Stranger Still

by Marilyn Messik

  “‘Was permanent damage likely” I asked, and read that I was one of the most annoyingly obstinate and obtuse women he’d had the misfortune to come across, and the stroke was mild, reflexes good, no impairment of movement or speech. I stepped back and with a frown he hurried past.

  In my brief absence, arrangements had been made. Hilary and Martin were taking Joy and Brenda to Brenda’s flat, where Joy would stay for a couple of days and, under the generalship of my Mother and Aunt Kitty, three teams had been mustered. The first; Ruby and three of the Sewing Ladies were even now on their way to Joy’s house on a clean and clear up mission, and would pack clothes and other necessities for her. The second; Trudie with the rest of the Sewing gang, were at Brenda’s because her neighbour luckily had a spare key. They would make up the spare bed, prepare a hot meal and wait to welcome the wounded. Kitty had been left in charge back at base and was manfully handling everything at the office whilst team three, my Mother and Aunt Edna, had already dropped off a three course hot meal at Hilary and Martin’s and were even now en route to ours with more food and no doubt the odd word or two about the sort of things you shouldn’t be doing when you’re nine months pregnant.

  * * * *

  It was no surprise the ‘keep-an-eye-on-Stella’ regime and rota turned positively draconian after that, and if I’m honest, I wasn’t all that sorry. Recent events had unnerved me more than a little. I wasn’t usually so jumpy - I blamed the baby! I did feel bad though that whilst everyone was rallying around, I was in no way jolly company. I was uneasy on so many different levels, my brain felt fogged, and I wasn’t sure what, on my worry list, I should be focusing on first.

  I worried about the baby; was she healthy? Could she be damaged by stress? Was she normal? I worried about Joy because Trevor was due out of hospital soon and she kept insisting he was a changed man, she was certainly a changed woman who seemed to be looking at things from a rather different angle, and I had no idea how well that was going to go down. I worried about Devlin Had things been sorted. If yes, how? If not, why? The icing on the cake was Boris ignoring phone calls, not returning messages and when I sent out a hefty mental yell, I got nothing back and my stomach was still twisting, whenever Ruth came to mind.

  There were other things too, maybe not on the same scale but concerning. When the bride and her mother at a final fitting, changed their minds and wanted the sleeves removed from a nearly completed wedding dress, Marie-Claire, Zofia and Elizaveta flatly refused to ruin the balance of the gown or unlock the door until agreement had been reached? Marie-Claire, pre-war had been with Madeleine Vionnet, and apparently Parisian couture houses don’t subscribe to the Customer Always Right code. Mercifully, I didn’t hear about this particular skirmish until it was done and dusted, by which time, bride and mother had been convinced of the grave error of their ways and indeed were tearful with gratitude for being forced to see.

  And talking of tearful, would the soft crying in my head ever stop and give me either a break or a clue?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  I was never sure whether Laura’s stints on the Stella rota were voluntary or press-ganged, but she was doing her fair share of ‘popping in’. I felt we’d made progress in our relationship – at least now when she saw David and I together, she didn’t look as if she hadn’t the vaguest idea who I might be. She failed though to understand why I hadn’t given up work, ‘It wasn’t as if’, I heard her thinking, ‘it was a nice little secretarial job’. Running your own business, to her mind, came under the heading of plain wilful and honestly, some of the people I got involved with seemed to be more than a little odd; luckily she didn’t know the half of it.

  I wanted her to like me – I felt anything more than that might be pushing it, but I knew the way to a mother’s heart was through her son, so first step was a clean home and if I fell short, next best, was the illusion of one; this could be easily achieved by spraying some furniture polish into the air when I saw her coming down the path then answering the door a little breathlessly, complaining that dust gets everywhere, doesn’t it? Don’t judge me!

  * * * *

  Laura ‘popped in because she was passing’, on a freezing Wednesday afternoon, mid-December.

  “Shame, you’ve just missed Auntie Kitty,” I said, “she popped in too.” I felt dreadfully guilty at the time everyone was spending with me, and kept assuring anyone who’d listen that I really would stay out of trouble long enough to have this baby. Nobody seemed convinced.

