Deathline

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  ‘Non-existent. But at least she’s breathing. Hang on to her, Jan, while I phone the doctor.’ Luckily the number was by the phone, but would the surgery be open? It was not. She got a recorded message, which told her, miraculously, that Braddock was the doctor on call, and gave his number.

  He answered it himself, almost at once, said, ‘It sounds like a small stroke; do nothing. I’ll be with you in ten minutes. Unlock the door.’ And rang off.

  ‘A man of few words,’ said Jan.

  ‘Yes. I like him.’ Helen surprised herself.

  Five

  Time dragged as they sat there, listening to the heavy breathing, but in fact it was less than ten minutes before they heard a car pull up, the front door slam, and swift steps on the stairs. Dr Braddock was in jeans and a heavy pullover and had obviously not even paused to comb his hair.

  ‘I’ve been afraid of this.’ He spoke to Helen as he checked his patient. ‘Got herself worked up again did she? But she’s very much alive. Only a small stroke. Won’t she just be furious.’

  ‘That she didn’t die?’ Helen understood him at once. ‘I suppose she will. It was our fault she got upset; my niece arrived unexpectedly—’

  ‘And she thought it was burglars? An occupational hazard of living alone. Don’t waste time blaming yourself. You’re going to be too busy for that.’

  ‘But oughtn’t I to be ringing for an ambulance?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To take her to hospital, surely?’

  ‘Day before Christmas Eve? Where on earth do you come from, Miss Wesley? We empty our hospitals before bank holidays here in Sussex, not fill them. She’d only lie on a trolley for hours and most likely be discharged at the end of it. Anyway, I promised her years ago that I’d never send her to hospital if I could avoid it, and I mean to keep my word. But I’m glad you’ve got your niece here – there may be quite a bit of nursing for a while. Can you manage, the two of you, do you think, or should I try to find you some help?’ He did not sound very hopeful of success.

  Helen and Jan exchanged a look. ‘Tell us what to do, and we’ll do our best,’ Helen told him. ‘At least until the holiday is over.’

  ‘Which holiday?’

  ‘Both,’ said Jan. ‘Christmas and the millennium. If I may stay, Aunt Helen? I don’t need to be back at college until the first week in January. But I don’t know a thing about nursing.’

  ‘You’ll learn,’ said Hugh Braddock, and gave them brief, firm instructions. ‘It’s a question of mixing rest and stimulation,’ he summed up. ‘You may not be trained nurses, but I’m sure you can grasp that. And, remember, if something should go wrong, and she dies, she would be the first to be grateful to you. But it won’t. She’s tough. Leave her alone; don’t disturb her for anything. Bit of luck, she’ll sleep this one off and wake up little the worse. If she does, tell her from me that there are to be no more scenes; she can’t afford them. Mind you,’ he paused in the act of closing his bag, ‘she may not remember anything about it. In that case you will just have to play it by ear. But try not to upset her, Miss Wesley.’

  ‘Westley,’ said Helen. ‘And this is my niece, Jan Dobson.’

  ‘I’ll see you out,’ said Jan, but he was already halfway down the stairs.

  ‘Wow, that was quick,’ said Jan, returning. ‘Does he never pause to speak? I wonder he has any patients at all, if that’s the best he has to offer by way of bedside manner.’

  ‘But he got here in less than ten minutes.’

  ‘And made a lot of sense. So what do we do now?’ They looked at the still, snoring figure on the bed.

  ‘Leave her to sleep it off,’ said Helen. ‘Like he said. Thank God you’re here, Jan. I wouldn’t much like it on my own.’

  ‘But if I wasn’t here it wouldn’t have happened,’ said Jan as they started downstairs.

  ‘Well, not just then, but maybe sometime worse. When Hugh Braddock wasn’t on call. She blew up yesterday – all my fault. I went up to what was her husband’s room – kind of a shrine, it is. It’s a sad story, Jan. Lord, I’m glad you came.’

  ‘So am I. Will you do something for me?’

  ‘If I can.’

  ‘Oh, you can all right. But you won’t want to. Would you telephone Mother and tell her I’m here, and not going back. Well, only to pick up my things for college. I’ll have to do that, but I’m not going to live there any more. Ever.’

