by Anne Bennett
Linda could have told Jenny how Geraldine had sat uneasily on the seat by the bed and made it apparent she’d rather be anywhere than in a hospital with a child she’d never set eyes on before. She spoke empty words of welcome in a clipped voice and a smile that didn’t reach her eyes and Linda was glad she left after about fifteen strained minutes. Jenny knew that Linda hadn’t taken to her either, but whatever the problems Jenny was still determined to have Linda home for the Christmas break, even if just for a day or two because the girl wanted it so much, even though she herself was as nervous as hell.
There were practical considerations to make too. Linda would still have a plaster cast on her leg and would be in a wheelchair, so ramps would have to be made to go in the kitchen door and the outside toilet beside it. Then there was the problem of carrying her up and downstairs night and morning. Jenny wondered if she could borrow a commode from the hospital, because she’d never be able to use a chamber pot under the bed if she was taken short in the night. But those were problems she’d solve on her own. She told Linda that she was delighted at the doctor’s decision and couldn’t wait to have her at the house. Inside, she quailed at the prospect of breaking the news to her mother that Linda was coming home for a few days, a lot earlier than they’d imagined.
Two evenings later, Jenny was startled by a knock at the door – they didn’t get many visitors. She was even more surprised to see the figure of Dr Sanders standing on the step.
‘Can I come in, my dear?’
‘Of course,’ Jenny said, and wondered why she’d said that. ‘Of course’ wasn’t in the vocabulary of her mother and grandmother, and she wondered would they mind her asking him in.
She needn’t have worried, for after his first visit, the good doctor had her mother and grandmother almost eating out of his hands. He hadn’t been in the house two minutes when he mentioned the fact of Linda coming home for Christmas. Jenny was surprised he knew, but he seemed to know everything.
‘I must say, I’m surprised,’ Norah confided. ‘Jenny tells me the child’s legs will still be in plaster and she’ll be in a wheelchair. Really, I’m not sure she’s fit to be let out, even for just a couple of days.’
‘You’re probably right,’ Dr Sanders agreed gravely. ‘But you see, it’s Linda’s mental state the hospital doctors are worried about.’
‘Mental state!’ Norah said. She had a horror of mental illness.
‘Ah, yes,’ Dr Sanders said. ‘The poor girl faces more painful operations in the New Year and her spirits have been so very low. After all, she knows she won’t be able to leave hospital for some months and that seems a lifetime away. This was to give her a little boost. I must say, I was glad to hear the news myself.’
The two older ladies had no option but to look suitably pleased. ‘It will buck her up tremendously,’ he said, and both women nodded their heads sagely. ‘The point is,’ the doctor went on, ‘the hospital is doing a sort of concert on Christmas Eve. Any patients who are fit enough can do a turn, and the doctors and nurses will supply the rest of the entertainment.’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, it appears Linda is singing some carols on her own. She has a wonderful voice, you know – a natural talent!’ Then he glanced at Jenny and said, ‘Of course, you’d know that yourself. She sang when you were both trapped, didn’t she?’
Jenny saw her mother and grandmother’s eyebrows raised in surprised enquiry; she’d told them virtually nothing of what it had been like trapped hour upon hour and they’d never asked. ‘Yes,’ she said, answering the doctor. ‘I thought it might keep her spirits up. Her legs had begun hurting her again. I thought it might take her mind off it all.’
‘You did well,’ the doctor said warmly.
‘Stop it!’ Jenny blushed, not used to praise of any kind. ‘I’m really not any sort of special person. Anyway, surely you haven’t called just to embarrass the life out of me.’
‘No,’ said the doctor with a smile, and Jenny thought he should smile more. It made him look younger and far more human. ‘I really came to ask you all if you’d like to go to the concert. It would make Linda’s evening if you could. Most of the patients have relatives booked to come and watch, but Linda …’
‘Is a bit short on relatives,’ Jenny put in. ‘Don’t worry, Doctor, I’ll be there.’
‘I’ll pick you up at four-thirty,’ the doctor told Jenny.
‘Fine. I’ll be ready,’ she said.
