‘He’s in my blood.’
‘Blood! So what? What kind of Fascist rubbish is that?’
‘Did you know that Danny had another family? Three sons? The youngest…his name is Steven…’
‘And?’
Quickly he said, ‘He’s such a good-looking boy. I couldn’t help thinking, wondering…I wanted to ask him… Well, I suppose you can guess what I wanted to ask.’
‘Can I? Mark, keep away from them, for your own sake…’
‘Danny wants to see me.’
Simon snorted. ‘I bet he does!’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘I bet he wants to see you.’
Mark thought of going to see Danny, of walking into his ward and scanning the beds. He wondered if he would recognise him at once, knowing that he would, of course. Danny would look up as though sensing he was being watched and for a moment he would be afraid, not expecting him to have grown so tall, into such a powerful-looking man. Anyone could see how capable he was. And Danny would be weak and tremulous and the tables would be turned.
Gently Simon said, ‘Mark, you realise, don’t you, that Danny would have hurt any child in his care? It wasn’t anything to do with you personally –’
‘He didn’t hurt Ben.’
‘Don’t you think he would have, in time? You must stop thinking about him – tell Ben you don’t want anything to do with Danny or his family. Try and forget.’
Mark laughed painfully. ‘How do I forget, Dad?’
‘You stop yourself from remembering.’ Closing his eyes he said, ‘I’m tired, Mark. I would like you to go.’
Walking down the hospital corridor, Mark saw the signs for the ward where Danny waited to die. In the lift his finger hesitated over the buttons. Finally, he made his decision and the lift’s mechanical voice announced his destination with cheerful goodwill.
So, Simon thought, Carter had sired other sons. He thought how criminal it was that such men were allowed to breed once their wickedness was known. He thought of castration, of brutal, just, biblical punishments, but felt only disgusted with himself, as though he had sunk to Carter’s level.
That afternoon, just before Mark arrived, a vicar had visited him. The man remembered Joy, and told him what a good, Christian woman she was. Joy believed in redemption, he knew that much. She believed, too, that Danny Carter should be forgiven. ‘By whom?’ he’d asked. ‘By Annette? By that damaged child?’ He had turned against God. Now, in his final days, he told himself he should be brave and stand by his non-believing. It was more difficult than he had thought it might be because there was the terrible, shaming temptation to hedge his bets and allow himself to pray with the man who spoke so kindly and was so convinced of the comfort of an after-life. In the end, it was this obvious conviction that hardened his heart. Besides, he didn’t want his consciousness to live on, if that was what heaven meant.
Simon looked at his watch. Soon it would be time for the supper trolley to come round. He had ordered fish pie and caramel custard to follow. Nurse Fletcher – Sally – was amazed by his appetite, and, idiotically, her amazement and praise of his cleared plate pleased him. Next he would be telling her that he had all his own teeth. He was old. At least his father, someone he thought of often lately, had been spared the shames of age.
Fish pie. He wondered what had possessed him to order such a dish. It would be foul, he knew. He thought of Joy, who had been a good, plain cook. Aloud, he said, ‘I wish you were here, my darling girl.’ They wouldn’t meet in heaven; for a moment he was sorry he didn’t believe in the stories.
Joy had made toad-in-the-hole the first evening the boys came to visit them. The social worker had smiled and said, ‘Something smells delicious!’ Grinning at the boys, the woman, who looked too young for such responsibilities, had added, ‘Gosh, I wish I was staying to tuck in, too!’ At once Mark had looked frightened, turning to hide his face in the girl’s coat. She had ruffled his hair. ‘Oh don’t be shy, Mark! Remember we talked about how lovely it would be to stay here with your new Mummy and Daddy?’ Looking up at Joy, the social worker had smiled as though she needed to apologise for Mark’s behaviour. And Joy, who he discovered later, was more frightened than she had ever been in her life, smiled back.
