‘Not when they’re finished with it; it’ll be like new, better than new.’ He touched her cheek now and his voice dropped as he said, ‘I’m telling you the truth, you know; not just saying it to placate you. Your neck will be perfectly all right when you’ve had some treatment.’
‘Treatment?’ She swallowed. ‘How much longer will I be here, doctor?’
‘Oh’—he pursed his lips—‘another fortnight, I should think, and then you can go home.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Just a fortnight?’
‘Yes; and then after a period at home, you’ll have to go on to East Grinstead. Now, there’s nothing to worry about; nothing will be done until you feel absolutely fit for it, and then only in small doses. It was unfortunate that this should happen at a time when you were on the brink of influenza, which is why you’ve felt so ill…And you have been ill.’ He patted her cheek again. ‘The influenza didn’t help the shock either, but now you’re going to be all right.’
‘My hands, doctor. When am I going to be able to use them?’
‘Oh…oh.’ Again he drew out the word, ‘There’s nothing much wrong with the left one but your right one has had a pretty bad towsing.’
‘I…I’ll be able to use it?’ There was fear in her voice.
‘Oh, yes. Yes,’ he nodded, ‘you’ll be able to use it; all, that is, except the little finger. That I’m afraid was damaged pretty badly. But, after all—’ he sat up straight and pulled his chin in before saying sharply, ‘what is a little finger? Some people lose their hands…now don’t forget that…and their feet. When the loss of use of the little finger troubles you, just remember there’s not a mark on your face, and that to me is a miracle. Mr Aylmer caught you only just in time. If it wasn’t for his prompt action there is every probability that at least the lower part of your face would have caught it, too. So we’re not going to worry about the little finger, are we?’
She smiled a thankful smile, ‘No, doctor. And I can go home in a fortnight?’
‘There! That’s thanks for you.’ The chair was pushed roughly back on the polished floor as he bounced round to the sister. ‘You do all you can for them and then what happens? They practically insult you by telling you to your face they want to get away from you as soon as possible.’ He swung round again to the bed and, his arm stretched to the fullest extent and his finger pointing at Alison, he exclaimed in a voice that one would not associate with a sick room, ‘You’re an ungrateful hussy. I’m finished…I wash my hands of you.’ Swinging round he marched out of the room, the sister and the nurse following him, their faces crinkled with subdued laughter.
He was nice. Oh, he was nice. But her finger. She shuddered. Yet, as he had said, it could have been both hands, or her feet, or…or her face. She should be thankful. She was thankful; and in a fortnight she would be home. Oh, Paul. For the first time in weeks she put pressure on her elbows to change her position in the bed…
When Paul came into the room later in the day he stood at the doorway for a moment looking across at her. Then coming slowly towards the bed he smiled at her as he said, ‘You’re better?’
‘I feel fine.’ She smiled up at him, and he stood looking down at her for so long that she said, ‘Sit down. I’ve some news.’
When he was settled, and with a touch of excitement that had been lacking in her voice for a long time, she said, ‘I’m coming home, Paul.’
‘Home? When?’ He was leaning towards her, his eyes dark and bright.
‘In a fortnight. Dr Howard said so.’
Now the fingers of both his hands were touching her cheeks, and as he beat a gentle tattoo on them she seemed to draw into herself the emotion that was filling him.
‘That’s splendid. Splendid, splendid…I didn’t think it would be so soon.’
‘I’m going to lose the use of my little finger, Paul.’ Her voice was low now and her eyes half veiled.
She watched him place his hands on his knees and look down at them as he said, ‘Yes, I know.’ Then raising his eyes quickly to hers, he added, ‘But that’ll be all. Otherwise you’ll be as good as new. They do wonderful work at East Grinstead.’ But now again his eyes dropped away from hers and he said, ‘There’s something I must ask you…It’s about her.’
Her…could mean only one person, Freda Gordon-Platt. Alison had tried not to think about that person. Even when she was unable to push her aside she remained in a hazy jumble, for she couldn’t remember whether the woman had actually pushed her into the fire. But now Paul made things clear. Still looking away from her, he said, ‘Time is going on. I’m going to make a case of this. I wanted to know how you felt.’
