What Tomorrow Brings

by Mary Fitzgerald

  ‘Wait for me,’ she screamed, but Karl had his hands on the oars and was beginning to dip the blades into the water. ‘Wait!’ she cried again, and then, in a horrible act of panic, dropped Max so that he fell, face down into the little waves that were breaking on to the shore. Ignoring him, she waded into the sea, desperately trying to get to the dinghy.

  My heart couldn’t pump any harder than it did in the seconds it took me to reach Max and scoop him up out of the water. He’d stopped crying, his eyes were closed and his face was covered in sand. I wiped away the sand with shaking hands, a million unsaid prayers running through my head. Then he wriggled, and opening his eyes gave an indignant yell.

  I wanted to weep with relief and hold him close, but I hadn’t finished with Monica and Karl. ‘Sit there, Max,’ I said, putting him down, further back up the beach. ‘Kitty will be here in a minute.’ Then I waded into the blue-green sea.

  The tide was coming in with the familiar strong Atlantic swell I’d known since I was a child. I’d swum in these waters for years, but Monica, used only to the country house pools of her wealthy friends, was struggling. She had started to swim, frantic to get to the dinghy, but the tide was overwhelming her, forcing her backwards, so that she was getting nowhere and was soon exhausted.

  ‘Karl,’ she shrieked, ‘help me!’ But Karl, just as desperate to escape, ignored her. Inexpertly plying the oars of the dinghy, he was heading for the white motorboat.

  I swam, my strong, practised strokes quickly taking me to where Monica was thrashing her arms in the water, gasping and choking as the sea streamed into her nose and mouth.

  ‘Help me,’ she screamed, ‘please,’ before her head went under and then bobbed up again. For the merest second, I considered it, but images of the children came into my head and I grunted, ‘No,’ and saw her sink once more beneath the blue swirling water, before I set off after Karl.

  He hadn’t reached the motorboat, as his hands kept slipping on the oars, making the dinghy bounce on the swell. Unable to speed through the water, he watched me swim towards him. I saw him drop the oars and reach into his jacket and then, in a split second, a gun was pointing at me.

  I heard the shot as I dived beneath the waves, then another as I swam underwater. When I came up I was on the far side of the dinghy and Karl was standing up, facing away from me while he searched the water, ready to take another shot.

  Bastard, I thought, and heaved myself up against the side of the dinghy. It rocked violently and sent Karl tumbling, headfirst into the sea. The gun went flying. He won’t be able to swim, I thought, as I climbed into the boat. He’s too fat. But I was wrong. He came up a few yards away, water streaming from his hair and face, and swam strongly towards the dinghy.

  ‘Bitch,’ he shouted, and reaching the boat grabbed on to the side. Now, for the first time since I’d plunged into the sea, I was scared. He meant to kill me. Never mind the consequences.

  I think adrenalin took over as I pulled on the fingers of one of his hands, trying to tear it from the side of the boat, but he was strong and his grip was relentless. Suddenly he let go and his hand shot out to grab my arm.

  ‘No,’ I screamed and writhed in an effort to force his fingers to give way, but he was slowly pulling me to the edge of the boat. If he got me into the water it would be the end. I was sure of that, but I thought of the children and knew I couldn’t give up.

  I reached behind me with my free hand. My fingers touched an oar and without really thinking, I wrested it out of its rowlocks and with a strength that emerged from some primal force, I lifted the oar and smashed it down on his head.

  ‘Aagh,’ he gasped. Letting go of my arm and the side of the boat, in one dramatic movement he went down beneath the surface. I waited, horrified, gripping the oar with both hands now, until he emerged, a bloodied mark on his head and his fingers reaching for the safety of the dinghy. I didn’t think twice: I swung the oar with all my strength, crashing it into his face, hearing the bones shatter.

  Seconds later he was floating, face up to the blue Cornish sky, just another piece of useless flotsam, as the swell slowly took his body towards the beach.

  I lay in the dinghy, catching my breath, and gazed at the shore. Jacob and Kitty, with my children in their arms, were standing like statues, obviously horrified by what they’d seen. One policeman had dragged Monica to the beach, where she lay like a malevolent devilfish. He was trying to revive her and I watched, hoping she was dead.

  After a while I sat up and waved to Jacob and Kitty, who called out in relief, and then, taking the oars, I rowed slowly to the shore where a group had gathered.

