The Lady on my Left (The Mists of Memory)

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The Lady on my Left (The Mists of Memory) Page 15

by Catherine Cookson


  She sat down on the bathroom stool and heard footsteps crossing the hall and into the drawing room; but it did strike her as odd that she was hearing neither Paul’s nor Freda Gordon-Platt’s voice.

  When Paul’s voice did come to her, his words intrigued her. Under ordinary circumstances she would not have been able to hear what he was saying, but his voice was raised and although it was muffled she heard him say plainly, ‘I don’t believe you.’

  Alison rose slowly from the stool. There was something in Paul’s voice that was not at all lover-like. It drew her towards the bathroom door and softly she turned the handle and, without any compunction, stood there listening.

  ‘Why should he lie?’ It was Mrs Freda Gordon-Platt speaking now.

  ‘There are a number of reasons why Tapley should lie, the main one being that he hates me.’

  ‘But this does not concern you, it concerns her. I’ve just told you he said that he outbid her for the lot, then sold it back to her. And I can tell you he’s as angry as I am, if not more so, and he called her some names when he knew the truth.’

  ‘How do you know it’s the truth?’ Paul’s voice was sharp.

  ‘Because I know my mother-in-law. She wouldn’t have gone off her head as she has done over a tea caddy had it not been more than just a tea caddy. And I’ve told you she said nothing about the stones; it was Beck who gave that away. She said that your precious ward had promised to get them back for her and was going round the salerooms to discover where they were. And do you think she would have bid up to fifty-five pounds for a few plates and a little caddy unless she knew what she was after? I could sue her for this.’

  ‘You could do nothing of the sort.’ Paul’s voice was low now. ‘If she’s got these things…and I don’t believe she has, but if she has, she’s come by them legally. And don’t forget you said she didn’t get the lot—Bill Tapley got it, then sold it back to her. So everything is quite above board, as far as I can see. But she would never have done this without telling me, I know that.’

  Alison put her hand tightly across her mouth and lowered her head.

  ‘No, of course she wouldn’t.’ Mrs Freda Gordon-Platt’s voice came sneeringly across the hall. ‘You think the sun shines round her; you’re besotted with her. Oh, it makes me sick, you…you, who are old enough to be her father.’

  A silence fell upon the house now, and Alison, her head up, her heart racing, waited for Paul’s answer. Then it came, revealing nothing.

  ‘I’m not discussing Alison with you.’

  ‘No…because you’re afraid; afraid to face the fact that you’re competing against youth. You’re competing against my son…You know, Paul, I could feel sorry for you, because they’re in love with each other. It happened like that.’ There came a sound of snapping fingers; then the voice went on, ‘I saw it from the beginning and I can tell you that I helped it along. I left my compact here, not planning to return for it myself, but to give Roy the chance to meet her again…’

  And leave the field and Paul open for herself, thought Alison.

  ‘That was very clever of you, Freda.’ Paul’s voice was cold. ‘You always did have your eye on the main chance. When you came back onto my horizon you had everything planned, didn’t you? Beacon Ride was a millstone. Like yourself, it wasn’t attractive to anyone in the county. Oh, don’t rear up, Freda; I know more than you think. For the past year you have tried to fling your cap where the money lies. When that didn’t work, I was the last resort. I had a good business; at least, you thought so. I was the last port in your stormy life, as I had been the first. You thought you could pick up the threads where you had dropped them years ago. You made a bid for money then, and it failed. Well, you made a wrong bid again this time, Freda. That day you returned, you did me a good turn. I’d been bitter for years, bitter against life and against women, and trusting no-one. When I saw you again you seemed to lift a mountain from me. I knew I was free of you and all you had done…I was no longer weighed down by hate and resentment. You and your precious Charles crippled me. I could have gone to jail; I nearly did, and it rankled for years. Then, when all your other plans failed, you had the nerve to come back and think I’d be fool enough to take up the threads again. You’re not really clever, you know, Freda…’

  At this point, another voice came to Alison. It was Nelson’s, calling from the bottom of the stairs: ‘Mr Paul! Mr Paul!’ There was no answer for a time, and then when Nelson called again, Alison heard Paul walking swiftly into the hall, and from there he called, ‘What is it?’