  ‘But, Jan—’

  ‘You don’t know what it’s been like. Today’s just been the last straw. Anyway, they never wanted me. Ask me, Mum did her best to get rid of me, never forgave me for hanging on in there. It was back to the social round for her the minute she could. And then nurses, then nannies, then boarding school for me when I was eight. Do you know what she did after I was born? Just as soon as she was well enough?’

  ‘I remember she wasn’t well for ages. No question of breastfeeding you.’

  ‘No way. She was off getting sterilized so it could never happen to her again. I only found that out the other day, when they were having one of their rows, forgot I was there. Trouble was, from what Dad said, it worked too well by a half; he never fancied her after that. Really, Helen, men…’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Helen inadequately. ‘No wonder they quarrel so.’

  ‘And now of course they say they only stayed together for my sake. That’s the last straw, after all the ways they used to get rid of me: boarding school, summer camp, you name it, I did it. So, from now on I’m taking that excuse away from them. Giving them the space to make up their minds about their own lives. I’m out of it.’

  ‘But will you be able to manage? I mean fees? Living?’

  ‘You’ve forgotten about Gran’s will. Surely you remember the trouble about that? My A level year when I was revising like mad and trying to sort the conditional offers, and Mother didn’t want me to go at all, and kept talking about a nice cordon bleu course, and Dad was having an affair with his secretary—’

  ‘You knew?’ Helen asked, horrified.

  ‘Course I knew. And then, to crown it all, Gran’s found dead in her bed in that great Yorkshire castle she lived in, and it turned out she’d left the whole rundown ramshackle lot to me. What a scene that was! It cost me my place at Oxford, but I’m not sure that wasn’t a good thing. I’m in the real world now. I’d have left home then if I’d had any sense, but you remember what a boarding school baby I was. I remember going to the interview at Durham, in school uniform of all things, and looking at the others and thinking, “I’ll never make it”.’

  ‘But you did.’

  ‘Up to a point. Gran’s doing. I remember when the first cheque came through I went straight out and bought the shortest black leather skirt in the market.’

  ‘I remember it well,’ Helen smiled at her niece, ‘and the row about it. But you never looked back. I always wondered …’ She paused.

  ‘Whether my behaviour was as outrageous as my clothes? Clever of you. It wasn’t. I’d seen enough of my father in everybody’s bed but his own. I’m waiting a bit. They call me Miss Prism. I need a drink.’

  ‘So do I. Wine do you? White in the fridge, red in the larder. We ought to be making lists.’

  ‘Tomorrow will be time enough for that. We’ll have a better idea of what we’re in for.’

  ‘I hope so.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Time to think about supper. You must be whacked, and I’m all for an early night.’

  ‘In case she wakes. Yes, but honestly, Aunt Helen, I couldn’t face steak. If you’ll call home for me, I’ll make us an omelette. Lots of eggs.’ She had fetched the red wine from the larder, found a corkscrew and poured for them both. Taking her first sip she looked across the glass at Helen. ‘I thought I was gay for a bit.’

  ‘And you’re not?’ Tread softly.

  ‘I’m thinking it over. What I need right now is neutral ground, and this feels like it, bless you and your old lady.’

  ‘I’d better take a look at her. And then, yes, I will
call your parents, Jan, just to tell them you’re here.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She reached out a hand to clasp Helen’s. ‘For everything.’

  Helen thought Beatrice’s breathing had eased just a little, and stood for a long moment looking down, wondering what to hope for her. It had been interesting, and in a curious way reassuring, to find that Dr Braddock knew about her death wish. He might have refused to help her, but he had promised to keep her out of hospital with its threat of automatic, ferocious revival. Was it selfish to want Beatrice to live? She feared so, but could not help it. She wanted to know so much more about this interesting, impossible woman, and besides, she could not help thinking that Beatrice’s death would leave herself and Jan in a proper mess. She had not even asked if Beatrice had made a will. She ought not to have let that wretched solicitor’s girl fob her off. Too late now. She sighed, tucked the duvet more snugly round Beatrice’s neck and went downstairs to telephone Jan’s parents.

  To her relief she got Marika, on whose consuming selfishness one could always rely. ‘She’s with you? Well, that’s a relief, though it all sounds quite idiotic to me. Frank’s very angry with you, by the way, very angry indeed. Of all the thoughtless, inconsiderate … And what on earth are you doing down in Leyning anyway?’