Jenny saw him to the door and they talked for a few minutes about Linda and the coming festive season, and then he inclined his head and said with a smile, ‘Till Christmas Eve then, Miss O’Leary,’ and Jenny answered in the same vein: ‘Till Christmas Eve, Dr Sanders.’
When Jenny went back into the living room, she expected her mother and grandmother to be full of questions about Jenny’s experience in the tunnel, though they’d never shown any interest before. In a way, she hoped they wouldn’t be; they would only be disparaging and scornful about the whole episode, she knew. But they said nothing at all. She wasn’t to know that, as she saw the doctor to the door, Norah had turned to her mother and said, ‘Well’. The way it was said spoke volumes.
Jenny knew her mother and grandmother were irritated by the doctor’s words to her and it didn’t take much to guess at the reason why. But then, she decided, there was nothing she could do about it and she rubbed her hands together and said, ‘It’s real parky. Shall we have a cup of tea?’
‘I should think so, after all this time,’ Norah snapped.
Linda made no reply. Instead she smiled pleasantly and went through to the kitchen.
The day after this, Jenny bumped into Beattie at the hospital. It was Saturday and Beattie’s day off, and she said she’d thought to take a look at the little lass.
‘Gawd girl, I’m glad to see you,’ Beattie declared. ‘I’ve got a parcel of clothes at home for Linda. It’s from our Vera’s daughter Vicky. Thirteen she is, but not a bit like Linda. She’s developed, you know – bosoms an’ all.’ She gave Jenny a nudge and went on, ‘Bit of a madam, an’ all, by all accounts. I told our Vera she’ll have to watch her. The bleeding town’s teeming with soldiers from the barracks.’ She sighed and said, ‘Any road, that ain’t my problem and I did get her to part with her stuff, but you’ll have to alter it, if it’s not to make Linda look like a bleeding scarecrow.’
Clothes! Jenny hadn’t given them a thought. She knew the hospital would probably find Linda something to come out in, but what sort of something was another matter. And she wanted her to look nice for Christmas. She thanked Beattie, who said she’d drop the stuff around the next day.
And when Jenny saw the quality of the clothes, she sighed with relief and knew Linda would at least be adequately dressed. She found, too, that Peggy and her gran had already anticipated Linda’s needs. Peggy had knitted her a beautiful Fair Isle jumper in russet red and green, interspersed with yellow and Wedgwood blue. It would go a treat over the plain navy kilt from Beattie’s bundle, that just needed the buttons moving and the hem turning up to fit Linda like a glove. Maureen had knitted the girl a navy cardigan. Jenny was overcome with their kindness. Her mother and grandmother had contributed precisely nothing. They would never change, Jenny knew, and she thanked God from the bottom of her heart that she had Gran O’Leary and her family at her back.
NINE
Jenny was excited about the prospect of Linda’s first Christmas in her home. She made paper chains and hung them around the living room, and displayed the few Christmas cards they’d received on the mantelpiece. She brought the wooden Christmas tree down from the loft for the first time since her father’s death, and she washed its spiky leaves and stuck it in a bucket to steady it. Many of the things for the tree were home-made, by Jenny and her sister and brothers, and they brought back so many happy memories as she hung them around the branches. Interspersed with them were silver balls and novelties her father had bought over the years.
Neither her mother nor her gr
andmother had much time for Christmas. ‘Just an excuse for over-indulgence and drunkenness,’ her mother was fond of saying. ‘We’re celebrating Christ’s birth. It’s a time for reflection and prayer, not giving each other expensive and often quite unsuitable presents, and eating and drinking too much.’
As a child, Jenny had always been disappointed by her mother’s reaction. No one else’s mother seemed to feel the same way about it. Even the priest was not above accepting presents from parishioners, she noticed, especially bottles of whisky, for which he seemed to have a great liking. Dermot O’Leary had said the world would be a dull old place if time wasn’t made for a bit of jollification now and again.
He also said, at a person’s birthday you buy a present and have a wee party to celebrate it. Surely, he’d said, on Christ’s birthday, the celebration and present giving should be the greater?