They had talked and talked and talked about taking on Ben and Mark. ‘Taking on!’ Joy had laughed in despair. ‘As if they are our enemies, as if we are entering into a war! They’re just two little boys…’
Sitting up in bed, the alarm clock ticking away the long minutes between three and four in the morning, he had lifted her hand from the eiderdown and kissed it. ‘Darling, if you have any doubts…’
‘No. It’s the right thing to do.’ After a moment she added, ‘I want them. I daren’t admit to the children’s home how much I want them.’
Joy had fallen in love with Mark, of course, that beautiful, angel face. ‘Such a gentle little boy,’ she kept repeating after their first meeting. ‘How could anyone hurt such a child? How could his mother…’ She’d trailed off. Annette could not be blamed. Annette was beyond blame, now.
Simon remembered Annette in her tartan mini-skirt. He remembered her sitting on his backdoor step, smoking a cigarette, watching the sparrows flit about the garden. He remembered imagining her in his bed, and he remembered the guilt of such imaginings. Guilt was always close by whenever he thought of Annette, becoming less over the years, only to make its presence felt more forcefully after Joy’s death, when his defences were down. In those days he had, eventually, been able to put the guilt to one side. Now he knew it would not be shaken, he would take it to his grave.
He pressed the buzzer for a nurse, hoping it would be Sally who answered the call. Sally was cheerful and made him laugh. Desperately, he pushed the buzzer again, struggling to sit up as an almighty wave of pain swept over him.
Chapter 24
Joy said, ‘She fainted, Simon.’ Her heart was hammering, as if she had run a mile, and her hand went to her chest as she watched Simon stoop over the girl and take her pulse.
‘Annette,’ he said calmly, ‘Annette? It’s all right, my dear.’ He looked up. ‘Joy, would you fetch a glass of water?’
Fumbling around looking for a glass, Joy told herself to be sensible, to breathe normally and not panic. The girl was fine. She had fainted, that was all. Simon was here now to take care of her, walking in just in time, tossing the paper he’d bought on the table as he hurried across the room. Such was her relief at seeing him she had almost cried. At least he was too concerned with Annette to worry about her; she was tired of worrying him with her unruly emotions.
The tap coughed and spluttered out brownish water. Waiting until it ran clear, Joy filled a glass, taking a swift sip herself before carrying it to the girl. Annette was even paler than before and she watched as Simon pressed his hand to her forehead. ‘Annette,’ he said, ‘What are we going to do with you, eh?’
‘I’m sorry, Doctor Walker.’
‘Nonsense! You have nothing to be sorry about! But you haven’t eaten, have you? Now that’s not good, is it? Haven’t we talked about this before?’
‘Yes, Doctor.’ The girl’s voice was barely a whisper. She crossed her arms over her chest as though freezing cold. At once Joy said, ‘I’ll go and fetch a blanket.’
Upstairs on the landing, Joy looked around her, trying to remember in which room she’d seen the blanket box. It was the room at the front of the house, she was sure. Hurrying along the faded carpet runner, she felt the benign ghosts of the house crowd around her.
Downstairs again, Joy handed the blanket to Simon and he draped it around the girl’s shoulders. He said, ‘Annette, I’m going to drive you home. Joy will come with us and see you safely to bed.’ He glanced at her. More quietly he said, ‘Is that all right, Joy? I think it would be best.’
‘Yes, of course.’
Annette struggled to stand up. ‘It’s all right, Doctor, I’m fine. You don’t have to go to any trouble. I can manage…’
‘No.’ Simon�
��s voice was firm. ‘You’ll do as I say, Annette. My wife and I will take you home and make sure that you’re cared for. Is there someone who can come in and sit with you? Someone who can collect your boys from school?’
‘Really – I’m all right.’
He ignored her. ‘Is there any way I can contact your husband?’
Annette looked at him as though he had slapped her.
‘Annette…’ He sighed. ‘He should know that you’re poorly.’
‘I’m not! Please don’t say anything to him.’
She began to cry and Simon turned to her. ‘Joy, would you stay with her? I’ll go and get the car out of the garage.’
As soon as he’d gone Annette said, ‘Please let me go home on my own. I’m all right, really and truly…’ She wiped her eyes and made an effort to sit up straight, even attempted a smile, her mouth trembling. ‘I don’t want you to go to any trouble.’