  ‘Looking after an old lady who’s had a slight stroke. Jan is being the most enormous help to me, and has promised to stay until after the millennium. I really need her, Marika, and the car’s worth its weight in gold.’ She regretted the words the moment they were spoken.

  ‘Outrageous,’ said Marika. ‘Taking it like that! How am I going to get to all my Christmas dates? That’s what I want to know. Your precious brother has plans of his own, he tells me—’

  ‘I don’t think I want to talk about Frank,’ said Helen. ‘Surely you can hire a car for over Christmas—’

  ‘But I’ve lost my licence.’ Helen could hear her wishing the words unsaid. ‘I was counting on Jan—’

  ‘To drive you. I do see, Marika, and I’m sorry, but Jan has come to me, and we have a very sick woman on our hands. She will call you after Christmas to talk about coming to return the car and pick up her things.’

  ‘What do you mean, pick up her things?’

  ‘I told you. Jan’s moving out. She’s not said much about what happened there today, but it seems to have made up her mind for her. She’s old enough to leave home; there’s not a thing you can do except make the best of it, but I am truly sorry about the car.’ She heard a door slam somewhere behind Marika. ‘And if that is Frank, I don’t want to talk to him. Jan will call you, after Christmas.’ She put down the telephone gently but firmly as it squawked at her, and turned to see Jan in the kitchen doorway.

  ‘Bless you and thank you,’ said Jan. ‘I’m just about to cook our omelette.’

  By the time they had done the dishes and made up a bed in the small spare room behind Beatrice’s, Jan looked worn out. ‘Bed,’ said Helen. ‘Let’s just have a look at her.’ And then, closing the bedroom door again, ‘I think she’s breathing a bit better, don’t you? If she rings in the night, I’ll go, call you if I need you. You’re bound to hear it, I’m afraid. Sleep well. I’m glad you’re here, Jan.’

  ‘So am I.’

  It was still dark when Helen was wakened by the agitated ringing of the bell and then the sound of it falling to the floor. Pulling her dressing gown round her she hurried in to find Beatrice struggling to sit up in bed. ‘Loo!’ Her speech was blurred. ‘Quick.’ She was heavy against Helen, her left leg dragging, and it was an exhausting struggle to get her the few steps to her bathroom.

  ‘I’m going to get help,’ Helen told her as she settled gratefully on the loo. ‘My niece is here.’

  ‘Your … ?’ but she was absorbed in her own relief, and Helen left her to it.

  Helen found Jan hovering in the hall. ‘Thank goodness,’ she said. ‘She’s not very mobile.’

  ‘Let’s give the bed a shake.’ They were silently relieved to find it dry.

  ‘I meant to change it today,’ Helen said as they shook the duvet and put it back.

  ‘We may manage it yet.’ A croak summoned them to the bathroom.

  ‘I’ve brought my niece, Jan, to help,’ Helen said from the door. ‘She came last night. It’s a mercy she did – you had a little stroke, Beatrice. Dr Braddock says you must take things very quietly and not upset yourself.’

  ‘Pity I didn’t die,’ Beatrice managed to say as they helped her up.

  ‘Not for us it isn’t.’ Helen saw her way. ‘We need you badly, Beatrice. I’m homeless, as you know, and Jan is too. She’s just run away from her horrible parents. She’ll be off back to university in January, but right now she has nowhere to go.’

  ‘Asylum seekers.’ Beatrice’s speech was slurring again as she settled gratefully back against the pillows. ‘Send you back where you came from really … Tony Blair would. I shan’t. Sleepy …’ Her eyes closed.

  ‘So that’s settled,’ said Helen out in the hall. ‘What time is it, Jan?’

  ‘Half past six. Might as well get up, don’t you think? Lots to do.’

  They were still writing lists over a second brew of coffee when the doorbell rang.

  ‘I’ll go.’ Jan was on her feet. ‘The post, do you think?’ It was still before nine o’clock.

  ‘How was your night?’ Dr Braddock’s voice. ‘I thought I’d drop in before surgery. See how she is.’ He was moving towards the stairs as he spoke and Helen met him in the hall.

  ‘Good of you,’ she said. ‘She’s much better; slept through till early morning. A bit lame, a bit slurred—’

  ‘But making sense?’ He was ahead of her on the stairs now.

