by Tania Crosse
Thomas forced open his eyes, lips curled back against the agony in his legs. ‘I know,’ he croaked.
‘I’m going to take off your belt, my good man, and use it as a tourniquet.’
Thomas glanced up at the stranger and nodded briefly.
Meg could find no words, and just let the fellow get on with it. She felt numb, unable to think straight. She watched in horror as her father’s face grew paler by the second, and she stroked his hair with trembling hand, noticing for the first time that it was starting to recede.
‘Clarrie.’
At the man’s voice again, Meg looked up to see that the woman had reappeared. But Meg felt she had been scoured of all emotion, save her crippling fear for her father, and had nothing left inside her to make any judgement on this new figure in the hell that had swallowed her.
‘Some more cars came along, and someone’s gone for help. I gave them our phone number, and told them to tell Gabriel to drive Ralph out here so that he can take care of the dog and the horse. He’ll take them back to our place, dear,’ the woman told Meg, ‘so you needn’t worry about them. What else can I do?’ she asked anxiously.
Meg was grateful to the woman for making arrangements for Mercury and Duchess to be looked after. Nevertheless, when she answered, ‘Take care of my mum, would you?’ she was unable to hide the abrasiveness in her voice.
She saw the man and the woman exchange glances, but what did she care? They were responsible for… oh, dear Lord… her mother’s… Oh, pray God she was wrong. But she knew she wasn’t. So she held her father’s hand, loving, encouraging him…
Distant bells, sharp, tinny. More engine noise, voices, people. Men in uniform, caps. Stretchers. Her father was given an injection of something, his hand turned limp in hers.
‘Go with your mother,’ he barely breathed. ‘She’ll need you more. I’ll be all right.’
Meg’s soul withered as she stood and watched him being borne away. She couldn’t tell him. For now, he mustn’t know. So she smiled, and waved, until he was spirited into the back of the ambulance.
‘I’ll drive you to the hospital.’
Meg felt the tall man put his hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off venomously, as if it were a red-hot coal.
‘I’ll never get in that thing!’ Rage broke out inside her in an unstoppable flow. ‘You killed my mum and God knows what’s going to happen to my dad!’
‘I understand, my dear. But I wasn’t driving. Our chauffeur was.’
‘You or your chauffeur, it doesn’t matter!’ Meg screamed at him, everything gone, room only now for her fury. ‘He was going like a maniac! You should’ve told him to slow down!’
‘Yes, we should. And we did. But too late. We both had, well, other things on our minds.’
‘Other things? Other things! Well now I’ve got other things on my mind because of you!’
‘Don’t you speak to him like that.’ The man holding Duchess’s reins had come up to them now, false bravado nailed on his face. ‘He’s Mr Stratfield-Whyte, a man of some standing and—’
‘He could be the bloody king for all I care!’
‘It’s your own fault what happened. You lot shouldn’t have been driving such a slow vehicle along a public road.’
Meg’s jaw dropped a mile and she felt a dagger of hatred pierce beneath her ribs. The pain of it seared into her, burned, twisted. All sense fell away and she flew at him, fingers bent like claws, snarling, spitting…
She felt firm arms restraining her, pulling her back.
‘I want him prosecuted!’ she yelled, struggling viciously. ‘Locked up until he rots!’
‘Oh, yes, my dear, he’ll be prosecuted, all right. I’ll see to that. Officer!’
Meg saw the smirk slide from the chauffeur’s face as Mr Whoever-he-was let go of her to hail the uniformed policeman who had just arrived on the scene. Meg’s muscles slackened, hot tears streaming down her cheeks. Her life, her entire world, crashed down around her feet, and before the woman called Clarrie could catch her, she collapsed onto her knees.
Seven
It had all happened so swiftly. One minute, Meg had been as happy as a lark, and the next, her world had shattered into a million pieces. And yet, as she sat waiting on the hard bench in the hospital corridor, it felt as if everything had been moving in slow motion ever since the black monster of a motorcar had roared around the bend.
