Harold

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘No, you’re right there, you’re right there. Fairlight it is now. But you won’t have to leave it too late else you won’t find your own way back; the top of that cliff has as many scallops as a cockleshell.’

  The big man now laughed while the other said, ‘Thanks for the warnin’. Very kind of you.’

  ‘You’re welcome. You’re welcome, boss.’

  The note of jollity in the car seemed underlined with threats. My mind, although still muzzy, suggested I wasn’t the only one in danger: any one of these men could do for the other what they were about to do for me, and without compunction. It came to me dimly that they were together simply because of the need of each other for whatever work they did, and my mind began to grope as to why I was here: what brought me here? Who brought me here? And the dim answer was, the Mohican. If I hadn’t met the Mohican I wouldn’t be in this situation. But then, as minds do, mine took me back to how and when I’d met the Mohican. It was because I was sitting in Janet’s living room meeting her family for the first time. And why was I sitting there? I had adopted her grandson. So if I hadn’t adopted her grandson I wouldn’t have met the Mohican. But the mind then took another leap. I wouldn’t have adopted Harold if it hadn’t been that I was acquainted with Janet, and Janet, in desperation, had brought the boy to work with her. Yet that hadn’t made me adopt him. No; Janet had worked for Nardy and his parents for years. Back further: If I hadn’t written a story called Hamilton and had it accepted by a publishing house called Rington and Houseman of which Mr Leviston was an editor, I would never have met Janet. Then back further still: Why had I written a book about a horse that had become my companion during the lonely years married to a sadistic man called Howard Stickle? And why had I married him? Why? Because I’d thought he’d be the only man ever to want to marry me. But he hadn’t wanted to marry me, he had wanted to marry my house and the bit of money I had.

  Where did things begin and how did they end? They ended here sitting in a car bowling towards some cliffs over which I was to be thrown. Death was the end. All life was planned. This was the end of my plan. But I’d be with Nardy. Yes, I’d be with Nardy. Yet, why was it I didn’t want to go to Nardy? Not yet anyway, not yet.

  ‘We’ll have to stop for petrol.’

  ‘God Almighty! I thought you had filled up.’

  ‘I had, but that was yesterday. Trottin’ round the town eats it, you know that.’

  The car stopped. The driver got out. He was now talking to two men on the forecourt; I could see them through the windscreen. A while later one of the men came to the half-open window and, looking in, said, ‘Lovely evening, sir.’

  ‘Yes, very nice. A bit too warm for me though.’

  ‘Oh, it won’t last long. It never does, not in England.’

  The man was looking at me. I tried to lift my hand towards him. It was a slow movement, but it only got a few inches away from my knee when the big man took it and patted it.

  The face was withdrawn from the window, and the voice said, ‘Good evening, sir,’ as the driver got back into the car, and the flat-nosed man said, ‘Did you see that, Bunty? She lifted her hand. She should have another jab.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool; she’s got to walk, hasn’t she? You don’t want to support a drunken woman along the cliffs, do you?’ … When they eventually helped me out of the car I drew in a long breath. There was the smell of the sea. The last time I’d smelt it was the Saturday Tommy had run us down to Hastings and we had walked from one end of the long promenade to the other, ending up in the old town where we’d watched Harold enjoying himself in the small funfair. Afterwards we’d all played clock-golf, then stood at a stall and ate a plate of whelks. It had been a lovely day. But that had happened in another life.

  When they began to walk me away from the car I glanced back. There were lights appearing in houses inland from the cliff and quite near was the sound of waves lashing against the rocks. A wind had come up and my hair was blowing into my eyes.

  When a dog came bounding towards us I filled my throat with a cry, but it was muted. I wanted to call, ‘Sandy!’ but it was a labrador and it did not even pause but went straight on past us. Then its owner appeared and when he said, ‘Good evening,’ my whole body jerked from the arms linked with mine and my mouth opened and my head went back, but my hair was again in my eyes. I lifted my hand towards the man but it was grabbed and shaken playfully while one of them answered the man’s greeting. Then they both laughed quite loudly as if we were enjoying a joke.

