The Road Back

by Liz Harris

  ‘Beds, beds and more beds! I’m sure I’ll dream of making beds with hospital corners tonight. I’ve also done masses of sterilising today, and I’ve got to go to the sluice room after I’ve had my tea. That’s something to look forward to.’

  Sheila laughed. ‘You poor thing. They’re certainly working you hard, and you’re not even getting paid for it. If you’re doing this to see if you want to be a nurse when you leave school, I’m pretty sure I know what your decision will be.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I don’t want to be a nurse. Not because of what they have to do ­– I like it here and I like the nurses – it’s just that I want to go to secretarial school.’

  ‘Not to university? You’re at a grammar school, aren’t you? Won’t your parents want you to go to university?’ Sheila pushed the plate of scones towards Patricia. ‘Here, have a scone.’

  ‘I don’t want one, thank you. I’m not hungry.’

  ‘No wonder you’re so slim. With me, being hungry doesn’t come into it.’

  ‘My parents don’t care what I do. My mother would probably like me to go to university, but my father doesn’t mind what I do. I suppose I haven’t really decided what to do yet. I could end up going to teachers’ training college ­– I think I might like teaching. But whatever I do, I don’t want to live away from home for three years. It wouldn’t be fair on my father.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Because I’m helping him with his book.’

  ‘Is he a writer?’

  ‘Not like you mean, but he’s writing a book all the same. At first it was just going to be an album of notes and pictures about a trip he went on years ago to Ladakh – it’s a country north of the Himalayas – but it’s turned into a proper book now.’

  ‘You’re a bit young to be helping him write a book, aren’t you? You can’t be more than fourteen or fifteen.’

  ‘I’m fifteen. I was fifteen in June. He’s got arthritis in his hands, so he had to retire early. I mainly help him on Sundays, doing all the typing for him, so it makes sense for me to go on a secretarial course.’

  ‘Have you ever been to the place he’s writing about – I’ve forgotten what it’s called?’

  ‘Ladakh. No, but I’d like to go. Father says he’s going to go there again one day, as he wants to add a section about how the country’s changed over the years. I don’t know if it’ll work out, though, with his hands being as they are.’

  ‘He’s lucky to have a daughter who’s willing to help him in her free time. Most girls of your age would rather be out shopping with their friends, or going dancing.’

  Patricia grinned at her. ‘You must have met my friend, Ruth. She and her schoolfriends go on and on about Cliff Richard and Elvis Presley, and about boys. Rock and roll’s OK, but not all of the time, and I don’t really know any boys. You don’t meet that many in an all-girls’ school, at least not until the sixth form. The sixth formers have a dance every year with the boys from the boys’ grammar school near us. I can’t imagine what I’ll talk to them about, though, when my time comes.’ She pulled a terrified face.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something. And if you can’t think of what to say, there’s always the other.’ She gave Patricia a knowing look.

  Patricia could feel herself going scarlet. ‘And anyway,’ she went on quickly, ‘I don’t mind helping my father. In fact, I quite like it. It’d be boring if everyone liked doing the same thing.’

  ‘You said it. But why work as a nurse if you don’t want to be a nurse? You could have got paid work in the zoo, for example. My cousin’s your age, and she and her friends work there on Saturdays. They seem to have a lot of fun. Surely that’d be better than sluicing? Anything would.’

  Patricia shrugged. ‘I suppose it might be, but I find it quite interesting here as I already know a bit about nursing – I used to help with my brother who’s been ill all his life. And my parents give me some money each week, so it works out fine.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure we’re all very glad that you came to us. I’m sorry about your brother, though. How old is he?’

  ‘Seventeen. He lives in a Home now.’

  ‘The poor thing.’ Sheila got up and carried her cup and plate to the steel trolley in the corner. ‘It must be very hard on your parents.’

  Patricia picked up her cup and saucer and followed Sheila. ‘He hasn’t lived at home for about four years now. We visit him, though,’ she added quickly, putting her crockery on the pile on top of Sheila’s.

