‘There’s nothing disgusting about it,’ I said.
‘But you’ve got to – got to –’ she could barely force the words out – ‘clear it up.’
‘It won’t take a moment, and anyway I don’t mind. Think of all the times you did it for me when I was little.’ I pressed on before she could upset herself further. ‘Now then, Mum, the doctor’s coming. Before we get you back up to bed, do you need to go again?’ She shook her head. ‘And do you promise that if you do, you’ll use the po?’
‘I suppose I’ll have to.’
‘It would be best.’
‘What about all this?’ She plucked at her nightie with her finger and thumb. ‘I can’t see the doctor like this.’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll get you changed and clean.’ I patted her shoulder awkwardly. I was shamefully uncomfortable in my role as nurse. The thought of seeing my mother naked appalled me. ‘Does it still hurt?’ I asked.
‘No. But when it starts to come—’ Her mouth clamped in a thin line at the memory. ‘It was like a knife.’
‘Do you think you can manage the stairs? We could go into the front room – draw the curtains—’
‘I can manage.’
I helped her to her feet. She felt cold and clammy now, and looked pale. It took us a long time, and my father returned as we were halfway up.
‘How is she?’ he asked.
‘The cat’s mother . . .’ she muttered. ‘How do you think?’ She could often be curt, but never rude. There was no dealing with them. None of the old rules and customs applied.
‘Doctor’s coming,’ he told me. ‘He’ll be about half an hour.’
He stepped on the first stair and stood there looking up at us. His face was red. If my hands had been free and there’d been a bucket of cold water to hand I’d have thrown it over him.
I had a brainwave. ‘Dad – Mum needs to change her nightie. When we’re ready, would you do that? You know where everything is.’ I saw the panic on his face and hastened to outline the alternative. ‘While you do that, I can be cleaning up downstairs.’
‘Right you are,’ he said humbly.
Dr Mayes was young and hard-pressed but calm and respectful, too. That, and the fact of having a person of authority in the house, meant that for a while my father regained a good deal of his old poise. Mayes spent a quarter of an hour with my mother, and then came downstairs to talk to us.
‘Has she had a fall, Mr Streeter? Mrs Griffe?’ he asked.
I said not that I knew of. My father shook his head. ‘She’s not doddery you know. She’s not long turned sixty. A few years younger than me. I was sixty-seven in February,’ he added in case Mayes had missed the point. ‘And fighting fit.’
‘You certainly look it. And I wasn’t implying for a moment that your wife was infirm, she’s a fine strong woman, but I believe she may have sustained bruising to the kidneys.’
‘Does my wife say she fell over?’
‘Not in so many words, no.’ The doctor’s air of quiet authority was nibbled by tiredness. He pushed his fingers through his hair.
‘But you never know—’
‘Then she didn’t.’
‘I’m not suggesting that she lied, Mr Streeter. Simply that she’s proud. Anyway, it’s pretty clear there’s some sort of damage in that area.’
Deflated, my father sat down. ‘Is that bad?’
‘It is for her – as you’ve seen. From what both you and she have told me, Mrs Griffe, she’s passing a small amount of clotted blood, and that’s immensely painful. In fact, I suspect she’s been in more pain over the last thirty-six hours than she’s let on. Proud again, you see.’ He directed an encouraging smile at my father.
‘So what can you do for her?’ I asked. ‘Should she go into hospital?’
A look of absolute terror came over my father’s face at this suggestion. Mayes understandably turned away from it, and towards me. ‘Not necessarily. I don’t believe the injury is serious – she was able to walk, and so on – and the bleeding will, quite literally, pass. I’ve given her something for the pain, and I shall leave some more with you to give her if the going gets tough during the night.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked my father, who was now white as a sheet.
‘I mean that she probably will have more pain, particularly when she passes water. It’s essential she drinks plenty. She may have been avoiding drinking because she’s worried about the consequences, but I can’t emphasise too strongly that that’s counter-productive. The more liquid she takes, the more rapidly and easily everything will be resolved.’
