by GJ Minett
I’ve no idea how I managed to get him inside the house and upstairs into his room. They say that in times of stress the human body is capable of the most remarkable feats of strength and I suppose I’ll have to put it down to that. All he could manage was the most faltering of steps and with his arm draped across my shoulders I had to take most of his weight. He was probably a couple of stones lighter than he’d been before the illness but I was still exhausted by the time I’d helped him to undress and get into bed. There was no time to rest even then. I went back downstairs and put the kettle on to make two hot-water bottles for him, before picking up the phone to call for a doctor.
I’d already dialled the surgery before I remembered it was only eight o’clock and a Sunday into the bargain – no one would be there. I thought about calling 999 but wondered if that might be a little premature. I’d only just managed to get him into bed. How stupid would I look if the ambulance arrived, only for me to discover that he’d warmed up considerably and was feeling much better? Josef would be cross that I’d sent for a doctor, without the added embarrassment of an unnecessary call to the emergency services.
I put the phone down for a few moments while I gathered my thoughts, then remembered Jim Burnside, who worked at a local surgery and had been Josef’s doubles partner at the tennis club for years. There must have been something he picked up in my voice when I called him because he was on our front doorstep within fifteen minutes.
He took one look at Josef and asked if he could use my phone to call for an ambulance. I showed him where it was, then waited by the bedside, rubbing Josef’s hands and arms and talking to him as the clock ticked slowly by. I’ve no idea what I was saying. I know I was crying from frustration, tinged with more than a little fear, because there was nothing at all in his expression to suggest he could understand a word I was saying. I thought about the possibility of phoning the hotel in Manchester to speak with one of his friends there to find out what had happened, but realised I had no idea which one that would be. I had no recollection of Josef giving me either a name or number.
When the ambulance arrived, Dr Burnside asked me for the car keys and suggested I go with Josef – he would drive our car there so that I’d be able to get home again afterwards. I thanked him profusely and climbed into the back of the ambulance, holding on to Josef’s hand for dear life and cursing myself for not having got out of bed earlier, when he first arrived home. I couldn’t dismiss from my mind the thought that those couple of hours might have been crucial. How many more ways would I find to let him down?
As the ambulance drew up outside the hospital, my sense of foreboding wasn’t helped by the realisation that the last time I’d been here was when Julie was brought in. I was ushered into what may well have been the very same waiting room as that awful day and forced once more to sit and wait for news. Dr Burnside arrived some time afterwards and handed me the car keys. He was rubbing his hands, complaining about how cold it was in the car – did I know that the heater wasn’t working? He asked me how long Josef had been in the car before I found him and I didn’t need to see his face to know how concerned he was when I told him that, allowing for the journey from Manchester as well, we were talking about four hours at the absolute minimum.
He was also curious about some external damage to the driver’s side. One of the headlights was smashed and there was a sizeable dent in the front bumper. Did I know anything about these? I explained that when I found Josef earlier it was dark, and getting him inside the house had been all that was on my mind. But I wouldn’t have noticed whether anything was amiss with the car, even if it had been broad daylight. As far as I was aware, it had been fine when Josef left on Saturday morning. If there’d been a collision of some sort, maybe that was why he’d decided to come home early. Dr Burnside nodded and went off to share this new information with the staff seeing to Josef.
We’d been there for some time before we were seen by a specialist who explained they were going to have to keep Josef in for observation and further tests. I told them about his weight loss over the past year or so and the difficulty he had in keeping food down, and about how his desire for privacy made him all the more reluctant to come in and allow himself to be examined. The specialist exchanged a couple of meaningful glances with Dr Burnside, then thanked me. He suggested I might as well go home for now, as there was nothing I could do there. He promised to call me the moment the situation changed.
I dug my heels in. I was going nowhere. The moment Josef was up to seeing anyone, I wanted to be there. As a compromise, I took an hour out to give Dr Burnside a lift home and to call in at our house to collect a few things to help pass the time before returning to the same waiting room.
They finally let me in to see Josef for about an hour or so later that afternoon. I sat there, holding his hand and talking to him. He was still more or less unresponsive, verbally, at any rate, but every so often I was aware of a slight pressure as he squeezed my hand. By the time they suggested, more forcefully this time, that I really did need to go home and get a good night’s sleep myself, I was feeling a little more optimistic about things.
That evening I decided I needed to investigate. I knew I would find phone numbers for some of his friends in our address book and forced myself to wait until eight o’clock, by which time I was sure they ought to be back from Manchester. Then I phoned Esther Ciemniak who like me had found herself a Polish airman and persuaded him to stay on after the war.
When she answered the phone, she actually sounded pleased to hear from me until I started asking about the weekend in Manchester. It was clear she hadn’t a clue what I was talking about. There was an awkward pause before she passed me on to her husband, Jacek. He was upset to hear that Josef was in hospital and asked a lot of questions before admitting that he knew nothing of any reunion that weekend. Was I sure I had the details right? Maybe I’d misunderstood? I agreed that must be the case, thanked him and put the phone down.