  ‘Oh, Seffy,’ said Jacob, tears flowing freely, ‘thank God, you’re safe.’ And Kitty joined in hugging me so that Max, who was squeezed between us, gave another indignant yell.

  Marisol reached up and patted my face and then grinned. ‘Mama wet,’ she said.

  The policeman who had been bending over Monica stood up and came over to me. ‘Are you all right, miss?’ he asked. His shirt and trousers clung wetly to his body and his dark hair dripped water down his face. I guessed he’d gone into the sea to save Monica.

  ‘Yes,’ I nodded. ‘I am now.’

  He looked out to sea where the dark shape of Karl bobbed on the water. ‘Is it worth while me going in after him?’

  ‘The tide will bring him in,’ I said. ‘All you have to do is wait.’ If my voice sounded dismissive and cold, I didn’t care and, it seemed, neither did anyone else.

  More policemen arrived as the afternoon turned to evening. Monica was taken under guard to the hospital in Truro, but Alice refused to go.

  ‘You’ve got concussion,’ said Dr Jago. ‘That damn woman fetched you a hell of a crack. What was it? A piece of rock?’

  ‘It was.’ Alice repeated the tale she’d told the inspector half an hour before. ‘She said they were planning to have a picnic on the beach and did I know somewhere she could get water for her kettle. I told her it was a private estate and she would have to leave. I do apologise, she said, as nice as pie, and turned as if she was going back to the dinghy. I turned also, to take the children up the steps, and that’s when she must have picked up the stone and hit me.’ She took a sip of hot tea. ‘I was a fool, you know. I never thought it could be the woman that Miss Seffy had warned me about. After all, she was well spoken and well dressed. It’s not what you’d expect. Anyway, Doctor, I’m not going to hospital and that’s flat.’

  Jago grinned. ‘I’m not going to argue. I wouldn’t dare.’ He turned to me. ‘How about you, Seffy? Any problems?’

  ‘I’m all right,’ I said. ‘In fact, I’m better than all right.’ I was still buzzing with the adrenalin and finding it difficult to come down. ‘I’m going up to Xanthe now.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dr Jago. ‘I’ll come up too.’

  She was awake, her fingers clutching the edge of her sheet and a bewildered look on her face. Mrs Penney was sitting beside her with a bowl of potatoes on her knee and a peeler in her hand. She looked up at me, her face sad, but her voice belied it and was full of her usual bustle.

  ‘Don’t you worry, Miss Seffy,’ she said. ‘I’m going to stay on this evening. I’ll make you all a hot meal, because I know you’ll need it.’ She patted Xanthe’s arm. ‘I’ve done a nice bit of soup for Miss Xanthe, with jelly to follow.’ She smiled at her. ‘You’ll like that, won’t you, my lovely?’

  Xanthe nodded. ‘Thank you.’ Her voice was tiny and breathless. ‘Are we going to the pantomime?’

  Mrs Penney, shaking her head, picked up her bowl of potatoes and went out of the room, and Dr Jago got out his stethoscope and listened to Xanthe’s chest. ‘Well, young lady, this cold is persisting. We might have to think of some different treatment.’

  Xanthe coughed, struggling to bring up the phlegm that was blocking her airway and a spray of bloody mucus peppered her face and shot across her sheets. I got the cloth and gently cleaned her up. ‘I’ll change your sheets in a minute,’ I sai
d. I wanted to speak to Dr Jago, so I followed him out of the room.

  ‘What’s this new treatment?’ I asked.

  He sighed. ‘Nothing really, except . . .’

  ‘What?’

  He wouldn’t look at me, but stood examining a seascape which hung, with others, on the wall. ‘This isn’t going to end well, Seffy,’ he said. ‘Xanthe will have one big cough and a major vessel in what remains of her lungs will burst and she’ll drown in her own blood. I’ve seen it before and there’s nothing I can do except . . .’

  There it was again. The except.

  I took his arm. ‘Tell me,’ I begged. ‘What can you do?’

  ‘I can give her a big dose of morphine, now. It’ll send her to sleep and she won’t wake up.’