  ‘Can you spare a minute, Mr Paul? There’s a gentleman here interested in the long-cased clock. I’d like you to see him.’

  Alison sensed Paul’s hesitation; then heard him going down the stairs.

  As she heard the staircase door close, Alison hesitated for only a moment longer. She couldn’t stay in the bathroom indefinitely. She must slip back to bed again, and she would be glad to, for her legs felt like jelly and her heart was racing again. But it was a joyful racing now. Paul wasn’t in love with Freda Gordon-Platt, he wasn’t, he wasn’t. He was in love with her! How stupid she had been. She remembered his high spirits on the afternoon following Mrs Freda Gordon-Platt’s visit—she had interpreted his behaviour as pleasure in again seeing the woman he had once loved, when all the time his pleasure had been because he had found release from the bitterness that had eaten into him over the years. And the bitterness was not only because of a lost love and betrayal by a friend, but because of the financial morass the two of them had plunged him into which he was only just now sorting out. Oh, Paul…Paul. Poor Paul. Oh, if she could only run to him now and tell him…tell him what she had overheard. There would be no more cross purposes. At this point she thought about the tea caddy. Oh, the tea caddy. Well, she could explain that, and he could give it to Miss Beck or to Margaret, whichever he preferred. There was one thing certain; he would not give it to Freda Gordon-Platt.

  She crept out of the bathroom and was moving cautiously across the landing when, with a swishing sound, the drawing-room door was pulled open and she was brought to a guilty stop under the eyes of the tall, stiff-faced woman.

  ‘I…I understood you were in bed ill.’ The voice was cool and high.

  ‘I’m not ill; I have a cold, that’s all. I…I’ve just been to the bathroom.’ Although the explanation was unnecessary, Alison felt extremely embarrassed at this moment.

  Now Freda Gordon-Platt’s eyes flashed above Alison’s head and across the narrow hall to the bathroom door, and when her gaze returned to Alison she asked, in a deceptively quiet tone, ‘May I enquire if you have been in the bathroom long?’

  The dislike of this woman rising in Alison again swept away the feeling of embarrassment and she answered provokingly, ‘Long enough.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mrs Gordon-Platt accompanied this word with an upward lift of her eyebrows and a movement of her head to one side; then turning about she walked back into the drawing room, saying over her shoulder, ‘I would like to have a word with you.’

  Alison cast a swift glance towards the stairs. Paul would not be pleased to find her up and talking to this woman, no matter what he himself thought about her. Nevertheless, she followed her into the drawing room and moved towards the fire.

  Freda Gordon-Platt came to a stop a few feet from Alison, standing on the hearthrug, and now she spoke in a quick, low tone, saying, ‘Paul may be back in a moment; I want to ask you something.’

  ‘Yes?’ Alison turned her head.

  ‘Do you like my son?’

  In spite of what Alison knew about this woman’s motives, the question came as a surprise. She answered slowly, ‘Yes. Yes, I like your son.’ This was the truth; she did like Roy.

  ‘Good. Because, as I told you before, he’s very much in love with you.’

  Alison remained silent for some seconds before saying, ‘I can’t see how that is possible as we’ve only met a few times.’

  ‘Time has nothing to do with young
people falling in love. You should know that.’

  ‘Roy is only a boy.’

  ‘A boy!’ Mrs Gordon-Platt’s voice rose now. ‘He’s the same age as you.’

  ‘He’s not. I understand he’s not yet twenty and I’m nearly twenty-one.’

  ‘Well, it’s a mere point. He’s a very sensible boy and he knows what he wants and…and he wants to marry you.’

  ‘Really!’ Alison looked coldly now at this woman. If ever there was a schemer, here was one. If she couldn’t have Paul for herself she was determined that no-one else was going to have him; moreover, she intended to make him suffer by taking from him the one person who meant something to him.

