by Nancy Revell
Helen put down her lipstick and picked up her compact, dabbing a loose layer of powder onto her face. As she did so she felt breathless. Her perfectly fitted dress all of a sudden felt too tight and she fought the urge to undo the zip. She could feel the panic she’d felt when her father had left the house for the last time. When she had fought with herself, not knowing what to do, whether to rush down the stairs and fling her arms around him and beg him not to leave, beg him to forgive her, for this was all her fault, she was sorry – if she had just kept her mouth shut, not told her mother what she had seen at the hospital that day, none of this would be happening, and he would not be leaving her now.
Or would she only have ended up slapping him and screaming that she hated him, and how could he do this to her? How could he have an affair? Worst of all, how could he have another child – another daughter?
She had been pulled by love and hate equally. Guilt and blame.
And so she had remained crouched down, on her haunches, gripping the bannisters as though they were the bars of a prison cell, trapped by her own emotions, not knowing what to do – and then it was all too late. Her father had told her mother that she was ‘pure venom’, ‘tainting’ everything she touched. The front door had slammed shut, and he had gone.
As Helen applied her mascara, forcing back the tears, she looked at her reflection. Her mother was right. If Gloria and her father had sailed off into the sunset together, she would be the equivalent of front-page news for the town’s gossipmongers. Her father might not be here any more, but at least she could hold her head up high. She had been so wrapped up in thoughts of her father’s deception that she had not thought about the stigma she would suffer should it all come out. It would be unbearable. She would be a laughing stock.
Her mother was right.
But more than anything, her mother had done what she had done for her.
Helen took a deep, shaky breath and dabbed her eyes. She stared back at her reflection and thought of her mother’s words – how she had said she was ‘young and beautiful’. She didn’t often give her compliments, but lately her mum had been really kind, treating her to a lovely dress that had been designed and made especially for her by the young woman everyone was calling ‘the town’s very own Coco Chanel’. This was the first time she had felt that her mother was really looking out for her. Caring for her. Loving her.
Perhaps, Helen wondered, in losing her father, she had gained a mother.
Hearing the front door close and the jangle of the wrought-iron gate as Helen left for her evening out, Miriam walked over to where she had put her handbag by the side of the sofa. She had kept it well hidden; not that Helen would have opened or looked in it for any reason, but it was better to be safe than sorry. It was imperative that her daughter did not find out about this, especially now it was clear that Helen was more than capable of snooping around and eavesdropping. Perhaps her daughter was more like her than she’d given her credit for.
Thinking about it now, perhaps it was even a good thing that Helen had overheard what had gone on that afternoon. Helen could learn a thing or two about winning.
Miriam sat down on the sofa and picked up her handbag. She took a quick sip of her gin and tonic and put it down on the little coffee table. She should have guessed that Helen knew something when Miriam had told her that her father had had to leave for Scotland and hadn’t had the chance to say his goodbyes. Helen hadn’t grilled her like she would have normally done, but, instead, had just accepted it.
She was quite surprised, though, that Helen hadn’t said anything until now – it had, after all, been almost a week. Mind you, they had both been busy. Helen had been at the yard morning, noon and night, and Miriam had been quietly celebrating the success of her perfectly executed master plan by gallivanting with her friend Amelia – revelling in all the attention she and her friend were getting from the newly billeted Admiralty at the Grand Hotel.
Miriam undid the clasp of her handbag and pulled out a letter that had arrived that morning. She silently counted her lucky stars Helen had got herself off to work before the crack of dawn and had therefore missed the postwoman and, more importantly, the letter that had arrived for her.
Miriam turned the unopened envelope round and looked at the writing on the front. Miriam had been married to Jack long enough to recognise his scrawl at ten paces. He wasn’t the most educated person in the world, and although he could read and write, his actual handwriting left much to be desired.
Sliding a well-manicured finger underneath the seal of the envelope, Miriam opened her daughter’s post. Straightening out the single sheet of thick paper, she took a deep breath and read the letter her husband had written two days after his arrival in Glasgow.
Lithgows Ltd. Shipyard
Kingston
Port Glasgow
Scotland
Friday 9th January 1942
To my dearest daughter, Helen,
I am so sorry that I had to leave so quickly and was not able to say goodbye to you.
I am so very sorry about so much, but these are things that I need to talk to you about personally. I am not such a good writer as to put it all in a letter, I’m afraid, and would rather talk to you in person, so as best to explain to you what has happened.
This is really just a brief letter to tell you that I love you very much. I hope above all else that what has happened will not change anything between us. You are my daughter and I love you and always will.
I will write again soon and hope that you too will write to me here in Glasgow.
With all my love, Dad x
Miriam looked at the letter for a moment before reaching over to the coffee table and picking up her glass and finishing her drink in one go. Still holding the letter, she stood up and walked over to the fire. Reaching for the poker, she stoked the coals, which responded by giving off a burst of heat and a vibrant orange glow. She then took the letter and held it over the flickering flames for a moment until it caught alight. Dropping it into the fire, she watched to ensure every part of the paper was burnt to a crisp and had turned to ash.