  “I’m glad to see you though,” I added. I knew for her it was more of an effort than it was for the others. She wasn’t comfortable with the sheer physicality of pregnancy, never had been, couldn’t wait for her own to be over, and perhaps was still making it up to the baby. She never had a second, and once in casual conversation, when David said, ‘did you ever want another one Ma?’ it was lucky he hadn’t been able to read her internal shudder.

  I also knew, the further we got, the more scared she was of something ‘happening’ whilst she was there and her relief whenever she left without having had to deal with a daughter-in-law in labour was palpable. I gave her a clumsy hug; it wasn’t easy getting close to anyone these days and I made it brief because I could feel her holding back from contact with the bump.

  “You’re freezing,” I said, “go on in, sit down, I was going to make a cup of tea and then It’s A Wonderful Life is on.”

  “Oo lovely,” she said, with the enthusiasm of Marie Antoinette promised an outing to see a cutting-edge gadget “you’re the one should be sitting down though, I’ll make tea.” I let her, I knew it would make her feel better and if the tea didn’t, a pill might. Years ago, a helpful GP when she complained of panic attacks, not sleeping, feeling boiling hot then freezing cold, had handed her a prescription.

  “These’ll sort you out m’dear, ladies of your age, prone to this sort of thing; next time you get into a lather; one of these’ll relax you.” She’d been relaxing a great deal ever since. When I first started driving her, I popped into the Library reference section and checked out the name on the box of the pills, I understood she shouldn’t be taking them so frequently, but also, if she wanted to stop, it wouldn’t be easy. My conscience wouldn’t let me keep quiet but when I brought the subject up, she didn’t want to know, said did I really think I knew more than her doctor? Now, as she did the necessary in the kitchen, I didn’t have to listen hard to follow her train of thought. She was worried I looked terribly on edge. She herself had just swallowed a pill; more for my benefit than hers because someone needed to remain calm, I knew this meant she’d shortly evolve into Laura Two and sure enough, when she brought in tea and a sliced swiss roll, she sank down close to me on the sofa.

  “I’ll be Mother, shall I?” she said. Katerina, ensconced in an armchair, blending beautifully with the cushion, raised her head and uttered a soft whoof. Laura jumped, “Oh, the dog! Didn’t see her there, does she eat cake?” I said Kat would probably eat anything if it was presented nicely enough, but on balance, best not. We lapsed into companionable silence with Laura every now and then patting my arm and murmuring how very, very, very fond of me she was, very fond. I patted her back, said I was very fond of her too and before James Stewart had even tried to jump off the bridge, she was dozing.

  The curtains were drawn, holding in the warmth against the dark, the soft snores of Kat and Laura intermingled and backgrounded the familiar story onscreen. I’d had a couple of slices of cake, justified as one for me, one for the baby and had drained the last of my tea, when I started to feel a little peculiar and then quite a lot more peculiar. I didn’t think it was to do with the baby but she had gone very still. Too still? I jiggled a little, and was rewarded with a healthy thump. It was probably nothing. I should just relax.

  I must have relaxed more enthusiastically than I thought, because when I next looked at the tv, they were smack-bang in the middle of the bank rush. I wasn’t concerned, I knew James Stewart would win the day. My head felt stuffed
to bursting point with soft cotton wool, in which were wrapped various thoughts, but every time I tried to grasp one, it slipped away. Perhaps a glass of water? I manoeuvred myself to the edge of the couch, stood up and rapidly sat down again, both legs felt like well-cooked spaghetti. I had another go, wobbled cautiously to the kitchen, had a glass of water, sat on a kitchen chair and promptly fell asleep again, jolting awake only when I nearly fell off and the truth dawned.

  My Mother-in-law had given me one of her bloody pills. I was beyond livid, what was she thinking? Could it hurt the baby? How long would it take to wear off? Would it count as self-defence if I throttled her? I opened my mouth to call, then shut it again, couldn’t remember her name; now that was worrying; I searched in and around the cotton wool but nope, nothing. Obviously I’d have to go in and ask her, then I could tell her what I thought of her and by that time, maybe effects would have worn off.