  Alison felt no compunction in playing along with this woman, so she said, ‘And you wouldn’t mind having me for a daughter-in-law?’

  Freda Gordon-Platt shrugged. ‘We needn’t see each other. Once the house and land are sold’—she didn’t say when Mrs Gordon-Platt is dead—‘Once the house and land are sold, I will leave Roy to his own devices and…and his wife. I don’t want to hang round his neck nor have him hanging round mine. I have my life before me.’ She spoke as if she were still a young girl. Alison turned from her and, taking a comb from the pocket of her dressing gown, she looked at her reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece.

  She couldn’t see Freda Gordon-Platt reflected in the mirror because she was standing out of her vision when she replied, ‘I’m afraid I can’t marry Roy, Mrs Gordon-Platt, because, you see, I will be marrying Paul at the earliest opportunity.’

  She was never clear afterwards as to whether Mrs Gordon-Platt’s hands came on her immediately or whether there was a pause before she fell into the fire. Nothing was ever clear about that terrible moment. Only her own screams would return to haunt her again and again in the years that followed.

  Paul had always maintained it was dangerous to hang a mirror above the fireplace. He had objected strongly to her doing this; and had often checked her when she stood on the raised hearth so that she could see in the mirror. An impression of these warnings flashed into her mind an instant before she was enveloped in pain, flame and screams.

  When she was pushed—or struck—her slippered feet had slipped off the end of the polished hearth and she had fallen forward. The fire was an open iron basket full of glowing coals, and was flanked on both sides by a pair of iron dogs supporting poker and tongs. It was one of those that saved her from falling face first into the basket of flame. Her hands, naturally going forward, struck the hot bars, the left hand to the side, but the right one against the middle of the bars. Then the flames licked and caught her dressing gown and she was swallowed by it.

  ‘Oh, God! Oh, God!’ She was being pummelled now. She let out another piercing scream as she felt herself being rolled in something and almost smothered. Somebody was beating her and this added to her torture. She was rolled again, and now she couldn’t get her breath to scream and she was sure she was going to die. She couldn’t bear this, she couldn’t bear it. Oh, God! Oh, God, let her die. For a fleeting second her whole body went numb. She could feel nothing, nothing. Then she was conscious of sitting on the floor, her head resting against Paul’s shoulder, his arms about her. She saw a number of legs; dimly she recognised Nelson’s, and Nellie’s skirt, and then there were the legs of Freda Gordon-Platt. They were over by the door, and then Paul spoke to them across the room. Alison was conscious of the vibration of his words as they rumbled up from somewhere deep within his body. ‘Get out!’ he was shouting, ‘Get out before I kill you!’ Then, ‘Get her out of here, Nelson. Get her out…!’

  It was at this point that the numbness left her body and she began to groan again and tried not to scream. She clenched her teeth and looked up into the pitying eyes of Paul as he bent above her, murmuring, ‘There, my love. There, my love. It won’t be long. The ambulance is on its way. It won’t be long. There, my love.’

  ‘Oh! Pa-ul.’ She groaned out his name and his arms tightened about her.

  ‘My ha…ands, Paul. Oh! Paul, my hands…and…and my face.’

  ‘It’s all right. It’s all right, my love.’ That was all he seemed able to say, ‘It’s all right, my love.’ But it wasn’t all right. It wasn’t all right. Her face…her face was burnt. She would look ugly, dreadful, dreadful, like Margaret, poor Margaret. ‘Oh, Pa…ul.’ Her body contracted and the pain became unbearable, so unbearable that she was delivered from it and sank thankfully into unconsciousness…After that, she had a vague recollection of being carried down the stairs; then the pain, mounting once more, blotted everything out again…

  When she next regained consciousness she seemed to be floating in a misty blue light. She called for Paul and one of the figures broke through the mist and brought his face down to hers; but it wasn’t Paul’s face. This person had a thin nose and bushy eyebrows and he said, ‘It’s all right. Lie quiet; you’ll be all right. The pain will lessen. Just remember that; the pain will lessen.’

