In the Light of What We See

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In the Light of What We See Page 24

by Sarah Painter


  I know that I was too late and that when I went with Pat to see Geraint’s body he wasn’t there. It was just a waxwork figure lying in the bed, tubes springing from the back of one hand. I knew his face so well, better than I knew my own, but the face of the figure in the bed wasn’t familiar. It wasn’t him.

  I know, too, that early the next morning, once we were home from the hospital and were tumbling, exhausted, from Dylan’s car, Pat said, ‘How did you let this happen?’ and it didn’t even hurt. I wasn’t capable of feeling any more guilt than I already was. The guilt had consumed me. It was everything and I was it. I hadn’t stopped him. I hadn’t known (or wanted to know) how bad things had become. I’d ignored his dilated pupils the last time I’d seen him. I’d wanted to believe that he’d scared himself if not exactly straight, then something close to it, and then, for the sake of teaching him some kind of lesson, I’d not answered his call.

  Time and time again Geraint had come to my rescue, and when it mattered most, I’d let him down. I didn’t save him and I would never forgive myself for it. Compared to that, it didn’t really matter that Pat thought the same thing.

  GRACE

  When the nurses socialised with the male staff in the communal living room, with its battered table tennis table and sagging armchairs, he watched her. The others thought a fine romance was blossoming, a myth he did nothing to dispel. Grace heard him telling the senior house surgeon that she had volunteered to work in the fever block just because she knew he was on duty. Together, they raised their eyes to heaven, bemoaning the trials of dealing with silly, smitten nurses.

  Grace told Evie that the rumours were nonsense, but Evie didn’t understand why she was upset. ‘A doctor is taking an interest. That’s no bad thing, you know.’ She was putting lipstick on before going out and she pouted at herself in the mirror. ‘And if you don’t like him, he’ll get bored and move on to someone else soon enough. Men are easily distracted.’

  Grace wanted to say that she didn’t think that was true in the case of Dr Palmer, but she didn’t want to sound egotistical, as if she was suggesting that she was especially appealing.

  ‘Tonight is going to be a special night,’ Evie said, turning from her reflection and giving Grace a knowing smile.

  Grace still didn’t particularly like Robert but she knew that had more to do with her own mouse-like nature than any real failing in his character. Glad of the distraction, she sat closer to her friend. ‘Is he taking you somewhere good?’

  Evie named a restaurant with such a flourish that, even though Grace hadn’t heard of it, she understood that it was something to gasp at. So she did.

  ‘I think he’s going to pop the question,’ Evie said quietly. ‘Don’t say anything to the others, they’ll be green with envy.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Grace began. She felt ill. Dr Palmer. Robert. They were all at it. Not that Palmer had meant it, of course. He’d just been trying to get a reaction from her.

  ‘And I want to enjoy it,’ Evie said, giving Grace a twirl before picking up her evening bag.

  Evie skipped out in a cloud of perfume, a gift from Robert, and Grace tried hard to be happy for her friend’s sake.

  A moment later, Evie popped her head back around the door. ‘Be a dear and walk me downstairs. I’m too giddy to be alone.’

  Grace felt so bad about her own selfish thoughts that she stood up immediately and, ignoring the pain in her feet from the long day, went to Evie.

  With linked arms, they left the nursing quarters and took the closest stairs. The back door of the hospital was the best way to avoid being seen by senior staff. Evie wasn’t kidding about her giddiness; she chatted and laughed, hardly seeming to draw breath.

  ‘I just know it,’ she said for the hundredth time. ‘He said he wanted to wait until things were settled in Europe, but the way he looks at me . . .’

  ‘Europe?’ Grace said. ‘What’s Europe got to do with marriage?’ It was pitch black and freezing cold outside. She hoped Evie’s Robert wouldn’t be long.

  Evie clutched at her. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea. To be perfectly honest, I only understand half of things he says and sometimes I don’t even listen. I just watch his mouth as he’s talking.’

  ‘You are terrible,’ Grace said, laughing. Their breath was fogging in the night air. Just then the clouds parted and the moon lit up the path and the hospital garden. The bulk of the glasshouse, the mysterious dark shapes growing inside, loomed up to their right and Grace was glad once they turned the corner and stood in front of the hospital. There were lamps at the front door and gates, and a light was on in the porter’s little booth.

