by Susan Sallis
The next morning, which was Thursday, I woke at eight thirty. Too late to run. I drove out to my all-night garage, filled the car with petrol, and bought chocolates, fruit, magazines and flowers. Then I got on the M5 and drove to Cheltenham.
It took ages to find the hospital; I was not used to busy towns and one-way systems and street signs offering schools, colleges, pump rooms and . . . at last . . . hospitals. Cheltenham Spa had sounded genteel, a backwater for retired army officers and teachers. It probably offered those things, but it was also a bustling town full of shops and churches and enormous municipal-looking buildings and a statue of Neptune with water coming from him somewhere. The beautiful Regency Promenade flashed by just outside the driving limits, and there was a car park. I drove into it thankfully and asked the attendant for directions.
He considered my question then asked his own. ‘Can you walk?’
I thought of my morning jogs and nodded. He said, ‘Then you’d do better to leave the car and do it on foot. It could be as much as a mile, but if you drive you’ll have a job to park.’ I was fed up with driving round and round the edge of the town, so I nodded again and he proceeded to give me directions.
‘You never been to Cheltenham before?’
‘Yes. But my husband always drove, and I sort of concentrated on the view. I haven’t seen anything I recognize except just a bit of the Promenade.’
‘That’s cos the planners are all mad,’ he said calmly. He pulled pen and paper from his pocket and wrote down the directions and a few useful landmarks, told me to reverse them when I came back to the car, have a nice cup of tea in Bath Road, a nice walk down the Prom, and a nice sit-down in Imperial Gardens. ‘Get the feel of the place. Better on foot.’ Which was rich coming from a car-park attendant. Or perhaps not. He pulled a face when he saw me take flowers and two polythene bags from the back of the car. I told him they weren’t heavy. He said, ‘You’ll need to sit down on the way back.’
It was all good advice. The still, grey day was ideal for a walk. Cheltenham really was a garden town, and leaves were everywhere underfoot as I walked past the town hall and obediently turned right into Bath Road. I had always loved dry winter days, and though as a child I had lived in a run-down part of Bristol, there were lovely areas close by. I had shuffled through leaves along Cumberland Road to cross the footbridge for school in Bedminster. The smell of early winter was the same there as it was here. I felt myself enjoying it.
Bath Road was an area of small shops; there was a big restaurant – one of a chain – on the other side of the road as I turned to walk up a hill, but then single-fronted shops in between the original Regency houses with their canopied porches and wrought-iron verandahs. Second-hand bookshops, probably ideal for students, a window full of model trains, the top pane plastered with hand-written advertisements, for sale, wanted . . . and then a tiny café, steamed-up windows, a delightful smell of sausage rolls. Then a line of houses, all brassplated. Solicitors, agencies of all kinds, a dentist at the end.
I crossed the road at the lights and turned left. I could see the Gentlemen’s College and its sweep of lawns over on my right. I remembered going there for a cricket match. Someone had had tickets. David. Not Someone, David.
It seemed to be getting dark and I glanced at my watch. One forty-five. Surely visiting would be at two? Mrs Hardy would be prompt; I knew she would be prompt. It began to drizzle, which explained the poor light. I tried to protect the flowers; for some reason everything was getting heavier. Then the bulk of the original hospital appeared on the left, and I wended my way through the packed car park, and eventually found the maternity unit.
It was bright and modern, a very young offspring of the sooty, established Victorian building not so far from it. The reception area was unnaturally quiet; double doors were labelled ‘The Wards’ and next to them a large clock showed the few people waiting that visiting time was not quite yet. I looked around frantically for Mrs Hardy but she was not there. I needed Mrs Hardy. I sat down on the edge of a chair and waited. My hair dripped on to the collar of my fleece. Bags and flowers dripped on to the floor. Someone asked me brightly whether it was raining, and I nodded. I noticed suddenly that everyone seemed to be smiling: the nurses who constantly crossed and recrossed the floor looked from one to another with smiles all over their faces, and the waiting visitors responded and then kept on smiling. The visitors were nearly all women of Mrs Hardy’s age. Of course. They were mothers and now grandmothers. It was a weekday afternoon when fathers and grandfathers would be at work. It was visiting time for all these new grannies. I found myself smiling, too.