She had been so lost, so fragile, that her weary heart had given in and she’d allowed herself to be persuaded to climb into the monstrous vehicle. Having given some brief details to the policeman, Mr Whatever-his-name-was drove them through the lanes, following the ambulance to the nearest hospital. Meg sat in the back with the fellow’s wife, who was doing her best to comfort her. But Meg’s heart was cold and unresponsive. She wanted nothing from the people who’d been instrumental in destroying her life.
The car had scarcely come to a halt at the entrance to the Edenbridge War Memorial Hospital when Meg leapt out of the vehicle. Her father was being hurriedly conveyed inside on a stretcher, a mound swathed in blankets with his head poking out at one end, his face so pale and still that Meg scarcely recognised him. Once they had deposited their patient, the ambulance men would be returning to the scene of the accident to collect Esther’s body. There was no rush, and at the devastating reminder, Meg waited for the leaden weight to drop down inside her once more before forcing herself to scuttle into the building.
She followed the ambulance men to a long, echoing corridor with shiny, polished lino. Her father was transferred onto a waiting trolley and whisked through some double doors. Meg went to follow, but the doors were closed in her face by a stern nursing sister in a dark blue uniform and a strange headdress that flapped about her ears like the wings of an overweight pigeon.
‘Are you the daughter?’ she demanded curtly. ‘Wait outside. We’ll tell you when there’s any news.’
Meg stood, transfixed. That was her father on the trolley. She needed to be with him but the sister had barred her way.
An instant later, the ambulance men re-emerged from the room, passing her by in silence and making for the exit. Meg opened her mouth to question them, but they were gone before her brain could formulate any words. She watched them leave, stunned and alone, and was almost glad when the lady she now knew to be a Mrs Stratfield-Whyte appeared instead.
‘Oh, there you are. You ran in so quickly,’ the woman said, catching her breath. ‘How is he?’
‘I don’t know.’ Meg’s voice sounded sharp and unfamiliar even to herself. ‘They told me to wait.’
‘Ah.’ Clarrie nodded her head. ‘Perhaps we’d better sit down, then. I really am so very sorry for what happened, my dear.’
Meg ignored her sympathy. The bench was hard and uncomfortable. Hostile. Meg lowered herself onto it, perching on the edge.
‘My husband’s going back to sort things out with the police and make sure your dog and your horse are all right. He’ll take care of everything, I promise.’
Meg’s head jerked up. ‘He can’t bring my mother back to life, can he?’
Clarrie met her gaze, closing her mouth in a firm curve. ‘No. If only he could. But we’ll do everything we can to help.’
‘I don’t want your help,’ Meg retorted, throwing off the sympathetic hand Clarrie had laid on her arm. The movement pulled on her shoulder, making her wince.
‘Are you all right? You should be looked at, too.’
‘I’m fine,’ Meg snapped back.
‘Well, if you’re sure,’ Clarrie sighed. She wanted to ask the girl her name and where she lived. Whether there was anyone they could contact for her. But her attitude was understandably frosty so Clarrie was ready to accept the awkward silence that settled between them.
A few minutes later, a man with greying hair rushed past them, shrugging into a white coat as he went. He disappeared into the room that had swallowed up Meg’s father, and her heart clenched even more tightly. Seconds later, another d
octor, Meg assumed, but younger this time, followed his colleague, letting the doors slam shut behind him in his headlong rush. The noise reverberated in the corridor, accentuating the ensuing stillness.
‘I’ve brought you both some hot, sweet tea.’
The kindly voice made Meg jump and she looked up into the compassionate smile of another nurse. She appeared infinitely friendlier than the abrupt sister. She was much younger and wore a different uniform, so perhaps she was more junior. Meg frowned at herself. Why should she take notice of such detail when her mum was dead and her dad was so seriously injured? But this other nurse was much more sympathetic and Meg managed to mumble her thanks as she took the cup in hands that still trembled.
‘You don’t know what’s happening with my dad, do you?’ she asked in a croaked whisper.
‘I’m afraid not. All I can tell you is that they’re going to operate. Now, if you come with me, I’ll take down some details. Bring the tea with you.’