Chapter Eight
Sunderland Museum and Winter Gardens, Burdon Road, Sunderland
‘Helen, how lovely to see you here!’
Helen turned and came face to face with Dr Matthew Gilbert, consultant in neurology at the Sunderland Royal Infirmary. She knew his voice before she saw him. He had only a trace of an accent, his boarding-school education having taken away all but a hint that he hailed from the north-east. As always when she saw her father’s neurologist, her heart lifted, and she felt a tingle of excitement.
‘Oh, Matthew! How lovely to see you too.’ Helen stretched out her hand. She could feel his warmth as he shook it. ‘I wasn’t sure whether you would be able to make it – with you doctors being on call just about every minute of the day and night.’
‘Ha! They allow us out occasionally!’ he chuckled. ‘How are you doing, my dear?’ His voice was sincere, as it always was. And as usual he asked about her. Not her father. Not her mother. But about her well-being. He had once told her that often when people were seriously ill like her father had been, those nearest and dearest to the patient tended to get overlooked or neglected their own health. He had told Helen on a number of occasions that she had to look after herself.
‘Oh, I’m very well. Thank you, Matthew.’ Helen knew she was blushing and wondered if the very handsome, but unfortunately also very married, doctor had realised that her sudden rosy glow was due to his presence. Helen had nursed a rather large crush on him for most of the time she had known him, ever since her father had been transferred to the Royal in August last year. It was a crush that hadn’t diminished with time, and if she was honest, the only real reason she was here this evening.
‘And your father? How’s he doing? It’s been a while since I’ve seen him, which is always a good sign.’
‘Oh, he’s … he’s fine.’ Helen hesitated, aware of a slight tremble in he
r voice, and unsure of what to say. So many thoughts were racing through her mind: how miserable and guilty she really felt because it was her fault that her dad had been banished to Scotland; how angry she was because of what he had done; how lonely she had been ever since she had seen him kissing Gloria that fateful day. And to top it all off, she actually had no idea how her father was.
Helen looked at Matthew. He was smiling at her. His deep brown eyes seemed to see right into her, making her want to pull him aside and tell him everything that had happened. She envisioned Matthew listening, reassuring her that everything would turn out just fine, before taking her in his arms and kissing her.
Matthew looked at Helen. He had got to know her quite well during her father’s convalescence; after all, she had been by his side constantly, and had accompanied him to all of his appointments. Tonight, though, she seemed a little peculiar and not quite herself.
‘When I saw him last,’ Matthew said, ‘he seemed to be making quite major steps towards getting his memory back. He’s been quite the success story.’
Helen nodded, thinking how desperate she had been for her father to regain his memory, how elated she had been when she realised it had started to slowly come back, helped by the time he was spending with Arthur – time, she now realised, which had actually been spent with Gloria.
‘Yes, yes, I do believe he’s not far off making a full recovery,’ Helen said as they were offered a glass of wine by one of the young waitresses.
Matthew looked at Helen again, trying to work out what was different about her. She was certainly looking particularly stunning this evening. She clearly took after her mother in the looks department, though her thick black hair was most definitely Jack’s. Helen had caused quite a stir amongst the younger doctors while she had kept a constant vigil by her father’s bed. He had heard many a complimentary word said about her, despite the fact she’d looked pretty washed out most of the time. Matthew couldn’t help thinking that if he were ten years younger and a single man, he would have been quite happy to spend the evening by her side – possibly even the night.
‘So,’ Matthew forced his mind back to more chaste matters, ‘did you have a nice break up in Scotland with your aunt and uncle?’
‘Yes.’ Helen took a sip of wine, wanting to gather up her courage. ‘I did, thank you.’ She had seen Matthew since then, but it had only been a fleeting exchange of pleasantries at a social do, not unlike the one they were at today. But on that occasion his wife had been there, which had prevented Helen from spending time with him on her own, as she fully intended to do this evening.
‘I’m back at Thompson’s. Nose to the grindstone.’ She let out a tinkle of laughter, reserved for moments like this when she was putting her woman’s wiles into top gear.
‘But tell me, Matthew, what’s happening in the world of medicine these days?’ Helen knew that as much as she could have chatted on for ages about the latest happenings at Thompson’s, it was unlikely to interest Matthew much and that men generally liked to talk about themselves. ‘I heard that a lot of our wounded soldiers are being taken to the new Emergency Service Hospital in Ryhope?’ she asked.
For the next twenty minutes Matthew chatted on about the medical huts that had been erected near the local lunatic asylum in Ryhope to treat soldiers back from Dunkirk and how it had been these temporary outbuildings that had inspired the building of the new state-funded military hospital. As Helen listened and asked more questions, she subtly took another two drinks from the waitress circulating the room and gently took Matthew’s empty glass from his hand, replacing it with a full one. As she did so, she made sure her hand casually brushed his.
What had her mother said? Have some fun! Find a nice, eligible young man. Well, Matthew might not be that young, or eligible, but he was the only man with whom she wanted to have fun.
Taking a sip of her wine, Helen looked around casually before moving closer to Matthew. When he stopped talking, she said in a low voice so that he had to lean into her to hear, ‘I’m guessing you are here on your own this evening?’