‘But it’s no trouble.’ Joy crouched down beside her and took her hand. ‘Why don’t you tell me what the matter is? Perhaps I can help.’ Gently she said, ‘Who’s hurting your baby, Annette? Is it your husband?’
Annette’s eyes filled with tears again. She shook her head. ‘Please don’t say anything to Doctor Walker.’
‘But Annette – he can help you…’
‘No – Danny will be angry!’ As if a solution had suddenly presented itself she said, ‘I’ll leave him, I promise. Like Joan said – I’ll go to Joan’s.’ She smiled, wiping her eyes quickly. Her voice lightened as though everything was solved. ‘There. You don’t have to worry. I’ll go home now, Joan will take care of us.’
The girl got to her feet shakily. Lacking the strength of body or will to stop her, Joy allowed her to go.
When Simon came back, he frowned around the kitchen as though she was hiding her. ‘Where is she?’
‘She’s gone. I couldn’t make her stay – she didn’t want us interfering.’ Joy sat down. Wearily she said, ‘We can’t make people do what we think is best.’
‘That girl’s ill! Honestly, Joy – couldn’t you at least have kept her here until I came back?’
‘No – I couldn’t! If you take on some unstable girl in my absence it’s not up to me to sort her out! I don’t have the strength or the inclination to care about your lost causes.’
Coldly he said, ‘She’s not a lost cause.’
‘I don’t care, Simon. I’m sick and tired and I just want to go to bed.’
‘I’m worried about her.’
She forgot about not wanting him to be concerned for her, realising that in fact it was all that she wanted. Her voice rising she said, ‘Worry about me! I’m your wife – me! I need to be taken care of and worried over! For once in my life I want someone to worry about me!’
‘I am taking care of you, Joy, but that girl –’ He looked towards the door as if he had half a mind to chase after Annette. Turning back to her he said, ‘You saw how frightened she was. I think she’s scared of her husband…’
Joy laughed scornfully. ‘You think?’ She remembered the fear in the girl’s eyes; the husband was obviously a bully who took his temper out on his wife and children. But there were millions of such men, millions of wives who stayed with them, stupid and feckless to the last. If Annette did leave this Danny then it would be for the best, best that she took her life into her own hands.
Simon sighed. ‘So, she went home?’
‘Yes. And it’s none of our business.’
‘No, I suppose you’re right.’ He smiled sadly. ‘Shall I help you to bed?’
Simon undressed. Naked, he climbed into bed beside her and when she shied away from him he said, ‘Please let me hold you, that’s all I want.’ Very carefully, he touched the scar where they had cut out her womb, an expert’s touch. He held her and he was gentle, he told her that he had missed her and that he loved her and how sorry he was for everything, although he didn’t mention their baby, just kept his voice soft and kissed her breasts that ached still.
But he gave off too much heat and she moved away from him. He smiled at her as if seeking reassurance that she loved him, that he had made amends. Misery crept over her, like the cold that comes over the dying, as though her body was a towel drawing up water. She said, ‘We’ll never have children.’
‘No, we won’t.’
‘What shall we do? What?’ Her voice rose and he took her hand and squeezed it. Pulling away she said, ‘It’s all I think of: how empty my life will be.’
‘It won’t be – there are other things –’
‘But what? You can’t even say! Or you’ll say work, or charity! I don’t want to help other people!’ She knew she sounded like a child but she couldn’t help herself. Tears streamed down her face and she thought of Annette, weeping in that miserable kitchen when she had no right to, no right at all with two healthy little boys of her own at home. Fiercely she said, ‘It’s not fair! That girl can have children easily and she doesn’t even care about them –’
‘I’m sure she does care –’
‘How can she? How can she stand by and let her husband hurt them if she cares so much? It’s wicked!’
Simon propped himself on his elbow to frown at her. ‘He hurts her children? How do you know?’
‘She told me!’
His frown intensified. ‘What did she tell you? What exactly did she say?’
