by Ellie Dean
He felt the hot tears well and let them fall. The pain of knowing he had to set Rosie free was far more agonising than the one in his back – but lose her he must if she was to have any sort of life.
He must have fallen back into a medication-induced sleep, for when he next opened his eyes the scenery had changed and there was the lovely sound of soft singing in the background. Had he died? Was that angels he could hear?
He blinked to clear his vision and was almost blinded by the bright light which, he at first thought, must be from the gates of Paradise. Then sense returned and he realised he was still very much alive and that he’d been moved into the ward with the other men, and the man sitting on his right-hand side was most definitely not Saint Peter, but Father O’Leary.
‘What’s going on?’ he muttered.
‘It’s very early on Christmas morning, Ron, and the heavenly choir is the nurses doing their bit to cheer everyone up.’ His brown eyes twinkled. ‘You didn’t think you’d died, did you?’
‘Not at all,’ he fibbed. ‘Heaven would hardly be smelling of disinfectant, now would it?’ He rested back into the pillows after a glance round at the paperchains and tinsel which had been strung everywhere. There was even a Christmas tree standing in the corner. ‘It can’t be Christmas,’ he muttered. ‘I only came in here the other day.’
‘It’s been two weeks, Ron,’ replied the priest. ‘Since you came in here, the Battle of the Bulge has been raging, General Patton is set to relieve Bastogne, and the Russians have started besieging Budapest.’ He gave Ron’s hand a consoling pat when it became clear he was finding it difficult to absorb the news. ‘They’ve relaxed the rules today, so visiting hours have been extended. Your family will be here soon, which is why I’ve come in so early.’
Ron’s brain was still fogged with medication and could take none of it in. ‘Early? But Armstrong was here on his evening rounds a minute ago.’
‘That was yesterday,’ Father O’Leary replied gently. ‘I managed to speak to him then, and he said you were progressing slowly.’
‘Holy Mother of God, I’m losing the hours and days of me life lying here,’ Ron said on a trembling sigh.
‘’Tis sorry I am you’ve got yourself in this mess,’ the priest replied rather too cheerfully. ‘But I understand you’re recovering well and will soon be sent to the Memorial to recuperate and start intensive physiotherapy. I have no doubt you’ll be up and about and causing mischief again before too long.’
‘I wish that was the truth of it, Father,’ he replied sadly, the conversation with Armstrong coming back with shocking clarity. ‘I doubt I’ll be going too far just yet.’
Father O’Leary eyed him questioningly, but Ron wasn’t about to tell him anything so personal. This wasn’t the confessional, Father O’Leary liked to gossip, and he didn’t want half the town knowing his problems.
O’Leary placed two paperback books on the bedside locker. ‘I thought these might help to fill in some time,’ he said.
Ron saw the lurid covers of half-naked women being threatened by snarling men with blood-soaked knives, and raised a brow. ‘To be sure, Father, you never cease to surprise me.’
‘There’s nothing better than a good murder mystery to keep you occupied,’ he replied with a glint in his eyes. ‘Now I must go. This is a busy day for me and your family will be here soon.’
He stood and made the sign of the cross over Ron to bless him before eyeing him with curiosity. ‘Did you feel closer to God when you were trapped underground, my old friend?’
‘’Twas the devil calling to me out of the darkness, Father, and me dog that dug me out before I smothered. If God had anything to do with it, He wasn’t in evidence then, and certainly isn’t now.’
Father O’Leary gave a mournful sigh. ‘Still a heathen, even after all that. To be sure, Ronan Reilly, you’re beyond saving – but I admire your courage in facing your adversity.’
Ron watched him leave the ward and wondered whether it was courage or stupidity that kept him so determinedly a heathen. But when that final trumpet call came he’d no doubt find out if he’d backed the winning side or not.
Rosie was humming quietly along to the church service on the wireless as she finished wrapping her Christmas presents. She hadn’t had much time for shopping, and the shops were almost bare of anything remotely interesting or properly festive. But she’d persevered and had managed to find some lovely pyjamas for Ron, a winter coat with a velvet collar for Daisy, and some little trinkets for the girls and Cordelia – and there was a bottle of real French perfume for Peggy that she’d managed to get on the black market.