Norah had answered her husband with a disapproving sniff. Without Dermot’s enthusiasm, Christmas for the O’Learys would have been a bleak affair indeed. Christmas 1939 had been just that, Jenny remembered. The room had not been decorated, nor any Christmas cards displayed and there had been no tree. Norah had said it wasn’t seemly with the family in mourning. Jenny had managed to buy a small present each for her mother and grandmother, who’d come to stay for the holiday, but there was little to spare for fancy food, though she had bought a chicken for the actual day itself. ‘It’s not seemly to make a fuss in wartime,’ her mother had decided, ‘even if your father hadn’t died only just months ago.’ Geraldine had come to tea and for the children’s sake they’d done their best despite Norah.
This time it would be different, she decided. Most people on the estate seemed to feel sorry for Linda, Jenny found, and a collection had been taken at the Dunlops. Almost five pounds was collected and delivered to Jenny the weekend before Christmas.
Armed with this staggering sum and her own savings, she went to the Bull Ring the following Saturday. Beattie’s niece, Vicky, had given her old coat for Linda, but it would have swamped the girl. Jenny could have cut it down, but she was loath to do so; it still wouldn’t have fitted her across the shoulders or on the sleeves, and she would have spoilt the cut of it. Linda was bound to grow, and Vicky’s coat would come in handy later.
Thanks to the generosity of her workmates, Linda could have a new coat for that winter. Jenny found just the right one – a warm woollen coat in dark maroon, with a velvet collar just a shade darker, and a matching hat. She got it in C&A Modes for £2 19s 11d. A bargain!
Then off she went to the Bull Ring. Vicky’s underwear drowned Linda and her shoes were about three sizes too big, so she set about replacing these items. Then she went on to buy some pretty bangles, necklaces, hair bands and slides from Woolworth’s, and a few sweets for Linda’s stocking. Jenny’s own personal present for her were two books, childhood favourites of her own, Robinson Crusoe and Alice in Wonderland. She smiled as she anticipated Linda’s pleasure.
She also bought gifts for Jan and Seamus’ small sons, and for Geraldine’s children, too. She found a shawl for her mother and gloves for her grandmother. She’d bought the inevitable socks and cigarettes for her brothers Martin and Francis and was about to send them off when she received word that they both had a spot of unexpected leave and would be home on Christmas Eve. Jenny was glad of it, and hoped that would make it a better Christmas for Linda.
Linda looked so beautiful that Jenny felt a lump in her throat. She sat in the wheelchair, looking as composed as if she’d done sing-songs at concerts every day of her life, and only Jenny, who knew all of her moods by now, was aware of how nervous she really was.
Linda had discarded the hospital gown and put on the nicest dress she and Jenny had ever seen. It had been in the bundle Beattie had given, but Beattie had explained: ‘Our Vera didn’t buy that. It came in a parcel from her old man’s uncle in America. Modelled on a dress worn by Shirley Temple, or some such.’
Jenny could well believe it. The dress was pure white silk with a lace overskirt. At the neck and edge of the long sleeves was a trim of peach. The petticoats made the skirt stick out so much it surrounded Linda like a beautiful fan, and the ends of the underskirts which showed beneath the dress were trimmed with the same peach colour. Over it all was a little bolero, knitted in the softest peach angora, and across the front, a white silk rose was embroidered.
Linda had been speechless when Jenny had produced it earlier that afternoon when she’d arrived at the hospital with Dr Sanders. It even fitted better than any of the others, because Vicky had so hated to part with it, she kept it long after she’d outgrown it. Linda looked a treat. Jenny had brushed her hair till it shone and tied it back with one of the ribbons she’d bought in the Bull Ring.
Jenny was proud of Linda’s hair which she’d washed the previous day; it hung halfway down her back now, and auburn highlights glinted in it. Dr Sanders remembered the lank greasy locks of the child in the surgery the first time he’d seen her, and was amazed at the transformation. ‘You’ve done marvels for that girl, Jenny O’Leary,’ he’d said. ‘And for that reason alone, you can shout at me as much as you like.’
Linda felt like a fairy princess. She could hardly believe she owned this lovely dress, or the coat and hat and other things that Jenny had bought her for Christmas – presents from the people she worked with. ‘Santa delivered it all a day early,’ she teased Linda. ‘He didn’t want you to freeze to death on the ride home.’