  The door opened and a nurse put her head round the door. ‘Oh, good, I’ve found you, Patricia,’ she said, and came right into the room. ‘I’ve been looking all over the place for you.’

  ‘I was on my tea break. Have I done anything wrong?’ she asked anxiously, a nervous flush spreading across her cheeks.

  ‘No, not a thing. At least, if you have, I don’t know about it,’ the nurse said with a laugh. ‘No, it’s just that there’s been a phone call from your mother. She’d like you to go straight home when you leave here.’

  ‘I wonder what she wants.’ She looked questioningly at the nurse.

  ‘I can’t help you, I’m afraid. I suggest that you go home now and find out for yourself.’

  ‘But I’m meant to join Angela in the sluice room.’

  ‘That can wait. I’m sure Angela can do whatever needs to be done by herself. You get off now and see what your mother wants.’

  ‘If you’re sure?’

  ‘I am sure. I’ll let Angela know that you’ve had to leave early. Hopefully, there won’t be any problems at home and we’ll see you as usual next week. Now off you go,’ she said, opening the door wider so that Patricia could go through it.

  ‘Well, all right, then. Thank you.’

  Undoing the ties at the back of her gown as she went, she hurried down the stairs to the sterilising room. She threw the gown into the linen bin, unhooked her brown woollen coat from the stand in the corner of the room and went as quickly as she could along the tiled corridor to the exit that led from the old part of the hospital.

  The day was dying as she stepped out on to the pavement and made her way past the new red-brick hospital buildings. She crossed the street between two of the tall elm trees that flanked the road, went through an opening in the iron railings surrounding Paddington Green and immediately turned down the left-hand path that led towards Edgware Road.

  As she hurried between the rows of plane trees that lined the path, dead leaves, golden-brown and crisp beneath her feet, crackled with every step that she took. Above her, the branches of the spreading plane trees had cut off the remaining light of day, and she shivered as she walked and drew her coat more tightly around her.

  By the time she was half way across the green, the drone of thundering traffic filled the air and the conglomeration of buildings backing on to Edgware Road was clearly visible in front of her. Her steps slowed as she passed the marble statue of the actress, Sarah Siddons, and she stared beyond the statue to the distant tombstones that lined the north wall of the former burial ground.

  She stopped short. It would take her ages to get back to Belsize Park by bus in all the traffic; the tube would have been quicker.

  She hated the tube – she was always afraid that she wouldn’t be able to escape if anything went wrong and she used to worry that someone would fall on the line in front of her and be run over by a train. But the tube was quicker than the bus. Much quicker.

  She turned and ran back up the path and across the road, back between the elm trees, back past the hospital. She didn’t stop running until she’d reached the underground station.

  Her mother opened the front door to her as she put up her hand to knock on the door. Patricia saw at once that she’d been crying.

  Her hands flew to her mouth. ‘What’s wrong, Mummy? Has anything happened to Daddy?’

  ‘Your father’s all right, darling. No, it’s James.’ Her mother’s eyes filled again with tears. ‘The Home rang this morning. It was
very sudden. No one expected it. James was fine one moment – well, as fine as James can ever be – and the next he’d had a massive fit. A really massive fit. And he died, Patsy. He died.’ Her voice broke in pain-filled anguish, and she held out her arms to her daughter. Patricia burst into tears and ran to her mother. The door quietly clicked shut behind them.

  ‘My darling James. But he didn’t suffer at the end, and that’s the main thing,’ Enid wept, clasping Patricia to her. ‘He won’t have known what was happening. My poor, poor James. To die at seventeen. What life did he have?’

  Patricia sobbed into her mother’s shoulder. ‘I should have written to him more often. I wasn’t much of a sister to him.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you were, darling.’ Enid stroked the back of her daughter’s fair head. ‘You were a wonderful sister. Look how you used to help us with James, right from when you were a tiny little thing. You’ve always helped us look after him. No brother could have asked for a better sister.’ Her arms tightened around her daughter.

  Suddenly Patricia tensed and pulled back. She stared into her mother’s grief-ravaged face. ‘Where’s Daddy?’ she asked, her voice catching.

