It surprised her not in the slightest when this prospect became, once more, totally unattainable.
A familiar rattling cough from behind her made Greta stop and look back to see the grey figure of her most frequent patient: coatless, suit-jacket collar turned up and hat jammed over ears, trudging along glumly against the November wind. She said a few unladylike words and trotted back to Fastitocalon, nudging her way through midday shoppers.
“Fass, what the devil are you doing out in this weather without a coat? You sound dreadful.”
“Thank you, I’m sure,” he said, giving her a look. “What a nice surprise it is to see you, Dr. Helsing, as always you brighten up the day like a little ray of sunshine.” Then he started to cough again, and whatever else he might have had to say was lost. It was an unpleasant sound, bronchial and sharp, almost like fabric being ripped.
Greta put her arm around him. “Right, enough of this, come with me.” She propelled him briskly in the other direction, toward the nearest pharmacy, wishing to God she’d had another cup of coffee. He went biddably enough, although he did point out that people were staring at them. “I don’t give a damn about staring,” she said. “Look, sit down. I won’t be long.”
Fastitocalon subsided into one of the chairs in the pharmacy’s little waiting area. He was glad to sit down; he was, in fact, considerably older than the fifty-something he appeared to be. Greta was saying something to the pharmacist, scribbling on a blue pad and fishing in her enormous handbag for her credentials. He watched her, the pale hair almost colorless under the fluorescent lights, the rapid gestures with which she emphasized her points, and thought how very much she was like her father. Wilfert Helsing had been Fastitocalon’s dear friend as well as his physician, and he’d known Greta all her life—and in the years since Wilfert’s death, had done his best to keep an eye on her.
In a manner of speaking. He really did try not to slip into people’s heads by accident, but Greta was different. He had offered, and she had accepted, the tacit protection of his mental presence: a distant and mostly imperceptible flicker of awareness in the very back of her mind, the sensation that she was not alone.
He thought—not for the first time—about the novelty of being ordered about by the same girl who had, at six months of age, been sick all over the shoulder of his totally irreplaceable 1958 Italian topcoat, the girl he’d once delighted by turning all her plastic play blocks into brightly colored lumbering beetles, the girl he’d tutored with indifferent results in the arcane discipline of sixth-form calculus. The woman who had turned to him on a cold and awful day for what support he could provide, who had said, Fass, help, I don’t know what to do.
Humans lived so fast.
Another fit of coughing shook him and he retreated behind his handkerchief, cursing a number of factors, including London’s weather, his own stubbornness, and the events of the Spanish Inquisition. Suddenly Greta was there, beside him, and she pushed the familiar bright plastic of an inhaler into his hand.
“Here. And there’s a longer-acting nebulizer as well. Why didn’t you tell me you’d run out of meds? And you’ve been smoking. I intend to shout at you at considerable length about that.”
The magic chemicals were doing their job, though. Soon he could stop coughing and wipe at his streaming eyes. “I thought you were already shouting. We’re making a scene.”
“No,” said Greta, helping him up and nodding to the pharmacist. “I have not yet begun to shout, and a scene would involve somebody throwing things and/or being tossed out of a window; this is just a mild disturbance. Come on, I’m making you eat lunch, and after that I can shout at you. And you can tell me all about why you’re walking around in November sans sensible outdoor clothing, and I can tell you about the wretched day … er … night and morning I’ve had.”
The Blind Beggar was crowded, but mostly the patrons were around the bar, watching a football match. Greta was able to find them a table in the back without much difficulty, and ordered coffee for herself and tea with a good slug of brandy in it for Fastitocalon.
“Right,” she said, when the drinks had arrived. “You go first.”
He eyed her. “Can I demur on the basis of a terribly sore throat?”
“Nope. Drink your nice fortified tea and give me the facts. Just the facts.”
“You’re a hard woman, Greta Helsing.” Fastitocalon did as he was bidden, wincing as he swallowed, but the brandy spread a wonderfully heartening warmth through him. “That’s … really rather nice. There isn’t much to tell, anyway. I was temporarily out of ready cash due to an unexpected rent increase last week, and my winter coat was relatively new and still worth a bit.” He shrugged. It wasn’t as if this situation was exactly novel. “I expect I’ll manage.”
Greta pinched the bridge of her nose. “Fass. Really, listen to yourself. You are not living in a Russian novel, okay? You don’t have consumption and your flat’s on the second floor; it’s not remotely mistakable for a garret. Ruthven is going to go absolutely spare if he hears about this, you know.”
“Yes, which is why you aren’t going to tell him,” said Fastitocalon. “Please, Greta, be a good girl and just forget the whole thing; it’s hardly important. Nor the first time it’s happened. You should’ve seen me in the 1820s, stuffing bits of rag round the windowpanes to keep out the drafts. That was proper Russian-novel stuff. This is just a capricious landlady.”
“Maybe if you weren’t old enough to know better and didn’t have COPD and didn’t have any way to cloud men’s minds and fog their understanding of rent increases, I’d say pawning your only winter coat in London in November might be an acceptable course of action.” Greta looked up as the waitress came back. “Same again, and the beef and barley soup and granary roll. Fass?”
“Hmm? Oh …” He shrugged. “What she’s having? I wish you wouldn’t call it that.”
“Call what what?” Greta asked as the waitress finally quit staring at Fastitocalon and retreated, order pad in hand.
“COPD. It sounds like a law enforcement team. In my day we referred to my trouble as chronic bronchitis.”
“Well, it is. Bronchitis is an obstructive pulmonary disorder. Which reminds me, when did you run out of your meds and why didn’t you tell me you’d run out?”
He looked down. “A week ago? Some sort of mix-up. They said there weren’t any refills left on that prescription and they’d call you to get you to authorize it. Didn’t they?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Greta said, taking out her prescription pad again and writing busily, eyebrows drawn together in a scowl that reminded Fastitocalon once more suddenly and vividly of her father.