It didn’t really feel like Christmas without Ron at her side, and she fully understood now how badly Peggy must have suffered during all those Christmases she’d spent without Jim and the rest of her family. But like Peggy, Rosie was determined to make the best of things as they put on a brave face for little Daisy, and enjoyed the special dinner Peggy and Doris were laying on that evening at Beach View.
They’d arranged a sort of visiting roster for today because it soon became clear that everyone wanted to see Ron to wish him well. His old pals, Fred, Alf, Chalky, Bert and Stan, would take the first shift, with Bertie Double-Barrelled and Cordelia going in next with Peggy, and possibly Daisy – it would depend on how overexcited the child was – and Cissy if she’d managed to get leave from the airfield.
The Beach View girls would go in with Robert once Ron had had his lunch, and then Doris and the Colonel would take over before Frank turned up with Pauline – and then Rosie would have him all to herself until suppertime.
Rosie placed the presents in a basket which she’d decorated with bits of holly and mistletoe she’d found whilst out for a solitary walk in the park. There had been a lot of those recently, but they’d helped clear her head after the stuffy heat and dry atmosphere of that hospital room, and given her the energy she’d needed so badly to keep up her spirits.
With the basket packed, she sank into the couch and glanced at the mantel clock. The pub was shut for the day; the street below her window was unusually quiet; there was no dog to walk and no housework to do that couldn’t be left for another day. She was becoming restless – which was dangerous, for it gave her time to dwell on things she didn’t really want to think about.
Ron had slept through her visit the previous evening, and she’d sat watching him, fretting over the fact he still couldn’t move his legs or feel anything much below the waist. Having managed to finally snare Armstrong and make him tell her what was going on, she had learned that Ron was far from out of the woods yet, and if something didn’t happen soon, he could very well never walk again.
She remembered how she’d been so happy to have him alive that she’d blithely said she could accept anything as long as he was still with her. But how would Ron feel about being tied to a wheelchair for the rest of his life? And how would she cope?
Rosie determinedly blanked out that thought. She hadn’t been able to care for her husband James when he’d become mentally ill, but she would knuckle down to give Ron the very best love and care that she could. And besides, she reasoned, Ron was not the sort of man to accept such a terrible sentence and just give in. He would fight tooth and nail to prove the doctors wrong, she just knew it – but she was also realistic enough to know that there were some battles which simply couldn’t be won.
Did they both have the strength of purpose to see this through together? Was their love for one another strong enough to withstand the many problems which were undoubtedly ahead?
Rosie took a trembling breath and prayed that it was, and that they could forge a new and very different life together after this. However hard it might be.
Ron had been delighted to see everyone this morning, and to hear that Harvey and his ferrets were being so well tended, but now he was exhausted, and grateful for a bit of respite. Christmas lunch had been served, but he had little appetite for chicken and soggy potatoes and pushed it away, wanti
ng only to sleep before the nurses came to turn him on his other side, and the hordes descended again.
‘So, this is where you’re hiding,’ said a cheerful and wonderfully familiar voice.
Ron breathed in her light, flowery perfume as her soft lips kissed his cheek. He smiled and opened his eyes. ‘Hello, Dolly,’ he murmured. ‘Or is it Mrs Cartwright?’
Dolly chuckled and shrugged off her fur coat. ‘So you do remember. I hope you kept my visit to yourself?’
‘I think so,’ he replied. ‘I’m not really sure of anything much.’
‘Well I’m no longer here in disguise. Peggy wrote to me, so I thought I’d pop in to wish you Merry Christmas and see how you’re getting on,’ she said, pulling off her leather gloves and giving him a naughty smile. ‘Still managing to fill that bottle on your own?’
‘Of course,’ he replied with as much dignity as he could muster.
‘I’m surprised they haven’t put you in traction yet,’ she said, glancing down at his feet, which were sticking out from under the sheet. ‘I’ve been reading up on things and thought the idea was to stretch the spine to get it back into shape.’