Joy felt ashamed suddenly: she should have been kinder to the girl, she should have made her stay. Thinking of the children, the shame turned to guilty panic. Anxiously she said, ‘Do you know anything about him? Is he violent?’
‘Joy, what did Annette say? It’s important.’
She got up, too agitated to keep still. ‘She said something about him hurting her baby…Oh, Lord, Simon…’
‘Did she say anything else?’
‘No – oh, I don’t know! She looked half-mad, I didn’t know what to think…’
Simon went to her and drew her into his arms. ‘I don’t want you to worry about this. Listen, you hop back into bed, try and get some rest. I’ll drive round to her house and make sure she’s OK.’ He held her at arms’ length, smiling to reassure her as he searched her face. ‘Is that all right? Or would you prefer me to stay here?’
‘No, no, I’m fine. You go.’
In bed, she watched as he dressed quickly, becoming the brisk, conscientious doctor. All at once she felt shy of him, she hardly knew him, after all, had spent only a few nights in his bed since they met. And yet he had seen the worst of her, the monster that anger and pain had made of the self-contained, calm-seeming woman he had married. He knew her, inside out; the pornography of grief had left her wide open. She wondered how he could bear to look at her.
He tugged on a pullover. It made his hair stick up and as he stooped over the bed to kiss her she smoothed a heavy strand back from his face. He smiled.
‘I love you,’ she said.
‘Do you?’
‘Tell her I’m sorry if I seemed brusque.’
He kissed her again. ‘I love you, too.’
‘Go on – I’m worried about her.’
Lying on her side in the bed that smelt of him, that still retained the heat from his body, she thought of him going to that girl. No doubt Annette Carter carried children easily, bore them easily; she would push them out in to the cold air and think so little of it, little enough for it hardly to matter if they were kept safe. Jealousy felt like a weight on her chest, felt like raw, impotent rage, a useless, destructive energy that would keep her from the oblivious sleep she craved. Tossing the bedcovers aside, she got up. Rage and jealousy had made her defiant, full of agitating fearlessness. Alone in the house she would confront its ghosts and claim it as her own.
Danny was home. Annette could hear him moving about upstairs and with every thud and creak of floorboards she would jump, fear jolting through her like an electric shock. She drew her coat around her more tightly, too cold to take it off. Besides, keeping her coat on made her feel ready to esc
ape, if she should need to; it lent her a little confidence, knowing she was ready to run.
Creeping out into the passage, she listened, ears straining for any sound of Mark. But he was such a quiet little boy, so good. He never gave her any trouble – even his teacher said how good he was. Feeling shaky, she leaned against the wall. There were no sounds from upstairs now. Very quietly, she sat down on the first stair and huddled inside her coat.
Her dolls sat in a semi-circle around her: Paula and Suzie and Anne. Anne was her favourite and she had made her a purple dress from crepe paper and she was pretty, with blonde, curly hair and blue eyes that closed when she was laid on her back. Reaching out, she picked Anne up and cradled her in her arms. She sang softly, ‘I had a little nut tree, nothing would it bear…’ Anne’s big blue eyes flickered and closed. From her chair by the fire her grandmother snored and mumbled from her sleep. The room had become dark and the fire burnt out; shadows crept up the walls. She would stay very still and she would listen and listen and it wouldn’t matter how stiff and cold she became if the darkness kept away from her little circle. She held Anne more tightly and sang a little louder, ‘The king of Spain’s daughter came to marry me…’
Upstairs the bed creaked and banged against the wall. A man’s voice groaned, like he was in pain and about to die. Anne’s hard little hand stabbed against her chest as she held her even closer; her voice quavered over the words of her song. There was something big and frightening she had to worry about, she knew, and she knew that she should try to remember what it was. The words of the song faltered so she went back to the beginning again, and the words helped to dampen the clamouring feeling that there was something terrible she had forgotten.
Chapter 25
The lift doors opened. Mark hesitated for a moment, only to step forward quickly when the doors began to close. In the corridor he hesitated again, unsure whether to turn left or right. A nurse approached, casual in a short white overall and trousers; she smiled at him. ‘Are you lost?’
Say You Love Me Page 26