  There, waiting by the entrance, as bold as brass, stood Evie’s Robert. Nobody could accuse him of being shy, Grace thought. Not like Thomas. Who had no doubt forgotten about her by now. Which, she reminded herself sharply, was for the best. She wasn’t going to have any of that nonsense.

  ‘Good night, darling,’ Evie said, loudly. She kissed Grace extravagantly on each cheek in the continental manner. Grace knew that it was a production entirely for Robert’s benefit, but she didn’t mind in the least.

  ‘Be good,’ she said to Evie, smiling and waving her off.

  ‘Not going out tonight, miss?’ the porter said, leaning on his elbows. He had a mug of something hot and the steam looked like smoke.

  Once the car had pulled away, Grace said ‘cheerio’ to the porter and turned to go back inside.

  ‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘Some of the lights are out around the side. Take this.’ And he passed her a Bakelite torch.

  ‘Thank you,’ Grace said, touched. Whatever Evie said when she was complaining about curfew and the porters, Grace liked the feeling of being looked after. She liked that it mattered to the hospital what she did and where she went, it gave her a sense of belonging that was comforting.

  The porter was right; without Evie by her side the gardens seemed ten times darker. She hefted her torch to cast a circle of yellow light on to the path and set off.

  There was a noise to her right, a crunching on the gravel. ‘Hello?’ Grace said, the torch beam wobbling.

  A figure peeled out of the shadows and lunged. Grace let out a shout of surprise that came out more as a gasp.

  It was Dr Palmer. He wasn’t wearing his white coat but she recognised him straight away. His figure and the way he moved were imprinted on her memory. Something silver glinted in the glow of the torch and Grace felt a surge of adrenaline rush through her body. She lifted the bulky torch and brought it down in an arc. The doctor sidestepped the blow, knocking the torch out of her hands with one movement.

  Grace turned to run but she felt his hands on her, pulling her back. His voice in her ear was accompanied by drops of moisture and a waft of halitosis. ‘Behave or I’ll cut you.’

  Grace went still. She thought about playing statues with her friends in the school playground. She thought about Evie’s bright smile and Nancy Beaton’s shining dress. She thought about the colour of the sky that morning and how the clouds had been tinged with red. She tried not to think about blood and sharp scalpels and the man holding her tightly. If she let any of that in she felt she would break apart with terror.

  ‘You think you’re above me,’ Palmer said, spittle flying. ‘Don’t imagine I don’t see it. I see you.’

  The words didn’t make any sense. Grace didn’t think she was above anyone, let alone a doctor. That was the point. That was what was drummed into them from day one. There was a strict order, not just in hospital but in life. Grace never even came second, let alone first. She was below her teachers, her parents, matron and the sky. She was so low down she was lying in the mud.

  He had a hand around her neck, the hand with the scalpel. He held the blade in front of her throat, next to the artery that ran there. Thanks to her lessons with Sister Bennett, Grace knew that it was called the carotid artery and that if it were cut she would become unconscious within seconds and bleed to death in under ten minutes. Grace tried
not to think about this nugget of information, tried not to breathe either. His other hand roamed over the front of her body, undoing the buttons of her coat and feeling her chest, squeezing. Grace went as far inside her mind as she could. She kept very still and waited for it to be over, for the man to stop kneading her chest like it was bread dough.

  Grace wished for someone to come. Barnes or Evie or even Sister. Especially Sister. She knew he’d stop if Sister walked by. Matron would be problematic. Palmer would definitely stop, but she’d probably send Grace home. Grace concentrated on these thoughts. She tried to stay on the path of rationality. She thought of her training, of the importance of remaining calm even in trying circumstances, of paying attention to details (his hands were struggling with other buttons, now) but not becoming overwhelmed by them.

  She could feel his body pressing against hers and his excitement. He was breathing heavily as he pawed at her and the hand holding the scalpel moved with him. Grace was frightened of what he was going to do, but also frightened that he might slip and cut her throat by accident. She kept as still as she could, not to encourage or provoke. She wanted to ask him to stop but she thought that if she opened her mouth, tried to speak, she’d be sick.