Matthew suddenly realised how much he’d drunk, and that he had been chatting away to Helen quite happily – perhaps a little too happily. Now they seemed to be in very close proximity to each other. Enough for him to smell the rather lovely perfume she was wearing.
Seeing Helen here tonight and talking with her so freely had taken him a little off guard. Glancing at her now in her ivory dress that was both classy and rather ravishing, he couldn’t help but feel physically drawn to her. She was an incredibly sexy woman and, he now realised, she also knew how to use it to her advantage. What surprised him the most, though, was that he should be the focus of her amorous intentions. He was not only married, but twice her age.
‘I am alone,’ he said, taking a slightly nervous sip of his drink. ‘My wife’s at home. We weren’t able to get a babysitter.’ It was a lie. He and his wife had had an argument and she had refused to accompany him, but he hoped by mentioning his wife and children that he would remind Helen – and himself – that he was a married man.
‘Well, I may not be married myself,’ Helen said, her voice still low as she leant in a little closer, ‘but I would guess that husbands – especially doctors – need to go out occasionally on their own to let off steam.’
Matthew knew he had unwittingly wandered into dangerous territory. He had been completely faithful to his wife during their fifteen years of marriage. All the doctors he’d ever known regularly received romantic overtures – some more tempting than others. It was what they called the ‘white-coat effect’. None of the overtures Matthew had been privy to, however, had been from someone quite as young and as attractive as Helen.
Knowing that the conversation needed to be halted in its tracks, he looked around the room, desperately trying to spot someone he might know. The place was full of consultants and those high up in management, as well as lots of ‘captains of industry’, but most were with their wives or girlfriends. Looking back to Helen, he could see that there was only one option. He had to be honest with her.
‘I’m so sorry, Helen,’ Matthew began. Helen picked up the change in his voice. ‘I feel that I have done you a disservice …’ He paused, trying to choose his words as carefully as possible. ‘I might have let you think that perhaps I am happy to be here on my own this evening.’
Another pause.
‘Without my wife.’
Helen felt herself starting to turn a bright shade of red. She could feel her heart pounding. She knew what was coming next.
‘I’m afraid I have to be totally straight up with you, as I really don’t want you to feel as though I have strung you along in any way. You are an incredibly beautiful young woman, and I am quite an older man. But I am also a happily married older man.’
Seeing her blush and sensing her mortification at his words, Matthew softened his voice.
‘Sometimes patients, or the loved ones of patients, can feel very close to their doctor. It’s a known phenomenon and quite understandable, but also one that needs to be viewed as what it is. The patient – or a patient’s loved one – simply …’ He stuttered, now totally embarrassed. ‘Oh … how can I put it? … I suppose you could say they can develop a bit of a soft spot for the doctor who has helped them.’
Helen had gone from feeling like a femme fatale to some silly little schoolgirl. She could feel her cheeks burning and she started fumbling around in her bag for her cigarettes.
Matthew could see her embarrassment and felt awful. Poor girl. She’d been through so much. Had sat by her father’s bedside just about every waking moment. She’d been so overjoyed when he had come out of his coma, only to be told that he had no memory of her or of his past life. She really had been through the mill these past five months.
Matthew looked about the room and almost jumped for joy when he spotted two guests entering the room. One was ‘young John’, as he liked to refer to him, otherwise known professionally as Dr Parker, w
ho worked at the same hospital. He had got to know Helen when Jack was recovering, was about the same age as her as well, and more importantly, he was single.
The second person he saw, looking radiant and, to his eyes, very beautiful, was his wife, whose presence showed she was willing to make up.
‘Helen, do you recall Dr Parker from the hospital?’ Matthew was talking to her as though nothing had happened.
Helen forced a smile at the young doctor, who she remembered well. All of a sudden she felt surrounded by memories of her father. They were suffocating her. She had that feeling of breathlessness again and felt the need to escape.
‘And I do believe you have met my wife, Rebecca, before?’ Matthew’s tone of voice gave nothing away of what had just passed.
Helen and Rebecca smiled at each other and exchanged a rather limp handshake.
Helen wanted the ground to swallow her up there and then. Part of her wanted to run out of the room. She had come there tonight to have fun. When she had seen Matthew, her heart had leapt. She was a glamorous woman. Her arrival that evening had been met by admiring glances. Matthew must be about the only man in the place not to find her attractive.
God, the humiliation of it all. Could her life get any worse?
‘Can I have your attention, please?’ The loud, booming voice of the organiser demanded quiet. Everyone acquiesced apart from a baby whose sudden piercing cries cut through the air. Helen’s eyes scanned the room. God, what mother in her right mind would bring a baby to an event like this? Helen finally spotted the offending woman and child over on the other side of the room. Suddenly an image of Gloria and Hope – her sister – sprang to mind. The image caught Helen off guard, and along with it came that feeling again – that awful sense of yearning. It annoyed her, confused her. As she pushed away all thoughts of her father, Gloria and Hope, her heart started pounding in her chest. She took a large slug of her drink, hoping it would make it stop. As she did so she noticed her hands were shaking.