  ‘Oh, yes. She said it was a pity she hadn’t died. And that Jan can stay.’

  ‘A useful conversation.’ He was by the bed, reaching for Beatrice’s hand to take her pulse. ‘The breathing’s much better.’

  ‘We thought so. You’re not going to wake her?’

  ‘No way. Sleep’s what she needs. Lucky there are two of you. She ought not to be alone in the house, but you’ll manage.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Surgery starts at nine. Ring if you need me; I’m on call over the weekend. Call direct after hours, if you’re worried.’ He gave her the number. ‘It’s not listed; too many anxious old ladies. Not like her.’ He glanced with what looked like affection at the figure on the bed. ‘Best of luck, Miss Westley.’ He was back on the stairs. ‘I’ll drop in anyway if I’m passing over the weekend, give her a proper going over when she’s awake.’

  ‘Thank you.’ But he was out the front door, held open for him by Jan.

  ‘Well!’ she said.

  ‘Surgery starts at nine,’ explained Helen.

  ‘If that’s his office suit, someone needs to tidy him up.’

  ‘He’s on call over Christmas,’ Helen told her. ‘Which probably means he has no family.’

  ‘No loving wife to press his suits? Yes, that would figure.’

  The telephone rang for the first time when Jan was out shopping later that morning. When Helen picked it up and gave the number a woman’s voice asked doubtfully, ‘Mrs Tresikker?’

  ‘I’m afraid she’s not well. I’m here looking after her, Helen Westley. And you’re … ?’

  ‘Oh, that explains it.’ Relieved. ‘I’m your next-door neighbour, down the hill. We’d been wondering a bit, my sister and I. So much going and coming all of a sudden … Susan said call the police, but they’re so busy these days, and Mrs Tresikker always did keep herself to herself. I tried to catch that hoity-toity coloured girl who cleans for her, but she said something about a hurry and brushed right by. No manners at all, but what do you expect?’

  ‘My fault,’ said Helen. ‘I had made her late.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, I see. We had begun to wonder if Mrs Tresikker wasn’t being held prisoner in her own house. You never know, do you? Such a dangerous world, and all those refugees swamping the country. I was really relieved when I saw the docto
r’s car this morning – it was Dr Braddock, wasn’t it? Dreadful, casual man, mind you. And what does he think is the matter with Mrs Tresikker?’

  ‘A very small stroke. He thinks she is well on the way to getting over it, but we are keeping her as quiet as possible, Miss …’

  ‘Oh, sorry. Fanshaw. Ellen and Susan.’ The voice sounded more Roedean than ever. ‘We’ve tried so hard to be good neighbours to poor old Mrs Tresikker, but she’s a hard woman to help, as I am afraid you will find, Miss Westley. How are you managing in that shambles of a house? And what can we do to help? I always say that Christmas is a time for helping your neighbour. We’d be so pleased, Sue and I, to come and sit with her while you go out and do your shopping. You can’t possibly be thinking of leaving her alone.’

  ‘No, indeed. Dr Braddock said we mustn’t. And it’s wonderfully kind of you, Miss Fanshaw, when you must have so much of your own to do, but I have my niece here with me, so we are able to share the errands between us. You may have seen her drive past – a little scarlet Peugeot. She’s out right now picking up the chicken from the butcher in the market. It’s going to be a long weekend, isn’t it, but we think we are pretty well sorted now, and Dr Braddock does say to keep Mrs Tresikker as quiet as possible. But may we call on you, if we suddenly need help or advice? It was so kind of you to ring.’

  ‘I’m so glad you aren’t kidnappers,’ said Ellen Fanshaw. ‘Susan really did fear the worst.’

  Replacing the receiver, Helen heard the bell ring upstairs, and hurried up to find Beatrice sitting up in bed. ‘Was that the telephone?’ Her voice was clearer.

  ‘Yes, your neighbour, Ellen Fanshaw, worried about you. Thought you had kidnappers in the house.’

  ‘She would. Black ones, no doubt, all Wendy’s dangerous cousins.’

  ‘Quite right!’ Helen smiled at her. ‘Only she says “coloured”.’

  ‘Of course she does. Poisonous woman. Women. Tried to take me under their wing when they moved in. Ages ago. Coffee mornings and little chats over the garden wall. Lost my temper in the end … Thought that had fixed them for good. Pity …’