  He was proposing killing her. I stared at him with my mouth open. The adrenalin which had fizzed around in my body for what seemed like hours had dispersed and I felt flat and weary. In the distance I heard a car drawing up on the front drive and thought it must be more police arriving, and wondered if I was going to be questioned about what I’d done to Karl. I’d killed him, hadn’t I? I’d swung an oar at his head so that it burst like a pumpkin and I’d been glad. And what about Monica? Hadn’t I left her to drown? I was guilty of murder and attempted murder.

  There were people in the hall and Dr Jago stopped contemplating the seascape and turned his head to the stairs. I did too and then my heart did its familiar jump, for there was Charlie, racing up the stairs and taking me in his arms.

  ‘Well, Blake,’ he murmured. ‘I hear you’re the heroine of the hour.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I sobbed into his uniformed shoulder. ‘I’m a murderer.’

  ‘From what I hear, you killed a man who was trying to kill you. A German spy and someone who deserves no sympathy. And as for Monica.’ He pushed away from me and, with his thumb, gently wiped away the tears on my cheek. ‘It’s a pity she didn’t drown.’ And he grinned and hugged me again.

  ‘I gather this gentleman is a friend of yours, Seffy.’ Dr Jago smiled and thrust out his hand. ‘Peter Jago.’

  ‘I am a friend,’ said Charlie, for I was still mopping up my tears. ‘Charlie Bradford.’

  ‘Ah, the famous Charlie Bradford, whose excellent articles I’ve missed this last year. Captain now, I see.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’m working in Whitehall at the moment.’

  ‘Well, I won’t ask about that.’ He turned to me. ‘Seffy, I’m going home now to have my supper, and then I’ll come back. Think about what I said and make a decision. Either way, it won’t be long now.’

  Charlie and I were alone on the landing where the only light was from the lamp on the half-moon table. I could hear Dr Jago calling goodbye to Jacob and then the sound of Jacob closing the door of Father’s study. Alice was in the nursery at the far end of the corridor with the children, so when Charlie bent his head and kissed me, we could have been the only two people in the world.

  ‘Oh, dearest Seffy,’ he murmured. ‘I do love you.’

  I kissed him again, loving the strength of his arms around me and the feeling of security that he gave. When Charlie was around, I didn’t have to think everything out for myself. We were a team and I wanted to be in his arms for ever. But then I heard Xanthe coughing.

  ‘I’ve got to go in to her,’ I said. ‘Oh Charlie, she’s so near the end.’

  ‘Shall I come with you?’

  ‘Please,’ I nodded. ‘But . . . don’t be shocked by what you see or hear.’

  I opened Xanthe’s door and walked quietly to her bedside. ‘Hello, Xanthe,’ I said and picked up the glass of water that was on her table and gave her a little sip.

  ‘I’ve brought Charlie Bradford to see you,’ I told her and motioned Charlie to come closer.

  She flicked her eyes up to him. ‘He’s a soldier,’ she whispered and gave a little smile. ‘Did you meet him at the Guards Ball the other night? I danced with the general. He said I was the prettiest little filly he’d ever seen.’ She gasped a small, tinkling laugh. ‘Silly old booby.’

  ‘Let me lift you up,’ I said. ‘You’re falling into the bed and that’s not good for your chest.’

  ‘My chest hurts,’ she sighed. ‘And it feels so tight. I’ve tried to cough up what’s stuck there but I can’t. If you bang me on the back, maybe that would work.’ She looked at Charlie. ‘Let him do it.’

  ‘All right.’ Charlie moved forward and prepared to bend over her.

  ‘No!’ I said, quickly, stepping between them. ‘He’s too strong,’ I said to Xanthe. ‘He might hurt you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ Charlie whispered.

  ‘Leave it,’ I whispered back and got the cloth and wiped her clammy face. Suddenly she started coughing and blood bubbled up between her lips and trickled down her chin. Within seconds she was gasping for air and her face was going blue. Terrified, I forced a finger in between her teeth and managed to pull out a viscous trail of bloodied mucus and a tiny grain of something more solid. She took a rasping breath and colour returned to her lips but tears were welling up in her eyes and tipping down her wasted cheeks.

  ‘I want my mummy,’ she wailed. ‘Where is she?’

  It was heartbreaking and I had to swallow the lump in my throat before I could speak to her. I looked at Charlie. He was shocked; pity was etched on his face. I sat down on the bed, beside my poor little sister. ‘Don’t cry, Xanthe, darling,’ I said, putting my arm around her thin shoulders. ‘Dr Jago is coming back here in a minute. He says he’s got something that will make you feel better. You close your eyes for a few seconds and have a little sleep.’