  We walked on, until suddenly I was pulled behind some gorse bushes and thrust onto the ground.

  The door to full consciousness was gradually opening: I could hear the thunder of the waves more clearly now as they battered the rocks; there was a great rushing feeling inside me.

  One voice said to the other, ‘Go and saunter to the edge.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard. Have a decko right an’ left.’

  ‘But you can hardly see now.’

  ‘Oh, God above!’

  I knew one of them had stepped from the gorse and I began to pray and I knew in this moment that no matter who we are or what we have previously thought about there being a God or no God, in the knowledge of approaching eternity we turn to whatever is there and speak in the only way we know. And I said, ‘Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.’

  My mind stopped the prayer at this point for there, standing before me, was Nardy and with him was Hamilton, and it was Hamilton who said, It’s all right. It’s all right; it just takes a second.

  And it only took a second because, having been led forward to the edge of the cliff, I flew into the air and it swept through my body as if pumped by a fire hose. There was a great roaring. It was the voice of God and it deafened me. Then all was still.

  PART TWO

  TOMMY

  One

  How many times can one die? Dozens of times. Hundreds of times. Dying was good, it was peaceful; it was when you were brought back to life, that’s when the pain started. Life wasn’t good. Life was this dreadful feeling of being dragged up from great black depths, up, up, through mud and water, up, up, past screaming voices, until you could stand no more, and you died again.

  Every time I was dragged back to life I prayed to die, and I died.

  It became more painful when there were longer intervals between the dying. I had once read that some people had been dead for so many seconds and when questioned about what they had experienced they had said, ‘Nothing, it was a mere blank,’ and I knew this to be true, because when I died again and again there was nothing.

  There was one period of living that I hated more than the others when this voice would come at me asking me questions, until God stopped it. And God had the voice of a woman. But this time the voice said, ‘I’ve got to ask; it’s important. And look; she’s opened her eyes.’

  Were my eyes open? I didn’t know; everything was misty and I couldn’t think of anything but the torture that they were applying to my body. That must be the man with the needle. He kept sticking it in me, and even up my nose and down my throat. But the voice kept on. It was saying, ‘Mrs Leviston. Mrs Leviston.’

  I thought dimly that it sounded like the Mohican’s voice, but the Mohican was dead. I knew that; I had seen him just before I died; he was dead.

  ‘Mrs Leviston. Mrs Leviston. Can you remember where they took you, dear?’

  ‘Look, sister’—the voice had changed now—‘I’ve got to get this information out of her, it’s imperative. It’s weeks now.’

  ‘It may be, but she’s not fit yet, she’s not fully round. Oh, you lot!’

  ‘Yes, I know, us lot.’

  ‘Mrs Leviston. Mrs Leviston. Can you remember where they took you?’

  Could I remember where they took me? Who took me? I’m going to die. I want to die. I can’t stand any more. There’s nothing that will make me stand any more.
r />   ‘Mrs Leviston. Mrs Leviston.’

  Then another voice: ‘This is Tommy, Maisie darling. Can you hear me?’

  ‘Tommy.’

  ‘She said Tommy, so she’s round. Mrs Leviston. Mrs Leviston.’

  Why was Tommy calling me Mrs Leviston?

  ‘Can you give us an idea where they took you in that black car?’

  In the black car? Yes, I had been in a black car. And I went to Liz. Yes, Liz, in the dress shop, boutique.

  ‘Liz?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, Liz. Go on. Go on. Oh, please, Mrs Leviston.’

  ‘Boutique … dresses, Liz, stiff hair … boutique … ’

  ‘My God! Yes, yes, that little dress shop. It’s called, Liz’s. Yes, yes, Bainsworthy Place. Oh, Mrs Leviston, you’re wonderful. I always knew you were wonderful, and brave and kind … I’ll be back shortly, Tommy.’

  ‘Can you manage? Will you be all right? Are you fit enough?’

  ‘Fit enough for this.’