  Hauling myself up, full of righteous indignation and holding on to the back of the chair prior to launching myself in the direction of the door, there was an awful ringing in my ears. I paused to let it pass but that didn’t happen because it turned out to be the phone. Perhaps it would stop if unanswered but no, this was one determined caller. Handing myself from one chair back to the other, I hoped it wasn’t somebody just ringing for a chat, I didn’t think I was up for small talk. I managed to get the receiver to my ear, then had to stop and turn it the right way up. It transpired it wasn’t small talk at all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Propped unsteadily against the wall, I shut my eyes, all the better to concentrate and make sense of who it was and what they wanted.

  “Stella, Stella?” the woman on the other end was sobbing. I opened my eyes and admitted it was me. I’d no idea who she was, though as I couldn’t name my own Mother-in-Law, I wasn’t surprised.

  “It’s me, Susan,” she said and through the distress, must have realised she wasn’t getting a coherent response, “Stella, can you hear me? Please, please, it’s Devlin, it’s really bad.”

  “Susan?”

  “Yes, yes, Susan McCrae. Stella, you have to come, we’re at the Royal Free, Devlin’s… oh God!” she choked on a sob.

  “What’s happ...”

  She cut in, “… I’m sending a minicab, please, please come.” Then she was gone.

  I replaced the receiver and tried to think, I understood the urgency, knew I should be galvanised into action, just wasn’t sure how much galvanising I had in me. I was scared that what I was feeling might get worse before it got better, my brain didn’t deal lightly with pharmaceutical interference, great word pharmaceutical, I rolled it round my tongue for a bit before realising I might be drifting; and I was still propped against the kitchen wall. With an effort I stood upright and for a moment the mists cleared and I edged a little closer to sensible. I’d go straight to the hospital in the cab, by the time I got there, even if not fully functioning, I might be able to do something to help and I was increasingly afraid that whatever had happened to Devlin, had happened because of me.

  I’d leave quietly, wouldn’t disturb Laura – Ah, that’s who she was. I thought I ought to take a few things with me but drew a blank as to what those might be. Perhaps best to travel light. I got myself to the front door and struggled to get it open, it tended to stick in wet weather and required a particular technique, the intricacies of which seemed to have slipped my mind. When I finally cracked it, a blast of icy air slapped me hard in the face and the sickly yellow street lighting, highlighted thin, icy drizzle.

  I shivered, which made me think a coat might be in order. Luckily the coat rack was handy; handy to hold on to as well. I lifted down a coat, had a bit of a struggle getting into it then couldn’t understand why it reached the ground and I couldn’t find my hands, but at that point a car drew up, flashed its lights and I had to hurry. The path was wet and slippery, so I walked gingerly, arms out for better balance, then realised I was not alone. Katerina, who loathed the wet almost as much as the cold was welded to my left leg. Well, that wouldn’t do. I appreciated the gesture but obviously couldn’t take her, I turned her round gave her a shove in the right direction and a sharp mental command. As so often, she took not a blind bit of notice. I

  calculated - the slippery distance to the cab was now less than the slippery distance back to the front door. I didn’t want to take chances and didn’t have time to argue, I’d just have to call from the hospital, get someone to come and collect her, or maybe she could sit in reception and with that muddled reasoning, I reached the cab. As we tumbled clumsily into the back and I pulled the door shut three things struck me as troubling; I was wearing David’s coat; I still had my slippers on; and how did Susan know my address?

  * * * *

  Mulling over the last and possibly most concerning question, I had no idea how long we drove for, or maybe I’d gone to sleep again – ruddy pill! When the car stopped I rubbed a gap in the steamed-up window and peered out. Drizzle had turned to snow, but not so heavily I couldn’t immediately spot this wasn’t the Royal Free Hospital.

  “Excuse me,” I leaned forward, always good to be polite, even if you’re fast coming to the conclusion that something, somewhere is definitely not kosher. He didn’t turn, so I touched him lightly, whipping my hand back quickly. This was one frightened shoulder; terror he’d felt and was still feeling, leapt from him to me.

  He turned very slowly. I was befuddled, but not so far gone that I couldn’t read what was in his head, had there been anything to read, but there wasn’t, only a fear-flavoured blank with an occasional free-floating tendril of half-formed thought floating by. This wasn’t good, not least from a road-safety point of view. Something had broken this man’s mind.

