He doesn’t answer and instead walks to Dad.
‘KyrieVasili, do you have any medical conditions?’
Dad shakes his head.
‘Gallstones?’
‘Not that I know of.’ His voice sounds forced. He’s obviously trying to mask his pain.
‘He’s got a hernia,’ I say, ‘but it’s small, and that’s not serious, right?’
Mark meets my eye, and immediately I know he’s concerned.
‘I’m going to bring my car out to the front, and we’re going to Ealing Hospital.’ His voice is calm, but he doesn’t wait for an answer. He hurries out, his phone pressed to his ear.
Yan comes over to us.
‘Are you okay, Dad?’ When he doesn’t get a reply, he looks at me with panicked eyes. ‘What’s happening, Nell?’
‘We’re taking him to hospital.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ snaps Dad angrily. ‘It’s an overreaction.’
On the one hand, I’m glad Dad’s got the energy to lose his cool, but on the other, he wouldn’t have lost it if he wasn’t feeling scared.
‘It’s just a precaution,’ I say, for both Yan’s and Dad’s benefit. ‘Everything will be fine.’
Mum is up next, demanding to know what’s going on. When she announces she wants to come to the hospital, too, Dad puts his foot down.
‘One person can come with me so they can drive me back afterwards. Everyone’s making a fuss over nothing. I’ll be back in time for banana fritters.’
I walk Dad out to the kerb and help him into the back of Mark’s car. He yelps when I try to put his seat belt on, so I don’t bother. Mark asks a series of questions while he drives. What’s Dad’s date of birth and which GP he’s registered with.
Dad’s well enough to answer, only occasionally losing his breath from a wave of pain.
‘When did you start feeling unwell, Dad?’
‘Around three o’clock, maybe a little before.’
Mark is frowning in the rear-view mirror.
‘It’s nearly nine o’clock now. Why didn’t you say anything sooner?’
‘I thought it was indigestion.’
‘For six or seven hours?’
Dad closes his eyes in discomfort. He’s so pale, I want to kick myself that I didn’t notice sooner. Mark asks how much Dad ate at the restaurant.
‘Just a Wan Ton soup,’ I answer for him, trying to ignore a spike in my anxiety. Is Mark anticipating a general anaesthetic? Does Dad need an operation?
I try to calm my breathing. Mark’s used to medical emergencies. If anyone can spot the early signs of something serious, it’s him.
I squeeze Dad’s clammy hand and pray that we’re not too late.
Mark has managed to speak to whoever’s on call tonight, so there’s a man in scrubs waiting for us when we get to the waiting room. I can’t follow what they’re talking about, but none of it sounds reassuring. Then, a second man appears with a wheelchair and takes Dad away.