‘It’s hard to get her to do what she doesn’t want to, Doctor,’ said my father. ‘Phyllis is a stubborn woman.’
‘But Dad,’ I intervened, ‘she’s not stupid, either. We have to talk her into it.’
‘Better you than me . . .’
‘Between the two of us.’
‘That’s the spirit.’ Mayes sat down and opened his bag. ‘Now I’ll leave you with a small amount of the medicine, and a prescription for you to take to the chemist tomorrow – there’s a pharmacy open at this address . . .’
While he wrote the prescription my father went and stared out of the window with his hands in his pockets. Mayes put the piece of paper on the side table next to him, with a small bottle on top of it.
‘There you are. I’ll call again tomorrow morning.’ He closed his bag and stood up. ‘If she’s no better we’ll consider what to do.’
‘You’re going then,’ said my father.
‘I’m afraid so. Twins on the way in Ethelred Road.’
‘You mustn’t miss that whatever you do.’ I knew it was fear that was making my father sarcastic, but poor Mayes didn’t deserve it. I smiled and accompanied him to the front door.
‘You mustn’t mind him, Doctor,’ I said quietly. ‘It’s not like Dad to be rude, he’s worried to death.’
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Griffe, I understand. It’s a very common reaction and I’m used to it. You look after your mother and I’ll see you soon.’
When I went back into the front room my father had picked up the medicine bottle and was staring at the label at close range, his glasses pushed up on to his head. I felt suddenly exhausted.
‘Dad, I think I’ll go to bed.’
‘But Pammie.’ He put the bottle down and lowered his glasses. ‘What about your mother?’
‘I’ll pop in and see her first. And we’ll be much more use to her if we’re upstairs. Will you lock up?’ There was no response, so I said, ‘Remember to take the medicine up with you, and a spoon.’
I tried not to feel cruel as I left him standing there like a lost dog in the front room. There was nothing the matter with him. He was a grown man whose wife was ill. He had a responsibility towards her. I told myself that however wretched he felt it was only right he should discharge that responsibility, and he’d never forgive himself afterwards if he had not done so.
This was how I justified my retreat to the tiny second bedroom I’d occupied as a child. There was a third bedroom, a holy of holies called ‘the guest room’, but it was never used, and I would not have dreamed of doing so now. As far back as I could remember its pristine chenille bedspread, rag rugs and twin pink towels had been disturbed by no human hand but my mother’s.
My narrow bed was crisply made up as always, with a lavender bag on the pillow. On the table under the window stood a square mirror on a stand and a matching china vase and dish. There was a white-painted chest of drawers and two double hooks on the back of the door. I opened my case, put my nightie and book on the bed, my wash things and brush and comb on the table, and my dressing gown on one of the hooks.
Then I went in to see my mother. As I crossed the landing I could hear my father rattling bolts downstairs.
‘Mum? How are you feeling?’
Her eyes were closed, but she hadn’t been asleep, because as soon as she heard me she opened them and answered distinctly.
‘Better since
the doctor came. He gave me something.’
‘Good.’ I sat down on the side of the bed. ‘He’s left us some of that medicine, so you can take it if you need to during the night. And Mum, you have to drink.’
‘I know, I know,’ she said impatiently, but this time, with Dr Mayes’ authority, I was disposed to be firm.
‘Really, you must. Why don’t you drink up the water that’s there, and I’ll fetch you another glass.’
‘I don’t want it, Pammie.’
Here we go, I thought. The last thing I wanted was a battle with my mother, but after my spirited words downstairs I was determined to stick to my last.
‘Think of it as medicine,’ I said. ‘You may not want it, but it’ll do you good.’
Her mouth tightened sceptically. ‘So you say.’
‘Not me, the doctor. Water’s the most important thing.’ I decided to take the unprecedented step of understanding her. ‘I know you don’t want to have to go – I know it’s painful and horrible, but that’s what will make you better.’