I had no idea what to make of this. There was no way I’d misunderstood Josef. I knew almost every detail of his plans for the weekend, and it was only then that I realised how unusual this was in itself. Normally he barely took the time to explain anything beyond the absolute essentials, confident that I wasn’t really interested. This time there was so much detail, I felt I should have been suspicious far earlier. Josef was not a very accomplished liar, principally because he had so little need for it. He might not have been averse to the occasional white lie for the sake of convenience but even then, as often as not, he would colour up and give himself away. But it was absolutely clear that whatever he’d been doing the previous day, he hadn’t been to any reunion. How had I missed it? And, more to the point, where had he been?
My thoughts were interrupted by the doorbell. As a general rule, I don’t like to speak ill of someone. I prefer to let others make their own judgement and decide for themselves. In the case of Francis O’Halloran however, I’ll make an exception. I think you need to be told about him because he’s very plausible and utterly unscrupulous, which makes for a dangerous combination. It’s possible that you won’t come into contact with him, but somehow I doubt it. He’s been obsessed for so long now with the Adams boy and the mythology that has grown up around him that I don’t imagine he’ll ever be able to walk away from it, so I’ll tell you about him now. That way at least you’ll know where you stand with him.
To begin with, he was no more than a name which seemed to crop up with increasing regularity. Cards would be put through our door, messages would be left for us. He sent a lovely bouquet of flowers once, I remember. Many other people did the same but they didn’t feel this somehow entitled them to pursue us from pillar to post in search of an interview we had no wish to give. The other unfortunate couple, Mr and Mrs Bingham, seemed to court publicity with a vengeance and I imply no criticism in saying that. We learnt for ourselves that people have to find their own ways of coming to terms with their loss and if that worked for them, then all well an
d good. It wasn’t for us though.
O’Halloran didn’t seem to understand this – or at any rate, if he did, he ignored it. At one point I remember suggesting to Josef that we might be better advised to let him have his wretched interview. Maybe then he’d leave us alone. Josef stuck to his guns though. He said that some people don’t know when to let go and, once they have a foot inside the door, they think they’re entitled to a bed for the night. I wasn’t sure then that he was right. I am now.
My first reaction, on seeing him on the front doorstep, was to wonder how on earth he knew that Josef was in hospital. It soon emerged though that this was a complete surprise to him. I gave him only the briefest outline of the events of the past few hours and tried to close the door but he held it open and asked me if I knew where Josef had been the previous day, which might have struck me as an odd question if I’d been thinking straight. I stood by the Manchester story which I had at least believed to be the truth until a few moments earlier and told him I had no time to talk any more, as I wanted to get an early night. To my surprise he seemed happy to leave it at that and went on his way.
The following day one of the nurses told me that a journalist had been sniffing around, asking questions. He’d wanted to talk with Josef but had been told it was out of the question. I needed no physical description to know this must be O’Halloran but couldn’t for the life of me understand how he thought he might get a story out of this. Why on earth would anyone be interested? However such questions were dislodged from my thoughts by the fact that I was able to spend most of the day with Josef, who seemed a little less groggy than last time. He wasn’t up to much in the way of conversation as yet and it was obvious from the way he gasped and held his stomach at times that he was in quite a bit of pain. Even so it was such a relief to see him respond to simple questions and even make requests of his own that I felt mildly encouraged.
I spent most of the day reading while he dozed. Every now and then he would wake and ask for a drink of water or get me to rearrange his pillows for him. Then he would take hold of my hand once more and drift back off to sleep. I was dying to clear up the mystery of where he’d spent Saturday evening and, more importantly, why he’d lied about the reunion but understood that these were questions for another time when he was fully recovered.
Then, just as I was packing away my things for the night, he woke again, this time grabbing my hand with more urgency than before, as if emerging from a bad dream. I was startled because I’d almost drifted off to sleep myself in the muggy atmosphere. I asked him what was wrong. He reached across with the other hand as well, trapping mine in both of his, and started rambling, his voice shaky and uncertain, about his shed of all things. He wanted me to know where he kept all the important documents: insurance, mortgage, savings accounts. They were in a filing cabinet towards the back, behind the garden chairs which he kept stored in there during the winter. The key to the filing cabinet was hanging on a nail just above the lintel of the shed door. He made me repeat it back to him several times to make sure I’d understood.
I was confused at first, thinking he wanted me to find a particular document and bring it in but he shook his head and I realised he was trying to make sure I knew where everything was in case he didn’t make it out of the hospital. This threw me into such a heightened state of anxiety that I scolded him, told him I didn’t want to hear such nonsense but I could tell my words were having no effect whatsoever. All day I’d been thinking things were a little brighter than before and here he was, dead set on assuming the worst. While I was planning for full recovery, for him it was only a question of which got him first, the hypothermia or the cancer.