‘A case!’ She tried to turn her neck. ‘But, Paul…against Freda Gordon-Platt?’
‘She pushed you into the fire, Alison, deliberately pushed you.’
‘But Paul, I can’t remember…it’s all hazy. Sometimes I think…then it all goes hazy.’
‘I happened to see her do it.’ Paul was looking away now towards the far wall of the room and Alison kept her eyes on him as he went on, ‘When Nelson called me to see that customer whom he thought was interested in the William and Mary long-cased clock, I saw at once the man had no intention of buying anything. Nelson should have known this. The man just wanted to know the price and details. He said he had one like it at home, but the clock he described was definitely Georgian. Well, I knew I was wasting my time and I wanted to finish off the business upstairs. But when I opened the staircase door I was surprised to hear your voice and hers too. I went quietly up the stairs and—I make no excuses for myself—I listened.’ His fingers came out now and rested against her cheek again, and she closed her eyes as he went on, ‘I was near the doorway when you said what you did—’ there was a pause as his fingers stroked her cheek and she turned her face just the slightest and pressed against them. ‘Then I saw her deliberately push you forward. It all happened so quickly that I was powerless to stop her.’ There came another pause, during which she still kept her eyes closed and her cheek pressed firmly against the fingers. Then her eyes sprang open at Paul’s next words: ‘The following day I asked my solicitors to bring a case against her.’
‘Oh, Paul, no. Oh, no.’
‘You could have been burnt to death, or anything. It was just a matter of seconds and luck that I was on the spot. Do you know what she nearly did? She nearly killed you.’ His face was close to hers now. ‘And I feel responsible for it all.’
‘No, Paul, no. Don’t feel like that. It’s over and done with. I provoked her, anyway, and she was under great mental stress. I know she was. I don’t like her, I never have…You see … well’—her eyes remained fast on his—‘I was jealous of her.’
‘Oh, Alison.’ The words were audible, but only just, for his voice was thick and deep with his pent-up emotion. His face hung above hers, his lips were close and it was at this moment that the door opened and Nurse Riley appeared, saying breezily, ‘Oh, I didn’t know you had anyone with you. Here’s another visitor for you.’
Paul had been about to kiss her, really kiss her for the first time. The moment had been spoiled…Oh. Oh. But when Alison saw Margaret standing hesitantly in the doorway she thrust aside her disappointment, and her smile of welcome was genuine.
Whatever Paul felt was successfully hidden too as he turned towards Margaret, remarking in a surprised tone, ‘But I thought you said you wouldn’t be able to come.’
‘I couldn’t when you phoned, Paul, but…’ Her eyes wavered between Alison and him and then she added, ‘Roy came over and offered to look after the children.’
‘Oh!’ Paul nodded, and following this, the talk became general for a few moments until he said, ‘Look, I’ll leave you two together. I’ve got things to see to, but I’ll be back in, say, half an hour and pick you up. How is that, Margaret?’
‘That would be lovely, Paul. Thanks.’
Paul was bending over Alison now. ‘I’ll be in this evening.’ His head came further down, but his lips only t
ouched her cheek, and then he was gone.
Alison looked up into the scarred face of Margaret. She was not wearing a headscarf today but a hat, and the scars on her face were in full evidence. Alison shuddered inwardly as she looked at them and she sent a prayer heavenwards in thanks for being spared this tragedy.
Looking down at Alison, Margaret said quietly, ‘I know how you’re feeling and I’ve been with you in my mind every minute since it happened. I was terrified for you in case your face…’
‘Oh, Margaret, don’t…’
‘It’s all right, my dear, I’m used to it now. It doesn’t matter any more, at least, not very much. As long as Robert is alive and I have the children, nothing matters very much. I just live a day at a time now.’
Again Alison said, ‘Oh, Margaret!’ Without making light of what she herself had gone through, she knew it was nothing compared with what this woman had suffered and was still suffering.
To change the subject, Alison now asked after the children and this brought Roy’s name to the fore. ‘And you know, Alison’—Margaret was smiling—‘I like that young man very much; he’s a good boy.’