  ‘He’s in the front room, darling. I’d leave him for a bit. This has hit him very hard – it’s hit us all very hard. I think Daddy’s best left alone for a while. He’ll come out when he’s ready to talk to us. No, let’s you and me go into the kitchen and have a cup of tea. That’s what we’ll do. It’s time for tea, anyway.’ She took a white cotton handkerchief from her apron pocket. Clutching it tightly, she led the way along the corridor.

  Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, Patricia followed her mother into the kitchen. She went straight over to the kettle and lifted it up, but Enid took it from her.

  ‘I’ll fill it up – just like I always do,’ she told her. She tucked the handkerchief back into her pocket and gave her daughter a watery smile. ‘Be a love and get the cake you made at school yesterday out of the pantry and put it on the table, and then perhaps you’d set the table.’

  Her hands shaking, Enid filled the kettle with water and carried it over to the cooker. ‘We’ll have tea in here today,’ she said, putting the kettle on to the stove and lighting the gas ring. ‘We won’t bother taking it into the back room. And we’ll be really lazy and leave the plastic cloth on the table. That’s what we’ll do.’ She stood in the centre of the kitchen and looked helplessly around her. ‘Yes, that’s what we’ll do,’ she repeated.

  Patricia took the cake stand from the dresser, put it in the centre of the table, placed the cake on the stand and put the cake slice next to it. Then she went over to the dresser and opened the cutlery drawer. ‘Shall I set a place for Daddy?’

  ‘And why wouldn’t you, may I ask? Am I not still a member of this family?’

  Startled, she jumped at the sound of her father’s voice behind her. She looked anxiously round at him.

  ‘Of course you are, George,’ Enid said. Twisting the corner of her apron, she stared across the room at her husband, who was standing in the doorway. ‘You know you are.’

  ‘I’m gratified to hear it,’ he remarked, and walked stiffly into the room.

  ‘I just wondered, Daddy. I thought you might be having your tea in the front room as you were still in there,’ Patricia said. ‘Because of James,’ she added, her voice trailing off.

  ‘Well, as you can see, I’m in here now. It’s my intention to join you for tea, as I always do. Our custom is to have our tea together as a family and I see no reason to depart from that. We will do today what we have done every other day.’ He sat down at the table.

  Patricia hurried over to him, put a plate, cake fork and napkin in front of him, then she set the places for her mother and herself, put three cups on the table and sat down opposite her father.

  ‘Would you like us to have tea in the back room, George?’ Enid asked, hovering by the table. ‘I can easily put everything on the trolley and take it in there, if you’d prefer it.’

  ‘Not at all, Enid. We will do as you have suggested and take our afternoon tea in here today.’ He unfolded his white napkin. ‘It is perhaps appropriate that we allow ourselves some small departure from our habitual routine today, just this once. Just for today.’

  There was a shrill whistle and a cloud of steam shot from the spout of the kettle. Enid rushed to the stove, took the kettle off the gas ring and poured the boiling water on to the leaves in the teapot, then she slipped a floral tea cosy over the pot and carried it over to the table.

  ‘Patricia made the cake at school,’ she said brightly, putting the teapot next to the cups. She sat down and picked up the cake slice.

  Patricia glanced across the table at her mother and saw that her face was white and her lips were quivering.

  ‘It’s a Victoria sponge sandwich, Daddy,’ she said quickly. ‘Some of the class put a sort of butter cream in the middle, but I put jam inside. Strawberry jam. I hope you like it.’

  The Major sat still, staring down at his plate.

  Enid cut three slices of the cake and put a slice on each of their plates. ‘Would you pour the tea, Patricia, please? It should be ready by now.’ Patricia leaned across and filled the cups in turn. Enid put a cup in front of each of them, then she picked up her fork, cut into her cake and took a bite. ‘This is lovely, darling,’ she said, with a little nod at Patricia.

  ‘I hope it isn’t too heavy.’ Patricia picked up her cake with her fingers and bit into it.

  ‘It isn’t, Patsy. It’s as light as a feather. Isn’t it, George?’

  There was no answer.