Meg nodded and followed her into a small office where the nurse filled in a form. But very soon, she was outside in the corridor again, alone with the woman who had been involved in her mother’s death. At least Mrs Stratfield-Whyte wasn’t trying to engage her in some ridiculous conversation. The woman seemed to possess some gentle compassion, and Meg almost wished she could take some comfort from her presence, but she couldn’t, could she? But by the same token, she found she couldn’t scorn her as she would’ve liked. Mrs Stratfield-Whyte might be wearing a smart dress and coat with matching hat, but her shoes were sensible brogues with a small heel that spoke of someone who had a practical outlook on life. And she had lovely blue eyes that seemed to be quietly watching, taking everything in.
Meg really wasn’t at all sure, though, that having this stranger sitting beside her was helping one iota. Would she have felt any better if she’d been alone? Probably not. Fear, dread trundled through her body; she could physically feel it. Her stomach churned. She was hungry and yet she felt sick. Time ticked by. A female patient on crutches hobbled along the empty corridor. An old man in a dressing gown. Some nurses going off duty, chatting in low but happy voices. Meg wondered if she would ever be happy again.
The evening was drawing in. Still no news. Meg glanced at her watch. Ten past six. They should’ve been milking the cows. The poor things’ udders would be bursting.
Someone sighed, a deep heave of anxiety. Meg swivelled her eyes to Mrs Stratfield-Whyte. She could go home if she was bored! Meg hadn’t asked her to stay. And then it dawned upon her that she had released that desperate breath herself.
Footsteps intruded upon her misery. Mr Stratfield-Whyte bustled up to them, hat held in his hand. At least he had some manners, some distant corner of Meg’s brain reflected.
‘There you are. Any news?’ he asked in a deep, weighted tone.
Meg felt Mrs Stratfield-Whyte’s eyes on her, but when no answer came from her throat, the woman answered for her.
‘No, not yet. They’re operating.’
Mr Stratfield-Whyte sucked in his lips and nodded. ‘Ah. Waiting’s so awful, isn’t it? I’m so sorry about it all, really I am.’ He dipped his head awkwardly as if not knowing what else to say, but a moment later, addressed Meg once more. ‘I saw to it that your dog and the horse were taken home to us. Robin Hill House. They’ll be well taken care of. We have our own dogs, and stabling for the horse.’
Meg gazed up at him darkly. Did he expect her thanks? He wouldn’t get any. She glowered at him, but he merely observed her in silence for a second or two before he sat down beside her.
‘Is there anyone we can contact for you?’ he asked when several minutes had passed.
Meg shook her head. ‘No. There’s no one else. I don’t have any other relations.’
‘Ah, oh dear. That’s a pity.’ And then, after another pause, he said, ‘I assume you’re fairly local. Do you know if your father pays into the insurance scheme for this hospital?’
The question jolted Meg from the empty world she had retreated into. ‘I think so, yes,’ she answered, although quite how she recalled the information, she wasn’t sure.
‘Well, if there’s anything not covered, rest assured that either we or our motor insurance will pay.’
Bitterness swept through Meg like a roaring breaker. ‘Such as my mum’s funeral, you mean?’ she challenged him. ‘They can be expensive, can’t they?’
She saw the fellow blink in surprise at her rebuff, and felt grim satisfaction when he coloured slightly.
‘That too, of course,’ he replied steadily, his voice slow and deliberate. ‘And your father can claim other compensation from our motor insurance, as well.’
Meg almost choked on her white-hot rage. ‘Money! Is that all you’re interested in? My mum’s dead and God knows when my dad’ll be able to work again, and all you can think about is money!’
The fellow frowned deeply. ‘By no means all, my dear. And believe me, I know all too well what it is to lose… someone very close to you. But financial matters are important. You’re young and perhaps don’t realise the ways of the world. However, we’ll say no more about it for now. I just wanted to allay any worries you might’ve had in that direction.’
‘Well, I don’t want your money or your help,’ Meg retorted acidly. ‘All I want is for that murdering maniac of a driver of yours to go to prison, and to have my mum back. But whoever you might think you are, you can’t bring the dead back to life!’