  How nice of the man to say, ‘Mrs Leviston I always knew you were wonderful.’ I’d never been wonderful. Yet Nardy had thought so, and Tommy thought so. But I want to die; I’m so tired of all this I just want to die. And my head, my head, my head.

  As I sank into the blackness again a woman’s voice said, ‘Let her be. Let her be; it’ll be longer next time.’

  Two

  How many times can one die? Why did I still keep asking myself that question? One time when I had been returned to life I knew I was being wheeled into a room full of glaring lights, and I died again.

  I was in great pain after I became alive that time, but from then I never died fully again. And the day I realised there’d be no more dying, at least not yet anyway, I really woke up and for a moment thought I was back in the drawing room because this place, where I was, was full of yellow light. And then I saw two white-robed figures, one on each side of me. Their hands were around me and both together they said, ‘One, two, three, up we come!’ and I groaned aloud and cried, ‘Oh. Oh. Oh.’

  But they took no notice of my moans and said, ‘There you are; there’s a bonny girl for you.’

  I looked from one to the other. Their faces were bright.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Leviston.’

  My mind said good morning, but I didn’t voice it. ‘What’s happened?’ I said. Was that my voice? I could hardly hear it, it was only a squeak.

  They laughed now and one of them, striking a pose, said, ‘One of these days … I’ll tell you a story.’

  A streak of fear ran through me. That was Max Bygraves again, and a man had said those words. But … but I was alive, I wasn’t dead. I spoke again, ‘I’m alive.’

  ‘Of course you’re alive.’

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Now where do you think? You’re in hospital.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In London, of course.’

  ‘But … but how?’

  ‘Now don’t ask so many questions all at once, save your breath to meet all these visitors that you’ll be having. To tell you the truth’—a smiling face came down to mine—‘I’m sick of them tramping in and out of my ward.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I said, but as I motioned with my head to this thing sticking up at the bottom of the bed the pain ran down the back of my neck, causing me to close my eyes, and the nurse said, ‘That’s your leg, Mrs Leviston. And what caused that pain was jerking your head. Now what you’ve got to do is to lie still and be a good girl or else we’ll have to say no to your visitors.’

  ‘But my leg?’

  ‘It was broken. And your arm too.’

  Slowly I looked down at my arm. It was my good arm, and it was lying straight out and bandaged up to the shoulder. Slowly I realised that my head too was bandaged. Then I became aware of a tightness around my ribs. The only parts of my body that seemed to belong to me were my short arm and my left leg.

  ‘Now no more talking. Just lie quiet and we’ll make you pretty.’ A hand came out and gently patted my cheek; the voice was gentle too as it said, ‘You’re a very, very lucky woman, Mrs Leviston, a very lucky woman.’

  A quirk in my mind that was still there said: Apparently a broken leg, a broken arm and an acute pain inside my stomach. Yes, I was a very lucky woman …

  They washed me; they put my short arm into a clean bed jacket, the other arm of which was draped over my shoulder.

  ‘There now, there now,’ one said.

  Then they brought my breakfast. But they wouldn’t let me feed myself, although I assured them I could use my short arm. But no, they fed me.

  They were treating me like a baby.

  ‘The doctor will be round shortly; he will be so pleased with you.’

  ‘Why?’

  They looked from one to the other; then one laughed and said, ‘Because he thinks he’s a clever so-and-so putting your skull to rights.’

  ‘My skull?’ I put my hand up and touched my head. It seemed that I had a stiff cap on it. ‘What was wrong with it?’

  ‘You ask him, my dear, he’ll tell you.’

  When, a short while later, a small dark-skinned man came into the room I had no need to ask, for he started straight away: ‘Well, well! Merry and bright. That’s more like it. How do you feel?’

  When my answer wasn’t immediately forthcoming he went on, ‘Perhaps not so merry and bright, eh? But how’s the head? Aching a bit? Well, that’s to be expected. Give it a few more days and you won’t know you’ve got one, a head.’ More laughter, accompanied this time by murmurs from the sister and the nurse in attendance.