‘I know. I like him too, Margaret.’
‘But you weren’t in love with him; not even a little bit?’
‘Oh, no, Margaret, not even a little bit.’
Margaret smiled now. ‘I tried to soften the blow when I told him about Paul.’
‘You told him?’
‘I had to, because his mother hadn’t. I realised that even after all that had happened she hadn’t told him how things stood between you and Paul. I had to tell him in case he came to visit you and met up with Paul and Paul might…well…I don’t want Paul hurt any more.’
‘But…but Paul knows that there’s no-one in the whole world but him.’
‘He may know that, Alison, but he’s still afraid. Roy’s young and attractive.’
‘Huh! He’s not half…no, not a quarter as attractive as Paul.’
‘That’s how I think, too, but Paul doesn’t see it that way. He’ll never feel sure of you until you’ve married him and, being Paul, maybe not even then. You see, the thing that Freda and my brother did to him left him scarred inside. Outside, he looks assured and composed, but inside, like many of us, he doubts himself, he’s afraid. You’ll have to love him a lot, Alison.’
‘Love him a lot! I love him a lot now. Why, I was nearly distracted when I thought he wanted her again.’
Margaret said quietly, ‘Has he mentioned anything yet about bringing a case against her?’
‘Yes; but it’s unthinkable, really, and it would hurt Roy.’
‘I’m so glad you think that way; oh, so glad.’ Margaret shook her head. ‘In a way, you know, I’m sorry for her. I saw her yesterday when I was up at the house.’
‘You’ve been up to see your mother?’
‘Yes, several times since you and I last met. She’s a changed woman. I took her the tea caddy and the writing case…’
‘Paul gave you the caddy? I…I’d forgotten about it. I put it in the wardrobe.’
‘Yes, he found it there and brought it to me and I took them both to my mother. It’s strange, at least it seems strange to me, that she was more pleased to see me than the caddy or the writing case, even knowing what was hidden in them, and even stranger still when she gave them back to me on the spot. All she wants now is that I go and see her and take the children with me. She…she feels compassion for me. It seems too good to be true, and I feel I’m living in a kind of dream and I’m afraid I’ll wake up.’
‘Oh, Margaret, I’m so glad for you. And now you need have no more worry. Are you going to buy the smallholding outright?’
‘No, no. We’re not going to do that. I went to see Robert yesterday and he agreed with me that half of the necklace should go to Roy. That boy has more on his shoulders than he can carry, for now he has to carry his mother.’
‘Oh, Margaret, you are so kind. It’s yours by right.’
‘Nothing is one’s own by right. Paul taught me that over his years of self-sacrifice. He taught me that one thing…Nothing is yours by right. Because, you know’—she laughed now—‘if we could be held to that, both what was in the tea caddy and the writing case legally belongs to you…Do you realise that? It was you who bought both these items—the tea caddy, I understand, not without a struggle. But nevertheless, if there is any…claim, by rights they belong to you.’
‘All right.’ Alison smiled a mischievous smile, the first that had touched her lips for weeks. ‘I’m going to lay my claims to them both. How much do you think they are worth?’
Margaret laughed; then said seriously, ‘Paul says the necklace as a whole should bring about fifteen thousand.’
‘What!’ The movement hurt Alison’s neck. ‘Fifteen thousand pounds?’
‘Yes, perhaps more, he says. He’s going up to town next week to place it for auction. It’s actually a well-known necklace. The setting is a bit old-fashioned, as it was first made for my great-great-grandmother’s attendance at Queen Victoria’s Coronation in 1837.’
‘And you’re going to give half of what it brings to Roy?’
‘Well, aren’t you giving the whole lot of it back to us? What’s the difference? The merit lies with you and not with me. And you can be glad that Roy is having a share, because he’s going to put it to good purpose; it will be the making of him. You’ll never guess what he intends doing with the money.’
‘I can’t think.’
‘He’s going to start building on the estate; on his own land. Instead of selling it to builders for them to erect houses, he’s going into the business himself. Of course, in a small way at first, with perhaps just a couple of houses. He’s already found a builder who has the experience but no capital, and I think he’ll go on from there.’