  Patricia looked at her father. He sat motionless, his head slightly bowed, his face greyish-white in colour. His eyes were fixed on his plate, his cake untouched.

  ‘Have a piece of Patricia’s cake, George. It’s very nice.’ Enid’s voice shook.

  He didn’t move. Silent tears started to roll unchecked down the furrows of his cheeks, and splashed on to his plate.

  ‘Daddy.’ Tears sprang to her eyes. She let her cake fall from her fingers. ‘I’m so sorry, Daddy.’

  ‘Later, Patricia,’ he said. He pushed the plate away from him and stood up abruptly. ‘I’ll eat your cake later. And tomorrow …’ His voice broke. ‘Tomorrow we shall all go to see my son.’ He turned and walked out of the kitchen, his back ramrod straight.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mummy,’ Patricia whispered through her tears.

  Enid jumped up and ran to Patricia’s side. ‘I know, Patsy darling,’ she said softly, and she bent down and hugged her very hard. ‘I know. And I’m sorry, too.’

  Patricia switched on her bedroom light. Standing in the doorway, she looked around her.

  Everything seemed the same as when she’d left her room that morning, but it also seemed different. Although James had never really been a presence in her life since he’d gone into the Home, a part of him had always been here in the house with them. It had inhabited every corner, shared the air that they breathed. But no more. For the first time ever, her room felt truly empty.

  She heard her mother moving around in the kitchen downstairs, clearing up the remains of their silent evening meal, then she heard a door close. Her mother must have returned to the back room, expecting to find her there, not knowing that she’d come up to her bedroom. She’d been drained after a tiring day which had come to such an emotional end, and had felt the need to be alone, to lie quietly on her bed, read her book for a bit, and then close her eyes and put the day behind her.

  She glanced across the room to her bedside clock and saw that it was still fairly early. She sighed heavily – exhausted though she was, she’d never get to sleep if she went to bed now.

  She bit her thumb nail. Perhaps she should go back downstairs and sit with her mother for a little longer. She didn’t really want to – she wanted to be by herself – but it would be a kindness to do so. Her mother would be alone, without anyone to share her sadness. Her father would never think of joining her. He’d stay where he�
�d gone after he’d left the kitchen – in the front room among his books.

  She decided to do what she knew was the right thing, and she went back out of her room, pulled the door closed behind her and crossed the narrow landing to the staircase. Standing on the top stair, she glanced over the banister to the hallway. The kitchen door was closed, but the door to the back room was open. She went down a couple of stairs, bent slightly and stared across the hall into the back room.

  The light outside was fading and the room was in semi-darkness, but she could see that her mother was sitting on one of the dark green chenille armchairs, staring across at the framed photograph of James that stood on the mantelpiece. As she watched, her mother suddenly jumped up, went over to the photo, picked it up and took it back with her to her chair.

  She sank to the stairs and stared through the banisters as her mother ran her fingers slowly over the glass shroud that covered James’s face, then raised the photograph to her lips and kissed it. Turning towards Patricia, she put the photograph on the table next to her and reached across to switch on the lamp. In the bright glare of the electric light, Patricia saw her mother smile at James.

  Every nerve in her body screamed at her that she should go back to her bedroom and give her mother some privacy, but she couldn’t move. Mesmerised, she watched her mother pick up her book, open it at the page where she’d put her leather bookmark and stare down at the lines of writing in front of her.

  Patricia started to stand up. At the same moment, her mother looked up from her book and turned her eyes towards the open door. Patricia sank back down again. Across the emptiness between them, she could see that her mother’s eyes were full of indecision. Then her mother took a deep breath, closed the book, put it on the table next to James’s photograph, and stood up. She smoothed down her tweed skirt, and walked out of the back room into the hallway.

  Hidden in the darkness that had gathered on the landing, Patricia pressed herself against the banisters and sat very still. But her mother passed the foot of the stairs without glancing up. She went along the corridor to the front room, and out of Patricia’s line of vision. Patricia heard her knock on the front room door. She sensed her mother waiting for her father to call her into the room, but there was silence. Then she heard her mother knock on the door again, slightly more loudly this time.