Her mouth pursed even more, and she turned her head away.
For one awful moment I thought I’d overstepped the mark, but then she turned back and hoisted herself on to her elbow.
‘Give me a hand, then.’
As I filled the glass in the bathroom, my father came up the stairs. I heard him say my name in a loud whisper.
Irritated, I turned and replied in a normal voice: ‘What is it?’
He beckoned furiously.
‘What?’
‘I want a word!’ he mouthed.
‘Wait a minute, then.’ I took the glass in to my mother and put it on the bedside table. ‘I’ll be next door if you want me,’ I told her. She nodded.
‘I took a silly tumble,’ she muttered. ‘But he’s not to know, he’d fuss.’
When I came out, my father had retreated to the hall, and I had no alternative but to join him.
‘Dad, what is it, we’re both tired—’
‘Will you sleep in there?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Ssh!’ Frowning at me to keep my voice down, he backed into the unlit front room. ‘You’re good with her, you know what to do, she’d much rather you were close by. Another woman and so on.’
‘Dad!’ I didn’t even try to conceal my anger. ‘You’re her husband, you should be there. You’re the one she’s used to, the one she—’ I hesitated and then said it – ‘the one she loves.’ He grumbled sheepishly. ‘You are!’
‘She loves you too.’ It was odd the way we were using that word as a weapon.
‘Of course, but she’ll want you.’ Although by no means sure this was right, I was determined not to let my father duck his responsibilities. ‘If everything stays the same,’ I went on, ‘it’ll be a comfort to her. What’s she going to think if you move into another room?’
He was considering his answer when there came a scream from upstairs and I flew back up, two at a time. We had been deluding ourselves to imagine we would get any sleep. When I look back on that night it is as a vision of hell. My mother’s pain, my father’s panic, my own clumsiness, the unaccustomed mess and noise – it was as if devils had been let loose in that usually spotless and orderly house.
All night long, my mother was in agony. She groaned and gasped, and couldn’t keep still. Sometimes she walked about, her arms clutched over her abdomen; sometimes she kneeled up on the bed, grasping the headrail. Occasionally she stood leaning with one hand on the dressing table, the other arm wrapped round her waist, swaying and moaning. She baulked at the medicine, but drank water like a woman taking poison; I was shocked by her suffering and lost in admiration for her dogged courage. She passed urine flecked with blood three times, each time agonisingly; the third time the blood was less noticeable; the time after that it was almost clear. At five o’clock, with a summer’s morning already lighting up the curtains, she climbed into bed and fell asleep, looking more dead than alive.
My father was sitting on the chair on the landing. He must have been exhausted, but he sat bolt upright, rigid with misery, his face even whiter than hers. From time to time I’d given him the pot to empty, covered with a hand-towel to spare him the worst of it. Other than that there’d been precious little he, or either of us, could do, and he had been unable to bring himself so much as to cross the threshold of the bedroom.
The sudden silence must have petrified him. Without getting up, he tried to peer past me through the half-open door.
‘What’s up?’
‘She’s asleep.’
‘How is she?’
‘I think she may be over the worst of it. But the doctor’s coming again later. He’ll know.’
‘Thank God!’ He seemed to collapse, as if there had been a stick up his back and it had been suddenly removed.
‘I’m going to bed,’ I said. ‘In there, with Mum, don’t worry. I’ll get my things. And you ought to sleep as well, Dad, while you can.’
‘Yes, you’re right. Quite right.’ He hauled himself to his feet. I dreaded what he was going to say next, but there was no escape.
‘Pammie – thank you. You’ve been a tower of strength and I’ve – well – I’ve not been.’ There were tears in his eyes. ‘I’m ashamed of myself.’
‘Don’t be, Dad. I understand. Get some sleep, and you’ll be right as rain when she wakes up.’
‘Very well . . . all right . . . I just wanted you to know.’
I went over to him and kissed his cheek as if he were a child. Although it was morning, I said: ‘ ’Night, Dad.’
