take him to the hospital – or I could call someone to come and pick him up. Mario’s on surgery duty again tonight. I can ask him to try to fit Bisto in.’ A smile twitched across her mouth. ‘After all, they’ve met already, in the pub.’

      Pauline put her hands on her hips. ‘No. I knocked him down. It was my fault. He’s obviously terrified of hospitals. I’ll look after him here, watch out for concussion and how the ankle progresses just for a day or two until he’s able to move a little bit, and by then I’m sure we can find a relative or someone he knows to come and collect him.’

      Natalie made a humming sound. ‘I wouldn’t advise putting him up here…’

      Pauline had made up her mind. ‘Just for the night. You could come

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