Linda smiled back. She knew Santa Clause didn’t exist, she’d tumbled to it a couple of years before. She’d gone along with it, of course, for the babbies, but if Jenny wanted her to believe in some bloke in a red suit, then she would. To be honest, if Jenny had asked her to leap into the fire, she’d seriously consider it.
During these past few weeks in hospital, as she’d been wrestling with her intense grief at having her family wiped out, Linda had also acknowledged the debt of gratitude that she owed certain people like Beattie and the doctor and all those rescue workers who had toiled to release her. But to Jenny she owed an overwhelming debt. She loved the older girl with all her heart, and vowed she’d never, ever hurt her in the whole of her life, and if Jenny should ever ask her to do anything for her, if it was in her power at all, Linda would do it. And when she sang later, she sang for Jenny alone as a sort of thank you.
Peter Sanders was stunned by the quality of Linda’s voice.
‘She’s phenomenal,’ he whispered to Jenny. ‘I never imagined she would be this good! Oh Jenny, her talent should be fostered, developed.’
‘There will be no money for that, Doctor,’ Jenny said sharply. ‘When Linda comes to live with us, she’ll have to understand that. If she had the choice, I’m sure she’d rather have love than singing lessons.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Peter said. ‘That was crass and thoughtless of me. You’re right, of course. The girl herself won’t have thought of developing her voice further either, I shouldn’t think.’
And she hadn’t, of course. But she lapped up the lavish praise they heaped on her head and going back to Jenny’s in the car, as she leaned back on the seat and said contentedly, ‘I’m so happy, I could bloody well burst.’
Linda had loved the Midnight Mass she’d attended with Jenny. Jenny said she didn’t have to go, but while Linda didn’t know if she really wanted to go herself, she’d rather do that than stay behind in a house that was strange to her with two older women who so obviously resented her presence . .
Jenny’s brothers had left word that they’d see her after the Mass. Linda hadn’t met them yet, for they’d arrived while she and Jenny were at the hospital concert. They’d gone out for a celebratory drink and would go straight on to church from the pub.
Linda was a little nervous of meeting Martin and Francis; she hadn’t much experience with men. ‘Do they know about me?’ she’d asked as Linda pushed her down the dark streets towards the church.
‘Yes, I wrote and told them.’
‘Do th
ey mind?’
‘Why should they?’
‘Well, your mom did.’
‘Oh Linda,’ Jenny said, ‘I told you how it is with her. It’s her way and it’s not a nice way, but there it is. We have to put up with it.’
‘I know,’ Linda said wearily, and decided to say no more on the subject.
The church was packed and Jenny knew they’d have little chance of seeing anyone till the service was over. She was ushered to a seat at the side where there was ample space for Linda’s wheelchair beside her. Linda was enthralled by it all, the decorated church and the altar bedecked with cloths of white and gold, with a golden box in the centre and golden candlesticks on either side of it. There were big vases of flowers to either side of the altar and the scent of them rose in the air. A Christmas tree stood at one side, with little coloured glass balls tied on to it, and a nativity scene to the other showed the stable where Jesus had been born.
Linda wasn’t used to going to church and she looked around in fascination.
The confessional box was to one side of the altar, and remembering what Jenny had told her, she imagined herself going in there and telling a strange man all her secrets and the bad things she’d done. What if you told him something really awful and he was annoyed with you, or told someone? Jenny said that couldn’t happen, but you never knew with some people.
There were lots of statues too. One, Jenny had whispered, was the Virgin Mary, and others down the side of the church were called ‘Stations of the Cross’. ‘What’s that?’ Linda had whispered back.
But the Mass had begun and Jenny said, ‘Ssh, I’ll tell you later.’
The priest was dressed in white robes embroidered in gold like the altar cloths, and behind him were two small altar boys dressed in black shirts with white apron things on top. The service began. Linda loved the beautiful singing that rose and fell as the congregation sang the Latin responses, even though she could understand none of it. She was glad she knew her carols well because they sang them too and she joined in with such gusto sometimes people turned round to see who it was singing so well, but Linda was unaware of that happening.