Ron fought to keep his voice steady as he answered her. ‘They’ll not be doing that now they’ve put me in this plaster jacket. Traction doesn’t work when there’s no feeling from the waist down.’
‘Oh.’ Dolly’s bright smile faded and she reached for his hand. ‘But they must be able to do something to help you get the feeling back, surely?’
‘The physio comes in and mauls me about, but nature has to take its course,’ he muttered. ‘Or not, as the case might be,’ he added gloomily.
‘And if it doesn’t?’
There had never been secrets between them, and Ron had to swallow hard before he could reply. ‘I’ll be finished as a walking man. And fit for nothing – let alone a proper husband to Rosie.’
Dolly gripped his fingers and leaned closer, her expressive face showing her anguish at the realisation of what he’d meant by that last statement. ‘Rosie will love you regardless,’ she said firmly. ‘I can’t have you thinking like that, Ron. It’s still very early days and things could change.’
‘I’ll not be marrying Rosie and condemning her to a life of little pleasure and endless drudgery,’ he muttered. ‘Best to finish it today, and let her find someone else who can give her a better future.’
Dolly’s eyes hardened. ‘Don’t you dare talk like that, Ronan Reilly. This is not the time to wallow in self-pity and I won’t allow it.’
Ron almost smiled at her bossy tone, but he was hurting inside too much, and couldn’t even look at her, so he closed his eyes and tried to block out the sound of her voice.
‘Ever since I’ve known you, you’ve been a fighter,’ Dolly continued firmly. ‘Determined to have your way against all the odds, you raised your boys single-handedly after Mary died; survived the trenches and being buried alive in that damned bunker. I will not let you just roll over and give in.’
When he refused to respond, she prodded him sharply in the arm. ‘Do you hear me?’
‘To be sure, the entire town must hear you,’ he grumbled.
‘Then have the decency to look at me whilst I’m talking to you,’ she said crossly.
He opened his eyes. ‘You’re talking at me, not to me. And I don’t take kindly to it, Dolly. I’ll not be marrying Rosie if I can’t be a proper husband to her. She deserves better than to be burdened with a useless cripple.’
She prodded him again with a very sharp fingernail. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Ron, pull yourself together,’ she said in exasperation. ‘Rosie will make up her own mind as to whether or not she wants to be tied to a self-pitying, weak man who has neither the will nor the courage to buck up his thinking and get on with the fight.’
She sat back in the chair and regarded him steadily. ‘Although, at this minute, I wouldn’t blame her for dumping you if this is the way you plan to carry on.’
‘Hell’s teeth, woman. Do you never give up?’ he retorted. ‘I never took you for a hard-hearted harridan, and to be sure, I don’t envy that Yank you’re planning to marry.’
Dolly giggled. ‘That’s more like my old Ron,’ she said affectionately. ‘Now promise me there’ll be no more talk of finishing it with Rosie. It’s Christmas Day, and she’s had enough to contend with these past two weeks without you hurting her even more. And you would hurt her, Ron, deeply and irrevocably.’
‘I can’t make that promise, Dolly,’ he said, wearily accepting she was probably right about the unwarranted pain he would cause his beloved girl. ‘But I won’t say anything today.’
‘Good. It won’t hurt to wait a bit and see how the land lies before you burn your boats with Rosie. Miracles do happen, Ron – as you and I both know.’
She dug in her handbag and pulled out a beautifully gift-wrapped box. ‘A little something to enjoy when you’re off the medication,’ she said softly.
Ron fumbled with the wrapping and discovered it was a quarter-bottle of cognac. ‘I’ll have to give it to Rosie to keep until then. If Matron spots it she’ll confiscate it.’
He slid it beneath the sheet. ‘Will you be staying on to bully me further, or going back to London to boss someone else about?’
Dolly smiled as she gathered up her things and bent to kiss him. ‘I’ve decided to stay a couple of days to make sure you’re doing as you’re told. It will probably annoy the devil out of Pauline, but I’m hoping that as it’s the season of goodwill, some of it will have rubbed off on her. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Ron noticed how every man’s admiring gaze followed her slow sashay out of the room and couldn’t help but grin. Dolly was very aware of the effect she had on men and played it to the hilt. That American general would have one hell of a woman on his hands, and he could only hope the poor man was well prepared for her.