I stopped when the doors were opened, and everyone got up and went through them. Where was Mrs Hardy? She was my key to seeing the other Mrs Hardy – Della. I did not know where Della could be. Perhaps she wasn’t here at all, perhaps she was at this moment having her Caesarean. I bit my lip. That would be why my Mrs Hardy was not waiting to visit her.
I began to gather up bags and flowers; I would leave them at the tiny desk in the corner of the room and go home. I had no right to be here, anyway. My motive had been selfish as usual: I had wanted to see Mrs Hardy.
I was half-way to the desk and another smiling nurse, when the outside door opened violently and a young man entered at full speed. I stepped aside and he shot up to the desk. I knew before he opened his mouth that this was Tom Hardy. He was sturdy like his father, capable-looking like his mother. He wore jeans and a checked shirt. No top coat but he wasn’t wet. He must have left his donkey jacket in his van after the last job. Hedge-cutting, tree-lopping?
He said, ‘My wife – is she still OK? And the twins?’
His smile was brief, but the nurse reflected and amplified it.
She said, ‘Yes, doctor. Everything is fine. Mrs Hardy’s mother did not stay long.’
He interpolated something that sounded like ‘good job’.
‘Mrs Hardy is very comfortable and the babies are in the nursery if you want to go through.’
He waited for no more; he obviously knew his way around. He was through the doors before she had finished speaking. She looked at me and her smile went from ear to ear.
‘There’s something about twins, isn’t there? Especially when it’s a complete surprise – she absolutely refused to have a scan. And a doctor’s wife, too!’
She laughed, and so did I, though I felt easy tears behind my eyes. I swallowed and laid my bundles on the desk next to the telephone.
‘Actually, these are for Mrs Hardy. I didn’t know that all this had happened. I didn’t know . . . anything. I’m so pleased everything is all right.’
‘Oh, do take them through. She will be so pleased to see you.’
‘She doesn’t know me. I’m a friend of her mother-in-law. I won’t interrupt anything now. But I am so glad to hear the news.’
I turned and left quickly. It was no longer raining and I felt light without the flowers and the bags. Physically light; light-hearted, too. I wanted to find a seat and sit down and think about everything that had just crashed in on me. The successful operation through the night . . . dear Mrs Hardy being right there for her daughter-in-law. And Della’s mother – somehow for all the complicated reasons there must be – not there. And then, twins! Surely Della’s mother was pleased about the twins? I wished I had asked their sex. I pondered on the alternatives, girls, boys, one of each. And then names – certainly not Laurel! I found myself smiling. How wonderful this was! Mr and Mrs Hardy had twin grandchildren. Lucky, lucky twins.
All this hypothetical thinking was exhausting, and anyway I had now reached the town hall, and on my left the grey November light revealed the gentle beauty of Imperial Gardens. I walked down one of the paths, and sat on the first seat I came to, and went through the whole thing again. The fact – the series of events – that had somehow made me part of this wonderful whole, almost overwhelmed me. I had been so closed in, so tightly bound-up in not remembering, not thinking, and now suddenly I could think, I
could open up to all this. It was wonderful. And Tom, Mr and Mrs Hardy’s son, was a doctor! It was just marvellous.
I was cold. I stood up and walked the length of the gardens, past the cannon guarding the Queen’s hotel, and into the lounge. It was warm, spacious, calm and quiet. The waiter who came to me was charmingly French, and when he brought me tea in a silver teapot we talked about the weather. It wasn’t a bit trivial, it was full of meaning and depth. I was happy yet I wanted to cry. I wondered whether I was going mad. Or whether I had been mad and I was walking back into sanity.
Eventually I left and retraced my steps to the top of the Promenade and then walked down there looking at the shops then up at the trees, then across to Neptune still dripping water. Then I went back to the car park, chatted to the attendant, and thanked him again. And drove home. It was dark when I took the last hairpin and reached the Tump. I walked through the house switching on lights. Then I found a wine glass and a bottle of red wine I hadn’t known I had. I poured a glass, opened the French window to the garden and looked across the town and over the sea to Wales. I lifted my glass. ‘To the Hardy family, young and old,’ I said aloud.