  His hand moved lower, over her clothes but squeezing and insistent, as if the material wasn’t even there. ‘This is just a warm up,’ he said, and his words turned her stomach. ‘Our first date.’ The hand kept moving, touching every part of her as if marking his territory.

  The most important thing was to keep taking action. That was what Sister Bennett always said. But the right action. Sometimes that action might be to ask somebody else if you weren’t sure. Better to check a dosage than to give a patient too much. Grace felt tears leaking on to her cheeks. She didn’t know which was the right action to take and there wasn’t anybody to ask. It didn’t matter how much she thought of Sister Bennett, she couldn’t do anything at all.

  Afterwards Grace went back to her room and got into bed fully dressed. She didn’t unlace her shoes or move at all. She stared at the ceiling and kept her mind a perfect blank. When Evie arrived back from her date, Grace kept quiet and still. She didn’t answer when Evie asked what was wrong. She thought that she was perfectly controlled and that her expression was proper. Didn’t understand why Evie insisted on getting out of her own bed and into Grace’s and why her arms went around her and squeezed.

  ‘Stop it, Gracie, you’re scaring me,’ Evie said.

  She had been speaking, Grace realised, for some time but the words hadn’t penetrated before this. She felt wetness on her lip and tasted salt. Putting a hand to her face she realised that she was crying. Snot and tears mixed together and dripped over her mouth, off her chin. There was a noise, too, a low keening sort of noise. Like a wounded animal.

  ‘Gracie, Gracie, Gracie!’ Evie was chanting her name. ‘Shush, now. You’ll wake them up.’

  That did it. Grace didn’t want anybody to come into the room. She stopped keening and wiped her face on the rough top blanket.

  ‘What’s wrong, pet?’ Evie said. She stroked hair away from Grace’s brow, kissed the top of her head. ‘Tell me.’

  Grace shook her head. She didn’t trust herself to speak. The shadow had found her again. Every squeeze and stroke from that hateful man had been a promise. Grace knew that Palmer wasn’t going to stop, that he would find her again and finish what he had started. He had marked her as his own and he would catch her again. Next time it might be somewhere warm and quiet, somewhere he could hold her in his arms like a lover.

  Grace must’ve fallen asleep because she woke up with her arm stiff from where it was lying half under Evie. She felt Evie’s hair tickling her cheek and her soft breath. She felt hollowed out from crying but strangely clear, too. She shifted her arm, trying not to wake Evie, who smelled deliciously of herself; a combination of perfume, smoke and Evie-ness.

  ‘Gracie?’ Evie’s voice was thick with sleep and Grace stayed quiet and still, seeing if she was really awake.

  She felt Evie move and turned on to her side, so that they were facing one another.

  ‘Are you going to tell me?’ Evie said, sounding perfectly alert now. Her breath was slightly sour with sleep.

  Grace decided she would. Evie was her friend. And it was dark and safe. She decided she would tell Evie about Dr Palmer and maybe get her advice. If anybody knew what to do about him, that person would be Evie. Maybe she’d even know a way to stop him. Grace opened her mouth and was surprised to find herself saying, instead: ‘I lost my baby.’ As soon as the words were out she felt their inadequacy. Like she’d left her baby on a train or outside a shop, forgotten to push the pram home. ‘It died.’

  ‘Oh, Gracie,’ Evie said. She stroked Grace’s shoulder, then her hair, smoothing it away from her face the way a mother might. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Grace had expected her to be shocked. Disgusted, perhaps. ‘He was so angry,’ she whispered, meaning her father. ‘He pushed me down the stairs and kicked me.’ Her hands fluttered to her stomach.

  Evie didn’t say anything, she just stroked Grace’s hair and let her cry.

  MINA

  When I woke up the next morning there was no blissful moment of not remembering, no golden reprieve. I’d been dreaming about Geraint and, as I surfaced from sleep, my subconscious feelings of loss were replaced by the conscious realisation of it. I opened my eyes and stared at the square ceiling tiles. He was gone. My brother was dead. I had been broken long before the steering column smashed into my body.