To my eternal shame, I felt at the time that he was being melodramatic, making a play for my sympathies. I bridled at what I interpreted as a touch of selfishness on his part. He wasn’t the only one who’d been suffering. Who had been there at his bedside every time he opened his eyes? Who had been worrying herself sick ever since she found him slumped over the steering wheel? Was anyone showing any great concern about me and what I was going through? And if having a husband at death’s door wasn’t bad enough, why did I have to be saddled with any number of unanswered questions about where he’d been and what he’d been up to? If anyone had a right to feel sorry for herself . . .
So as I stood up to leave and leant over to kiss him goodnight, I paused briefly, then went back on the promise I‘d made to myself. I told him I knew there was no reunion that weekend. Don’t ask me why – I have no idea. Maybe I was hurt that he seemed to be giving up so easily while I clung on by my bleeding fingernails. Perhaps I felt that if he was up to serious conversations of that order, the least he could do was answer the question that had kept me awake half the previous night. Either way, I wish I hadn’t done it.
He looked at me with a frown of incomprehension at first, as if wondering how he’d given himself away. Then he turned away from me and faced the wall. I waited for him to say something and, when he didn’t respond, I pushed it further, asked him where he’d been. What had he been up to? Why had he deemed it necessary to lie to me? Again he said nothing but, as I leant closer, I watched a solitary tear drip from one eye. I was amazed. In all the time I had known him, through the death of his daughter, news of the deaths of his parents in Poland, I’d never once seen Josef shed a tear. He grieved as much as the next man, I was sure of that, but he internalised everything. If he’d ever cried in his life, it was well away from me.
He was still facing the wall so I had to lean in to hear what he was mumbling. I could make out just two words, repeated over and over again. I’m sorry, he said. I’m sorry. And those were the last words I ever heard from his lips because the following morning, while I was on my way back to the hospital to see him, having spent another restless night wondering how best to take the subject further, Josef died. Alone.
Two days later, as I was sorting through the filing cabinet, looking to make sense of our financial situation, I found a file labelled Medical and withdrew a sheet of paper from the hospital – one I’d never seen before. It was a straightforward, matter-of-fact letter, informing Josef that his recent tests had revealed that he was sterile and would never be able to produce children of his own.
It was dated one month before Julie was born.
July 2001: John Michael
Another train. Compartment all to himself for the past half-hour or so, which suits him just fine. St Pancras coming up, then bus to Victoria, heading further south. North means home and safety. South means he’s really serious about all this.
He was right about Ashbury. No way of knowing what he was walking into but the few people there who remembered Peter Vaughan were more than happy to talk about the old days. If that was worth the risk, he knows he’s got to go with his gut instinct and assume the same goes for the next step. No choice – he can’t back off now, not having come this far.
Ashbury’s pleasant enough. A bit quiet but not that different from where he’s been living for the past twenty years or so. It’s easy to see why his father picked it, why it would have appealed to him. It’s funny – if anyone had suggested to John Michael when he was younger that he’d turn out like his old man, he’d have thrown a fit. Now here he is, more or less the same age his father had been that night in Inverness. Doesn’t seem like such a stretch to imagine the two of them might have got on, given the chance.
It’s a good thing there’s no real physical resemblance though. He can remember his nan once, long time ago, saying he was a right chip off the old block – spitting image of your dad. Just trying to let her son know how proud she was. But everyone else knew who John Michael took after. Same high cheekbones, same little kink on the bridge of the nose – even the same blonde eyelashes. Mummy’s boy, right enough. Just as well in a way ’cos it wouldn’t have done to turn up in Ashbury, asking questions about Peter Vaughan and looking like he’d come back from the grave, would it?
That old girl – Jenny Moore, was it? Go ask
Old Jenny Moore, they said. If she can’t help you, nobody can. There’d been a moment when they were sitting there in her kitchen. The way she kept staring at him, he wondered if maybe she’d put it all together. Made him feel a bit uncomfortable for a while but it was probably just nerves getting the better of him. You get to her age, your eyesight’s probably not that hot. And anyway, even if she did suspect something, it’s no big deal having Peter Vaughan as his father. Not like being the son of Martin Adams.
She says Peter Vaughan wasn’t the easiest person to get to know. Kept himself to himself for the most part. She liked that about him. The ones who take longest to get to know are usually the ones worth knowing. Not that she got to know him as well as some though . . .
And he knew all along the woman at the inn – the one his father kept slipping into the conversation the last few times they spoke together – he just knew she was going to be the key to it all. But if Old Jenny Moore’s guess is correct and it’s not just a case of an old woman filling her empty days with a bit of gossip . . . well, that’d be something else, wouldn’t it?
And he’s supposed to walk away from this and forget everything he’s heard? Yeah, right.
August 2007: Ellen 2
I flatter myself that I can write. After a lifetime of reading and having spent years putting together book and film reviews, I like to think I have a way with words. Even so, I’m at a loss to describe how I felt when I discovered the letter from the hospital.
I’m not exactly a shrinking violet. I’ve managed to get by without the support of my family since I walked out all those years ago with Josef. I’ve learnt to cope with the loss of a husband I never truly appreciated until he was no longer there. I may never come to terms with the loss of my daughter but at least I’ve managed over the years to compartmentalise my feelings and think of her only when it’s safe to do so.