  Her mind took up the words: The pain will lessen, the pain will lessen. But oh God, it hadn’t yet. It was awful, unbearable. If that man could feel this pain, he would know. It would never lessen. She couldn’t bear it, she couldn’t. Yet she didn’t speak. That is, not until a woman’s voice came in a whisper from somewhere near, saying, ‘Tell her about her face.’

  Oh, God, her face. Yes, her face. Her face had been burnt. She would look awful, like Margaret, like Margaret. Poor Margaret. Her mind began to race madly; she felt the scream rising in her…rushing up from the depths of her body. She opened her mouth and her eyes wide, and there was the thin nose and the bushy eyebrows again. ‘Listen, you’re going to be all right…There’s nothing wrong with your face…just smoke, a little singed…You understand what I’m saying? Your face is all right.’ The thin nostrils widened. She watched the lips move into a smile. The eyebrows went up and he said again, ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’

  She wasn’t worrying. She wasn’t worrying. But oh, the pain, the pain. She didn’t care what was the matter with her, not really, if only this pain would stop…Oh, the pain!

  The female voice was whispering again. ‘They never mind so long as it isn’t their face, but by heavens, her hands have got it, the right one especially. It’ll need some surgery here…and her neck…Has she drifted off? The injection should be taking effect; she should be easy now.’

  Alison clung on to the voice. It was like the voice of God, because, just as it had said, she was becoming easy now. She could bear the dreadful feeling now without shouting inside her head, without screaming against it. They said her hands were in a bad way. And her neck? Oh, she was too tired to think. There was only one thing she knew at this fading moment: she did not care what she looked like so long as the pain didn’t return.

  Chapter Five

  It was one morning almost three weeks later when Alison, waking up to the familiar sound of the trolley, saw the white-capped head bending over her, and smiled at the robust voice that was saying, ‘Hello, little-un. Had a good night?’

  They all called her ‘little-un’. The doctor with the sharp nose and the bushy eyebrows had started that. It was only lately that they had, to her, become individuals, separated from each other by different clothes and names. Strangely, she felt that she had always known them, that they had always been with her, that she had known no other life but the life of this ward; that she had always lain under this cage and always been fed by one or other of them, had her hair combed by them, had been forced to remain alive by them. Only when she saw Paul was she reminded that she had lived another life. Just before visiting hours began, Nurse Riley would tease her in her thick Irish brogue. ‘Here comes your great handsome hulk of flesh. My! Some folks have it all ways.’ It had come to her during the past few days that Nurse Riley—in fact, all of them—were aware of what was between herself and Paul. Yet Paul just sat by the bedside gazing at her, hardly ever speaking. Sometimes he touched her hair. When he left her he kissed her, although not on the mo
uth. At one stage, when she felt very ill, she had thought dimly…I am going to die. I wish he would say it, speak it, say he loved me…But he didn’t. Yet that night she had been conscious of him being with her all the time, and the next night, too. She was aware now that she had been very ill and had almost died. There was still a great lassitude about her, but when the pain came now it was no longer sharp, but more of a sensation of skin tightening, stretching—cracking, even.

  She said to the nurse, ‘I’ve slept well. I feel better.’

  ‘You look better. His nibs will be pleased with you this morning.’

  His nibs happened to be the doctor with the thin nose and the bushy eyebrows. Howard by name, and the man who could produce…preparation jitters in this tough nurse.

  It was a good many hours later when the jitters were in process; the noise outside her own small room had faded away, as if there was no-one left alive in the place, and Alison knew that his nibs was doing his rounds.

  Dr Howard was a small man. He moved quickly, he spoke quickly, and he worked quickly. He had no bedside manner. He came breezing in, saying, ‘Hello, little-un, how goes it?’

  ‘I feel better, doctor.’

  ‘That’s good news. About time too, I think.’ He reached out and pulled the chair towards the bed and, leaning towards her, he said, ‘We’re going to sit up and take notice, aren’t we? Have a few visitors and come back to life, eh?’

  She tried to nod, and then asked a question that had been niggling at the back of her mind, ‘Will my neck be very scarred, doctor?’

 

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