‘Night-night.’
I forgot all about my things in the small bedroom. I just took off my shoes, skirt and blouse and got into Dad’s bed. The pillow smelt faintly of the stuff he put on his hair, but the sheets were smooth and fresh. All I could see of my mother was the top half of her face, and one hand holding the edge of the bedclothes. There was no pleasurable drifting off. Sleep hit me like a sledgehammer, bringing instant unconsciousness.
The sound of the door knocker woke me. I experienced a moment’s wild disorientation, with no idea of where I was, or why, or what the time was. My mouth felt dry and my eyes itchy.
I scrambled out of bed and pulled on my outer clothes. To my relief, my mother made a little sound in her sleep and rolled her head on the pillow, but didn’t wake. I ran down the stairs and opened the door.
Dr Mayes looked even more weary and rumpled than I felt.
‘Good morning. How’s the patient?’
‘Asleep.’
‘And the night?’
‘Terrible.’
‘I’m so sorry, for her and for all of you. But you coped.’
‘We did.’
‘Congratulations. It can’t have been easy.’ Catching sight of himself in the hall mirror he grimaced, straightened his tie and flattened his hair with his palms. ‘I’d have been here sooner, but the second twin took her time.’
I’d forgotten that while in this house we’d occasionally felt close to death, he’d been ushering in new life. ‘How are they?’
‘Mother and babies all doing well. But she’s done it five times before, which is more than I have.’
‘You’re new to the job?’
‘Six months. But don’t worry,’ he added hastily. ‘I’m pretty confident of this diagnosis.’
‘We have perfect faith in you,’ I assured him. ‘She’s suffered horribly in the last few hours, but it all went as you predicted, and she does seem better.’
‘I’m so glad.’
‘And you had no need to apologise for being late – your knock on the door woke me up!’
‘Good – well, actually no, that isn’t quite what I meant.’ We both laughed. It felt good to do that, and I relaxed for the first time in over twelve hours.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘would you like a cup of tea? My parents are both asleep and I certainly want one.’
‘I can’t tell you how welcome that would be.’
H
e followed me into the kitchen although my mother would have been appalled at a guest, especially a doctor, seeing her private domain, and sat at the table while I made tea and toast. Because he was a medical man and unlikely to be put off his breakfast, I described the events of the night in more detail, and he nodded in satisfaction.
‘That’s what I hoped. She may have a little more discomfort, but nothing to what she’s been through. She needs to keep on with the fluids, though.’
‘She was very good about that,’ I said. ‘It was the medicine she wouldn’t take.’
He looked aghast. ‘You’re telling me she had no pain relief?’
‘She refused. There was nothing I could do.’
‘Of course not . . .’ He shook his head in amazement. ‘They’re made of stern stuff, that generation.’ This seemed to remind him of something: ‘How about your father, how’s he?’
I smiled. ‘Recovering. At a rather slower rate than her, I suspect.’
‘Poor man, I do feel for him,’ said Mayes with obvious sincerity.
‘These things are almost as bad for those who have to stand by and watch.’
I almost said something caustic about that being just about all he had done, but stopped in time. This was to protect myself more than my father: Mayes was so nice, and honourable, and I didn’t want to appear in a bad light.
‘Right,’ he said, putting his cup down. ‘Shall we?’
I went into my mother’s room first and woke her gently as I knew she’d hate to be caught asleep with her mouth open. Even so she was flustered, and we took a minute to plump her pillows and pin back the front of her hair. Then I showed in the doctor and left them to it.
The door of the small bedroom was ajar, and I put my head round. The curtains were still drawn, and in the half-light Dad’s hunched form bulked large in the childish bed. His clothes, neatly folded, were laid over the back of the chair, socks on top; his shoes sat side by side beneath it. He was well trained; Mum would have been proud of him. I smiled fondly, remorseful over my own intolerance. When he woke, I would make a special effort, even spoil him a little if I could.
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