Down in the darkness of the garden, where the steps led to the fig tree and the echiums, I could have sworn someone said amen. But probably after my long day and the wine, I was slightly drunk and could have said it myself.
Five
IN THE TWO years of Tom’s marriage, Mrs Hardy had imagined that, although the relationship was obviously not ideal, Della had been the perfect housewife and had looked after him . . . perfectly. She was the same age as he was, and until she met him she had looked after her parents to the exclusion of everything else. In Mrs Hardy’s opinion she had been no more than a slave. It was to escape these parents that Della had seized on Tom and clung to him like a limpet.
It turned out that Della’s ‘training’ had slipped since Tom liberated her. Her cupboards were almost bare. When Mrs Hardy wanted to make cheese sauce there was no milk, no plain flour nor any other kind, certainly no cheese. After searching the cupboards in vain, she found a cardboard packet of salt in the fridge, along with a loaf of bread and a slab of butter. She did better with the chest freezer, which she eventually found in the garage. It was packed with ready meals. Mrs Hardy stared in dismay. It was as if Della had left a diary for her to read.
Exasperated at first, then almost tearful for her daughter-in-law, she set herself a daily regime: she cleaned and cooked during the morning, and visited Della in the afternoon. Tom was working as the local emergency doctor and his area covered half the Cotswolds as far as she could tell. He rang her now and then for news of Della: ‘I’m at Bourton-on-the-Water’, or ‘I’ve stopped at a pub for a sandwich somewhere between Cranham and Painswick.’ On Monday afternoon, she was the first to know that there were two hearts beating inside Della’s womb. She let the doctor tell Tom that night, when he visited.
While he was gone she telephoned Hardy and said, ‘I dun’t know what to think. She’ll never manage two babies.’
But Tom’s unemotional face was transformed when he got back to the flat that night. He looked like an eight-year-old again as he said to her wonderingly, ‘Two . . . two of them, Ma. Can you believe it?’
Mrs Hardy said flatly, ‘No.’ She felt mean; she should have rejoiced with him. But she was exhausted with the physical effort of housekeeping, and the emotional slog of supporting Della.
In the early hours of Thursday morning the phone rang. Tom drove them to the hospital and talked to the woman doctor while his mother held Della. The situation had gone suddenly wrong, and an emergency Caesarean was the only answer. It was a race between life and death. There was no choice. Tom talked to his wife and she nodded, not really understanding, but, as always, willing to be told exactly what to do. She clung to her mother-in-law while they waited for the pre-med injection to take effect.
The operation was a success. By ten o’clock it was safely over and Della was in bed very peacefully asleep. Mrs Hardy sat by her while Tom inspected his children and reported back. He wanted to take her down to the nursery, too, but suddenly she did not feel up to it.
Tom put an arm around her and helped her to her feet.
‘Dad’s here,’ he said gently. ‘He wants to take you home for a bit. Let’s go and find him.’
It was so good to see Hardy she almost wept, but Mrs Leach was also sitting in the waiting room, and her tirade and accusations put tears right out of the question. Hardy ignored her and swept his wife away. Tom followed them, and told them he would probably take a couple of calls while Della was asleep, and return that afternoon. Then he would telephone them at home.
She did not argue; she made no attempt to reply to the stream of accusations coming from the other woman. She hung on to Hardy with all her strength, and it was only when he tucked her into the van that she spoke.
‘We should stay with Tom,’ she said.
‘He can deal with Mrs Leach. And she is Della’s mum, they must get on.’ He manoeuvred the van out into Bath Road and headed for the motorway. ‘Just come home for an hour or two, love. You could do with getting away from it all for a bit.’
‘Oh Hardy . . .’
‘I was took to the nursery. They look bonny. Boy and a girl. Lovely.’
‘Oh Hardy! I never went to see them! I should’ve gone! Oh, Tom will never forgive me!’