They talked for a little while longer, and then as Margaret was about to take her leave she said, ‘Oh, I mustn’t forget. Beck sent her’—she paused and moved her head with an exaggeratedly dignified movement—‘deep regard. Those were her own words.’
‘Oh, thank her,’ said Alison. ‘And thank you, Margaret, for coming. You’ve done me no end of good.’
‘You know something?’ Margaret was at the door, standing straight, her bearing proud. ‘This is the first time for years I’ve been out alone and without my face covered up. But it won’t be the last. Goodbye, my dear. I’ll look in again soon.’
‘Goodbye, Margaret. Goodbye.’
After Margaret’s departure, Alison lay looking towards the door. There was a calmness on her, a waiting calmness, and into it intruded these words of Nelson’s, ‘Life isn’t complete unless you’re given a cross to carry.’ She didn’t want to carry any cross, but wanting or not she had to carry it, not on her shoulders but on her hands and neck. She wasn’t finished with pain: there was a weight of it before her, and the pressure of it now frightened her, until she realised that there was a greater pressure in her life, and this pressure tilted the scale heavily downwards—for this pressure was Paul’s love.
And this knowledge stayed with Alison during the next two weeks. Also the fact that she would only come to realise it fully when she was back home in her own world at the top of the house in Tally’s Rise. For although Paul visited her every day, and sat with her for long stretches at a time, they never again had the opportunity to reach the point that Margaret had interrupted when she paid her first visit.
Then came the day of high excitement, the day when she was to return home. Her farewells had been said, and her thanks given in more than verbal ways. Dr Howard had, in his characteristic way, checked her thanks with, ‘No need for goodbyes, for we haven’t seen the last of you. Get along now. And be back here a week on Monday, do you hear? For a check-up. The nurse will call on you each day. Do what you’re told and everything will be all right.’
Paul had spent some time with the doctor before he had come to take her from the ward. His arm was around her shoulders, almost carrying her,
and she needed the support, so unsteady were her legs, although she had been getting up for a part of the day for a while now. Then she was in the old familiar car, and as they swung through the hospital gates she settled back against the worn leather and murmured, ‘Paul. Oh, Paul! It’s wonderful to be alive.’
Paul did not glance in her direction, nor did he even make a comment, and in silence they drove home.
Nelson and Mrs Dickenson were standing behind the shop door waiting, and even before Paul could get Alison out of the car their welcome was pouring over her.
Before she had walked up half the length of the drugget she was crying, and Nelson too, unashamedly, and his voice was thick as he said, ‘Aw, lass, this is the happiest day of me life, just to see you back home.’
Slowly, Alison lifted her left arm towards him and he gently patted her sleeve, and would have gone on patting it, but Mrs Dickenson’s voice hit him with, ‘Now get out of the way; can’t you see she’s tired? There’ll be time enough for you to jabber later. What she wants is a rest and a good meal. And it’s all ready, it’s all ready.’ She went scampering away up the stairs now, as excited as a child.
With Paul’s help, Alison took the stairs slowly, one at a time, and as she mounted she murmured again and again, ‘Oh, it’s wonderful, wonderful to be home.’
On the threshold of the drawing room she stopped and looked around her, then up at Paul. His eyes were waiting for hers and she leaned her head towards him. He closed the door behind them and led her forward towards the hearth. The fire was burning and she stood for a moment looking down at it: then she looked up above the mantelpiece. The mirror had gone and in its place hung a large oil painting, the whole canvas being taken up with three heads of rhododendron blossom. As she turned from the picture Paul quietly took the coat that hung from her shoulders, and dropping it on the couch, placed his hands gently but firmly on her forearms and drew her towards him. The face that looked down into Alison’s now was the face of the Paul she loved, the face of the man who had always made her world. The face of the man she could lean on in the many trials that lay before her. The lips that she was looking at now were trembling slightly. She watched them forming words. Soft and deep they came to her, ‘You love me, Alison?’
The Lady on my Left (The Mists of Memory) Page 16