She noticed his chest inflate with a deep intake of breath. ‘Would that I could. But rest assured that our chauffeur has been taken in for questioning. He’s at the police station as we speak. And I’ve told him to pack his bags and leave as soon as they’ve finished with him. His services are no longer required and I’ve made it quite clear that I won’t be giving him a reference. Indeed, I’ll do my utmost to ensure that he never works as a chauffeur again.’
Meg compressed her lips into a knot, fighting the defeat that gnawed at her heart. She wanted to hate this man and his wife, but despite the storm of grief and anger that raged inside her, the sensible part of her knew that they were trying to be kind. She gave a sharp nod of acceptance, and was relieved when Mr Stratfield-Whyte appeared satisfied and allowed the unnerving silence to settle around them again.
A deathly stillness enshrouded the corridor once more. No one came or went. Meg wanted to lash out at something, but she didn’t know what, and what good would it do? There would be no release. She wished that the older couple who sat with her would go home. This was something she needed to face alone.
At last, those stone-faced doors opened, and the older of the two doctors she’d seen fly past her earlier stepped out. Meg’s every nerve was taut with tension. She tried to read the surgeon’s expression, but his face was stiff, impassive, as he came towards her.
‘Miss Chandler?’
Her throat was suddenly as dry as desert sand and she could only reply with a nod. Mr Stratfield-Whyte had risen to his feet, and now the doctor sat down in his place and took one of Meg’s hands. Oddly she noticed that his fingernails were cut short and were impeccably clean. When she dared to search his face, she was met by pale, penetrating brown eyes. Her heart thumped.
‘We were trying to save your father’s legs,’ he began solemnly, holding her gaze in the most unsettling way. ‘They were both badly crushed, one so badly there was nothing we could do and we had to amputate. There was a chance for the other, but it was complicated. In the end… your father’s system had taken a massive shock. Just wasn’t up to it. His heart… We tried to resuscitate him, believe me we did. We tried for forty-five minutes. But he wasn’t responding. I’m afraid we lost him. I am so very sorry, Miss Chandler. We did everything we possibly could. Really we did.’
Meg had been studying his face, not really listening to his words. Not wanting to. And anyway, there was no need. She had somehow known what he was going to say before he said it. An icy numbness had slowly trickled through her veins, and now every fibre o
f her had frozen with shock. Her ears rang, the corridor spun around her. This couldn’t be happening.
She waited for the feeling to return to her senses. It didn’t seem to want to. Her mum. And now her dad. In a few short hours. At least her father had not known. Had not had to face the rest of his life without his beloved wife.
Meg let the misery wash through her. Waited for her mind to react. But she felt nothing. It wasn’t until Mrs Stratfield-Whyte rested her hand compassionately on her arm that Meg’s brain snapped into action. She recoiled as if the woman’s hand was a poisoned arrow and shot to the opposite side of the corridor, turning her back on the three adults, the world she suddenly despised. She raised her forearm and rested it on the cool plaster of the wall. Bowed her head.
‘If you’d like to wait,’ the surgeon spoke gently at her elbow a moment or so later, ‘we’ll have your parents transferred to our chapel of rest. You can spend as much time as you like.’
‘And then you must come home with us.’ Mrs Stratfield-Whyte spoke reverently. ‘You mustn’t be on your own.’
‘No.’ Meg turned round slowly, sniffing and wiping her hand under her nose. ‘I need to see to our stock. And I wouldn’t go back with you if you were the last people on earth.’ Her anger spiked for just a moment, but then her voice faded into a trail of desolation as she strained to hold back her tears.
‘Well, in that case, you must at least let us drive you home. When you’re ready, of course.’
Meg glared at Mrs Stratfield-Whyte’s earnest face. The woman was probably feeling guilty and was trying to make amends, but how could she ever do that? But Meg knew that the only other way to get home was to walk through the dark country lanes for a couple of hours, and the animals needed her attention as soon as possible. There was nothing else for it, so she nodded in reluctant agreement.
‘That’s settled then. And, my dear child, perhaps you could tell us your name? Miss Chandler sounds so formal, and you so young.’
‘It’s Marguerite,’ Meg told her, although why she answered so readily, she didn’t know. Perhaps her rebellious heart was wearing down. ‘But everyone calls me Meg.’