‘Don’t be daft, my maid. Tom will have enough on his plate. And he’ll go out to wet the babies’ heads – double dose, I reckon.’
They were already approaching Gloucester. She subsided. ‘We’ll be back for visiting tonight,’ she said. ‘An’ everything will be all right now. Perhaps her mum will take to dropping in now and then.’
‘That’s right.’ He sounded like she sounded herself when she was talking to Della.
She smiled for the first time that day. ‘Sorry about . . . back there. I was that anxious for her. Sat on her bed and just willed her to stay alive. When that dear nurse said she’d come through all right and the babies were all right . . . Anyway, my love, I’m all right, too. An’ like I said, everything will be now. An’ if her mum does keep in touch, it could be more – sort of – normal. If you know what I mean.’
‘I know, my maid.’
Tom phoned later that afternoon, after they had eaten together and she had lavishly admired the way Hardy had kept the house so neat; especially the kitchen. She had sighed and said they had better get going back to Cheltenham and at that moment the phone had rung. Tom sounded exhausted but euphoric. ‘They’re perfect. All those fingers and toes . . .’ She was too ashamed to tell him she had not seen the babies. ‘Oh Ma, they told me how good you were with Della. Thank God you were here. Dad, too.’ He took a breath. ‘Just over four pounds each, scruffy dark hair and the way they squint at you and frown and . . . look like real people. Della’s mother says they remind her of a pair of marmosets!’ But he laughed. ‘Knowing her she could have likened them to something much worse!’ He cut through her protests. ‘Listen. That friend of yours was here. Left flowers and fruit and Lord knows what. Say thanks, will you?’
Mrs Hardy frowned, then made a sound. It was Mrs Venables, of course. Hardy must have phoned her. Even more surprising. She made more sounds.
Tom cut through them. ‘Ma. Listen again. There’s no need for you to come back just to look after me. If you could spare a couple of days when Della comes home it would be really good. But until then perhaps you should save yourself.’ He laughed. He sounded great. And he was a doctor, so he would know if everything was all right. Mrs Hardy smiled gratefully.
She slept well that night. When she woke, Hardy had left for work; it was getting light. She lay there and thought about her grandchildren. And then her son, who was clever but sometimes still a schoolboy. And then her daughter-in-law, who had ‘let herself go’. Mrs Hardy knew what she meant by that phrase, but she saw, too, that it could mean something far more literal. She shivered in her warm bed.
&nbs
p; Then she thought of Mrs Venables and how she had ‘let herself go’, yet had never really let herself go.
And then the phone rang. And everything changed again. Tom was on call, and would get to the hospital as soon as he could. Mrs Leach was unwell, but would also come as soon as she felt up to it. The Hardys arrived before either of them and went straight to Della’s room. She was propped on pillows, white and suddenly fragile. The life-giving drip stand was pushed aside by a nurse. ‘She’s been waiting for you . . .’ she said.
Della held up her free arm to her mother-in-law. Hardy stood at the foot of the bed and put one of his enormous hands on her feet.
‘Hang on, hang on, dear girl . . .’
‘Mum . . . I’m scared.’
Mrs Hardy looked at her husband in sudden agony, and he said, ‘We’re all scared, my maid. Just do as Mum says. Hang on.’
The nurse tapped the bottle, which was dripping blood through transparent tubes into Della. And Della hung on until at last Tom took his mother’s place. Then she seemed to sink into herself.
Mrs Hardy said much later to her husband, ‘When Tom arrived . . . she looked . . . different. Didn’t you think?’
He nodded sadly. ‘She settled herself on his shoulder like a bird on a nest.’
She nodded, not surprised by this. And then Hardy said even more sadly, ‘It’s like that Mrs Venables, isn’t it? She’s got her husband with her for the rest of her life. And our Tom’s got Della with him for the rest of his.’
Vivian’s story
It was the weekend. I did not run on Saturday. I was making visible progress in the garden, and I saved my energy for clearing up around the fig tree. There was no sign at all of anyone having been there, but I was drawn to it somehow. The tree itself could do with some kind of pruning but figs are strange things and only fruit properly every two years. A specialist’s job. Mr Hardy.