  She was asleep in a moment and I sat and held her hand while I made up my mind. Charlie perched on the end of the bed and reached over to stroke my arm. ‘Christ,’ he whispered. ‘This is awful.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, ‘but not for much longer.’ I had decided.

  Mrs Penney brought up a tray with soup for Xanthe and offered to feed her, but I told her not to bother. ‘Let her sleep,’ I said. ‘She’s too ill to eat.’

  ‘Well, I’ll bring a tray for you and the captain,’ she said. ‘You need something solid inside you, Miss Seffy.’

  When Dr Jago came back, he beckoned me out of the room and raised an eyebrow. ‘Have you thought about what I said?’

  ‘Yes,’ I answered bleakly.

  Charlie had followed me out. ‘What?’ he asked, quietly angry. ‘What are you making her think about? Seffy’s had a dreadful day and Xanthe is . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Well, you know how Xanthe is.’

  ‘Tell him,’ I said, fixing Jago with a long stare. ‘We have no secrets between us.’

  The explanation was brief and to the point and Charlie pushed a hand through his thick fair hair and gazed at me. ‘What d’you think?’

  ‘I think,’ I said slowly, ‘that Dr Jago is going to give Xanthe the morphine. She’s in agony and the next coughing bout will finish her, but in a horrible way. So,’ I nodded firmly to Jago. ‘You go ahead.’

  ‘Good girl,’ whispered Charlie. ‘It’s the right choice.’

  She was still asleep when Dr Jago opened his bag and got out the small bottle and a syringe. He drew up a dose and glanced at me. ‘Ready?’

  I held Charlie’s hand and nodded.

  Xanthe died half an hour later, without waking up, and I remained calm when I kissed her forehead, before drawing the sheet over her face. Then it hit me. My little sister was gone, and I was the last of the family. I broke down and wept into Charlie’s shoulder, letting all the terror of the day, mingled with the loss of Xanthe, pour out of me.

  ‘You are the bravest woman I’ve ever known,’ said Charlie softly. ‘And, remember, you aren’t the last. You have the children. And you have me.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘And I will love you always.’

  Jacob and Kitty, followed by Alice and Mrs Penney, came up to pay their respects to Xanthe and then we all went downstairs to the kitchen. ‘Whisky, I think,’ said Charlie, taking charge
, and we sat around the table, drinking whisky, but not really talking.

  Mrs Penney left before ten o’clock. ‘I’ve made up a room for Captain Bradford,’ she said as she put on her coat and gave me a meaningful look. I ignored her. I was going to spend the night in Charlie’s arms. ‘Anyway, the village will want to hear about Miss Xanthe. Poor girl,’ she added and blew her nose. ‘I’ll be here at half seven in the morning.’

  That night I cried again and Charlie held me close, allowing me to sob myself to sleep. When I woke it was early, before six, and I lay looking out of the window and reliving the previous day’s events. It was almost too much, too much life and too much death, and I shuddered and wanted to forget.

  Charlie stirred and in his half-sleep reached out and held me. I looked at his broad square hands and at his arms with their faint covering of blond hair. His face, without the perpetual glasses, seemed younger and less academic. Solid and dependable, like the faces of the young farmers who came into the village with their hessian sacks of potatoes and fresh-cut winter cabbage. I knew he would never let me down and would be a good father to the children, and yet . . .

  The morning breeze blew through the open window, sending the nets into a wild dance, and I thought of Amyas, of those magical nights when he’d first come to my bed, when it seemed that he and I existed in a different reality. How I had adored him, how the merest touch of his fingers on my body had transported me to the realms of ecstasy, so that I forgot everyone and everything. A tear squeezed from my eye and I sighed. That feeling would never return, I knew it.

  ‘Awake, Seffy?’ Charlie’s voice was muffled and I looked down. His face was nestled in my shoulder and his arm lay across my breasts.

  ‘Mm,’ I agreed and turned to him. Making love with Charlie was wonderful, satisfying, and provided what I needed most. Comfort. And afterwards, when he sat up and looked around the room, I was suddenly thrilled that he was here, in my house by the sea. The place that I loved more than anywhere else.