  ‘Lucky little woman. Do you know that? That’s what you are, a lucky little woman.’ His dark face was beaming. ‘Related to the cat family, nine lives … How’s the rest going?’ He had turned to the sister now, and she answered, ‘Very well, Doctor. Very well.’

  ‘Good, good. And the sooner we get the therapist on the left leg the better. But not yet, not yet.’ He was smiling at me again, and again I felt a child as he said, ‘We want no more trouble from you, you understand? You’ve got a whole arm and a leg’—he had called my deformed arm a whole arm—‘and look after them, because I don’t want to see you in that theatre any more.’

  ‘What day is it?’

  He seemed surprised at my question. ‘Saturday,’ he said.

  ‘What Saturday?’

  He glanced at the sister, then laughed again, ‘This is Saturday, the twenty-second of September, nineteen eighty-four. God be praised.’

  The sudden effort to sit up straight brought a shudder through my strapped and stiffened limbs and the sister quickly to my bedside, ‘There now, there now,’ she said. ‘Don’t jump out of bed all at once.’

  ‘Can’t be September.’

  ‘Can’t be September, she says, sister. Are we wrong?’

  Sister smiled broadly as if the doctor had just uttered some great witticism, and she answered, ‘I don’t think so, doctor.’

  ‘It was August when you were brought here from Hastings, the second week, wasn’t it, sister?’

  ‘Yes, doctor, the second week.’

  His face was near mine now. ‘You’ve overstayed your welcome, do you know that? And we’ll have you on our hands for some time yet, so behave yourself.’

  I made no reply. My lids were blinking as I tried to reckon up how long it was since that Friday morning when I went to meet the Mohican … Oh, the poor Mohican. I’d forgotten about the Mohican.

  ‘Has he been buried?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Has the Mohican been buried?’

  The three occupants of the room now exchanged glances, and the smile went from the doctor’s face. He looked perturbed.

  ‘That’s … that’s what I called him, the Mohican. He dressed like an Indian, and they stabbed him.’ My mind, I found, was rapidly sorting things out.

  ‘Oh, that Indian.’ The doctor was nodding now, the smile back on his face. ‘No, he hasn’t been buried, not yet.’

  ‘It’s a long ti
me since August.’

  ‘Oh, now, now, you mustn’t cry. I can’t stand women who cry because then I cry too. I must away. Be a good girl now. Be a good girl.’

  The doctor turned and, accompanied by the sister, went from the room. But the nurse stayed, and she wiped my eyes, saying, ‘You don’t want red lamps when you’ve got a gentleman waiting to see you.’

  ‘Oh. Tommy?’ I said.

  ‘No, not Tommy, but doubtless he’ll be here any minute. How is it you have so many men after you? And mostly big ones. There’s that one from the north, Georgie, and … ’

  ‘Georgie? Gran’s Georgie?’

  ‘Well, I suppose he’s somebody’s Georgie. And there’s the other one from the North with a complete shrubbery around his face.’

  ‘Mike.’

  ‘Is that what they call him? We know him as Doctor Kane.’

  ‘They’ve been here?’

  ‘I’ll say, and some more, and here’s me can’t even keep a boyfriend. Now, behave yourself.’ She patted my cheek, laid my short arm on the coverlet, then went from the room. And the door had hardly closed on her when it opened again and a man entered.

  He was a stranger; I had never seen him before. His neck was bandaged and he had one arm in a sling. He walked stiffly towards me; then pulling a chair up to the bedside he smiled at me. I looked at him: his hair was black, parted down the centre and flattened to each side of his head, yet it didn’t reach his ears and cover the bald patches there. His face was pale-skinned. He had a straight nose and wide mouth and deep-set eyes of a dark brown colour.

  He said, ‘Hello, Mrs Leviston.’

  That voice. I knew that voice. I looked downwards to his clothes. He was wearing a light grey suit and an open-necked shirt. His hand came out and lay on top of mine. I wouldn’t believe what I was thinking, not even when he said, ‘John Drake, at your service, ma’am.’