Dolly left the hospital, deep in thought. She’d never seen Ron so depressed before, and although she fully understood the reason, it worried her. She had always seen Ron as the epitome of what a man should be: strong of build and mind; intelligent, magnetic and handsome with a twinkle in his eye and a soft spot in his heart for those he loved. To even think of him as impotent and tied to a wheelchair was simply too awful to bear.
‘And what of Rosie?’ she murmured as she reached her car. She looked over at the Anchor, wondering what was going through her mind at this moment. Rosie was an intelligent woman and would surely have guessed that the paralysis had affected other things – but in her anxiety and the trauma of these past two weeks, had she fully digested the ramifications of impotency in a man who’d always been so physical?
Dolly stood there in a quandary. She’d come down on the spur of the moment as it had been quiet in London, and she had hoped to see Ron on the mend. The realisation that he was far from improving, but had regressed to the point where he was talking of ditching Rosie, had shocked her to the core – which was why she’d been so harsh with him.
Yet she’d meant every word, and had hoped she could stir him up enough to make him see that if he gave in now, then he’d only be fulfilling Armstrong’s prophecy. But the fight seemed to have left him and he could only see the very worst outcome.
Dolly came to a decision. She would talk to Rosie and find out what she knew or had guessed, and get some sense of what she was thinking. It wasn’t really her place to interfere in other people’s business, but then she’d never been one to stand on the sidelines when something needed to be done – and if Ron had lost the will to fight, then it was up to her and Rosie to get him out of this slough of despond and back on the road to recovery.
As she approached the Anchor she wondered how Rosie would react to her turning up unannounced. They’d met infrequently over the years, but had never become close friends, and Dolly had accepted that was probably because Rosie was wary of her, and rather jealous of the long special relationship she shared with Ron, and in which she’d played no part. She pulled the collar of her
mink coat up to her chin to stave off the bitter north-east wind and knocked on the side door.
A minute later it opened and Rosie stood there, her reddened eyes widening at the sight of her visitor. ‘Hello, Dolly. This is a surprise.’
‘I hope you don’t mind me turning up like this,’ she said with an apologetic smile. ‘But Peggy wrote and told me what had happened to Ron, so after visiting him, I thought I’d pop in and see how you’re doing.’
‘Oh, that is kind.’ Realising how cold it was to be standing on the doorstep, Rosie stepped back and opened the door wider. ‘Do come in,’ she said distractedly. ‘To be honest, I could do with some company until it’s my turn over there.’
Dolly noted how hard Rosie was trying to appear cheerful and stoic, for gone was the dazzling blue in her eyes and the vivacious light in her face. She was clearly struggling, and if Ron let her down now, the consequences could be shattering.
Dolly followed her up the narrow wooden stairs to her sitting room, and as she’d always been curious about Rosie’s living arrangements, was rather impressed by how pretty and neat it was – although there was a distinct lack of any Christmas decorations apart from the basket by the fireplace.
‘I expect you’d like a drink,’ said Rosie. ‘Tea, or gin and tonic?’
Dolly smiled and took off her gloves. ‘I could certainly murder a gin. After all, it is Christmas, and the drive from Bournemouth was ghastly, and the atmosphere in that hospital as dry as a desert.’
Rosie told her to make herself comfortable whilst she poured the drinks. ‘I’m sorry it’s a bit chilly in here, but coal is as rare as hen’s teeth and I have to keep what I can get for the fire in the bar.’
To show Rosie that she was entirely comfortable with the chill, Dolly draped the fur over her shoulders, settled into the couch and gazed around at the feminine room, trying, without success, to imagine Ron sitting there in his scruffy clothes and old boots. ‘This is a lovely room,’ she said, taking the glass from Rosie.
Rosie glanced round as if seeing it with fresh eyes. ‘It’s not too bad,’ she agreed, ‘but of course it won’t be at all suitable once Ron comes out of hospital.’