  “Fare’s paid,” he said tonelessly, looking at, but not seeing me. “Get out.”

  “Where are we?” I knew as I said it, it was a waste of breath; he had no more idea than I did. I opened the door and paused; my facetious thought wasn’t so facetious at all. I didn’t know who he was, who’d done this to him or what was going to happen next, but I couldn’t in good conscience let him drive off, so I knocked him out. He slumped awkwardly and there was an aborted beep as the side of his face slid past the horn. He came to a stop, draped over the handbrake. He didn’t look comfortable but was probably safer there than behind the wheel. I switched on the hazard lights, strobing orange couldn’t easily be missed in a wide road with no streetlamps and on the upside, he wouldn’t be unconscious forever by which time I might well be out again and could take over and drive. There was a brief moment when I thought, why not just do that now? But then Susan’s desperation rang in my head again, so I couldn’t. There was a rug on the passenger seat and I covered and tucked him in, it was the least I could do. It was now snowing in earnest, too dark to make anything out easily, but from the absence of nearby house lights, I assumed we were in a road where neighbours weren’t within screaming distance. Was that a good or a bad thing?

  Something nudged my arm and I jumped convulsively, Kat looked at me reproachfully, well I wasn’t having that,

  “You insisted on coming,” I told her as I opened the latch on a black wooden-strutted gate and crunched unsteadily over gravel, heading for not-the-Royal Free and reflecting whoever had thought small stones as a walking surface was a good idea, deserved to be shot.

  The house was set a way back from the road, double-fronted and built on a small rise, with several steps to the front door and light from a couple of windows. I wasn’t nervous, I was well able to take care of myself, but I wasn’t thrilled either and as David’s coat, trailing the ground was doing a grand job of snow clearing, he was another one who wasn’t going to be pleased. My slippers, unsurprisingly, had not held up well, I was chilled and shivering and willing to bet this little jaunt wouldn’t be on Mavis the Midwife’s list of things Mum should be doing.

  There was a square of thickly distorting, swirled glass set two thirds of the way up a glossy black painted front door. It w
as reflecting back a weak beam from an overhead porch light, presumably there so visitors could see this was number 20. There were a lot of things running through my mind and something that wasn’t, although so accustomed to the soft grieving had I become, I didn’t immediately pinpoint its absence.

  I couldn’t see a doorbell, but actually it’s easier to express your annoyance with a doorknocker, although on this occasion, at first knock, the door swung wide. I wanted to laugh. The only thing missing was a sinister hinge squeal, some ominous music and lots of people yelling ‘Don’t go in!’

  I went in.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The front door opened into a rectangular lobby area with coat hooks, shoe rack and a couple of past-saving potted plants. From the lobby a frosted glass door opened into a spacious hall, a couple of doors either side, a staircase to the left at the end. The carpet was brown with a hectic orange swirl motif that could have done with a lot less repeating. The house was still and stale, the smell of recently burnt toast overlying memories of other meals gone by; it didn’t seem to be a place where windows were flung open often.

  I called hello to no response then getting crosser by the minute, yelled for Susan, although by then I knew this was none of her doing – at least not voluntarily. Hoisting David’s coat which had become heavier and harder to handle the wetter it got, I hiked across to the first room on the right, opening the door onto more orange swirling, it really was the sort of carpet that makes you want to step back and go somewhere quieter.

  The room was large. A solid Chesterfield sofa in buttoned, dark green leather faced a tiled fireplace with matching armchairs either side and welcome heat blasting from a three-bar electric fire standing in the fireplace. A couple of dim-bulbed standard lamps with shades heavy on the pom-poms, were doing their best to add something to the feeble light from a central ceiling fitting. An upright piano with a metronome and some loose music sheets notionally separated the two areas of the long room with the far end given over to a dark wood dining table centre-pieced by an over-large china vase. Taking up space at the fireplaced end were more occasional tables than any self-respecting room has a right to, and on every flat surface – of which there were plenty - stood china figures on lace doilies, whilst gilt-framed paintings did for the walls, what the china was doing for the tables; overpopulated was one way of describing it.