  The time after we left the hospital was a blur. I was given compassionate leave by the university and I missed the rest of my exams. I slept in my old bedroom at home, and I remember Dylan gently encouraging me to join him on walks along the cliffs and, eventually, I did. His company was comforting, but I couldn’t even look at Pat. The guilt was crushing. Eventually, I couldn’t breathe and I went back to my student house. I hadn’t been back to the house in Wales since.

  Stephen visited, but I turned my face to the wall and pretended to be asleep. Parveen called my mobile but I didn’t answer. The ghost-nurse sat on the end of my bed for a while but I put my fingers in my ears, like a child, and closed my eyes. Eventually, I felt the air move and, when I opened my eyes, she had gone.

  That morning, as if I’d magically unstuck my life by remembering the end of Geraint’s, Dr Kanthe came by with the news I’d been waiting for. I was being discharged.

  I was going to start my new life. I was going to live with Mark. It no longer mattered that I thought he’d been in the car with me. I didn’t even care if he’d lied to me about it. If he had, then I just assumed he had reasons. Probably good reasons. I was in no position to judge anybody else’s actions. I had proved that.

  Geraint was dead. I knew that I’d been through this horror before, but it felt just as fresh and cold as if I hadn’t. I didn’t know if that was thanks to the amnesia or whether it was simply the nature of grief. It didn’t really matter; it hurt just as badly either way. I had no room to feel betrayed or angry with Mark. Everything felt unreal and, in the quiet corners that weren’t filled with screaming grief, I was simply numb.

  I tried to think about my new life. Pat was going to come and stay for a week or so and then I’d gently, but firmly, eject her. It wouldn’t be difficult. I knew she would be desperate to get back to Wales, to her own home. And my Uncle Dylan would apply pressure in his own quiet way. I don’t think he’d even need to say anything, Pat would just feel him calling to her across the Severn.

  Thinking about Pat made me want to speak to her. I had to tell someone about Geraint. I knew it was no longer news, but I felt an overwhelming urge to say his name to somebody who understood, someone who felt the same way. My family were my partners in loss. Pat picked up on the third ring, her voice guarded. ‘It’s me,’ I said. ‘Mina.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  For once, I didn’t take her words badly. It was fair enough. I never called her. I never wrote. I
never visited. My memory was back and I knew that the last five years had been an exercise in exorcism. I’d cut my small, imperfect family out of my life as cleanly as if I’d been performing surgery. First because seeing them amplified my guilt and then because the absence of Geraint was too obvious in their presence. And, finally, out of a kind of habit.

  ‘I’m fine. I’m getting out today.’

  ‘Oh, that’s good.’ Pat’s voice receded and I heard her call to Uncle Dylan, ‘They’re letting her out of hospital.’ Her voice came back. ‘Do you need me to help you?’

  ‘Mark’s coming,’ I said. ‘He’s taking me home.’

  ‘To his house?’ The tone of disapproval was back.

  ‘Our house, he says.’

  ‘Well—’

  I interrupted Pat before she could say anything else on that particular subject. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Well, it’s not what I’d choose for you, of course, but there are worse things, and if you start to attend church again . . .’ Her voice had a hopeful note.

  ‘I don’t mean I’m sorry about Mark. I’m sorry . . .’ My voice cracked. I took a breath and tried again. ‘About Geraint.’

  There was a short silence. Then Pat said: ‘Why are you sorry? It’s not your fault.’

  I couldn’t speak. My throat closed up tight and my whole face felt stretched and weird.

  ‘Mina, you listen to me,’ Pat said, her own voice strong and clear, ‘Geraint was a very troubled young man. We all loved him and we did the best we could, but there wasn’t anything any of us could’ve done.’

  The tears came, then. A sob escaped and I swallowed hard, wiping my eyes. I knew that if I let out another sob I’d be properly bawling, that I wouldn’t be able to stop. I took a deep breath and then another. My hand gripping the phone was slick with sweat and Pat was still speaking. Her voice was more hesitant now. ‘I know I looked for reasons at the time. For a long time really. I was angry.’ She paused. ‘Have you been worrying about this?’

 

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