The Snow Angel

by Lulu Taylor

  For God’s sake, thought Emily, feeling frantic. Just tell me if he’s going to wake up or not!

  ‘Have there been any developments?’ Diana asked, interrupting. ‘When is Will going to regain consciousness?’

  Emily was briefly grateful for Diana’s obstinate persistence. At least she refused to be brushed off.

  Mr Theodoropulous looked up briefly then returned to his geometric doodling. ‘Our tests have established that Will’s brainstem is functioning. But we’ve had to keep him in a coma for over three weeks, and we have reason to think that even without the drugs keeping him under, he’s likely to remain in a comatose state. Generally, the longer the patient remains that way, the more dangerous it is for his long-term outlook. We would like to begin the process of withdrawing the coma-inducing drugs and see what happens.’

  ‘But he’ll wake up, won’t he?’ Diana demanded quickly. ‘Once you take your drugs away. I told you weeks ago you should do that. People wake up from comas all the time. Will’s only been unconscious a few weeks, and I’ve read about people waking up after months or even years.’

  The consultant blinked down at his drawing. ‘It’s possible. Waking after a very long period is not common, though. But we can’t tell. No two comas are the same. The drugs will start to leave his system and the first thing to assess is whether he can breathe unassisted and if he begins to establish a sleep/wake pattern. Then we’ll see what happens. That’s all we can do. There’s no way of knowing in advance whether he’ll wake up or not. The brain is a very complex thing. I’ve seen cases we’ve written off come back to function as well as ever. And I’ve seen some patients never recover.’

  ‘But . . .’ Diana’s knuckles whitened as she clutched the handle of her crocodile-skin bag even tighter. ‘Will has a good chance, hasn’t he?’

  Mr Theodoropulous looked reluctant to answer.

  ‘Hasn’t he?’ she persisted. ‘He’s young and healthy. He can get better, can’t he?’

  The consultant paused, drawing furiously and colouring in the little squares he was creating. ‘Mrs Conway, I can’t make any promises. We can only take one step at a time. You must prepare yourself for the eventuality that he won’t wake up. He’s also very vulnerable to infections that could potentially be fatal in his situation. If he does emerge from the coma, we may find that he moves into a state of unresponsiveness, where he is able to breathe unassisted and perhaps open his eyes or make noise, but he’s actually unconscious. Or to a state of minimal consciousness, where he wakes occasionally and can obey some simple commands and communicate a little, but no more than that. I must warn you that if he does regain full consciousness, he will in all likelihood not be the man you remember. The kind of injuries he’s sustained mean that it’s entirely possible he’ll be severely disabled – he may not be able to speak or walk. If he should regain consciousness, I foresee many years of rehabilitation. In the meantime, we can put you in touch with charities and support groups who can help you during this very difficult time.’

  A feeling almost like relief washed over Emily as she received this news. Wasn’t he saying that Will wasn’t going to wake up? She glanced over at her mother-in-law to see how she was taking this news. Diana looked as though she simply had not heard what the consultant had said.

  ‘So,’ she said, in an almost triumphant voice, ‘I was right. I knew he could recover. We’re all praying for it. I knew that anything is possible. If anyone can come back from this, it’s my son.’

  Tom was grilling fish fingers and heating up a tin of beans for the children’s supper as she came in.

  ‘How was it?’ he asked as she swung into the kitchen on her crutches. She could hear the television blaring in the playroom.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, and lowered herself into a chair. ‘It was the best we can expect.’

  Tom wiped his hands on a towel as he came over to sit with her. ‘What’s the prognosis?’ he asked quietly. ‘Is he going to recover?’

  She looked away. ‘They can’t say. He’s been kept in an artificial coma while his brain has a chance to recover from the trauma and the effects of the operation they did to release the pressure on his brain. They plan to remove the drugs and see what happens, see whether he can breathe on his own. But there’s also the risk that an infection could get him at any time.’

  ‘Oh God.’ Tom put his hand on her arm, his expression full of pained sympathy. ‘Em, I’m so sorry. He doesn’t deserve this. You don’t deserve it. The kids don’t deserve it. What a fucking nightmare. Let’s just hope a miracle happens and he manages to come back. Look, I’m here for as long as you need me, okay? You don’t have to worry about a thing.’

  She glanced over at the pile of letters on the windowsill, another couple of envelopes flung on the top by Tom. They must have arrived that day.

  She took a deep breath. There was no longer any way she could put it off. ‘Thanks, Tom. Would you mind giving the children their supper without me?’ She hoisted herself to her feet, fingers tightly clutched around the crutches. ‘I’ve got something I have to do.’

  Chapter Six

  Cressie could sense the atmosphere, cold and resentful, as she walked through the staffroom of Fleming Technical College. No one wanted to meet her eye or speak to her. Backs turned as she passed.

  One female teacher murmured sharply, ‘Lady Bountiful!’ as she went by.

  Cressie pretended she hadn’t heard and went to the tea table to fill her cup from the urn. She guessed what they all thought: that she was a privileged debutante, able to dip in and out of their world as she wished, protected by the wealth and status of her family.

  They’re right in a way, she thought. But isn’t it better to try to help, rather than ignore what needs doing and simply please myself? I don’t have to do this. But I want to do my bit.

  She knew that no one else would see it that way. They would dislike the fact that she was doing something for free that someone else should be paid for. What would happen to them if more people like her offered to work for nothing?

  But what if I can’t do it? What if I’ve made a mistake?

  Her first day had passed in a blur of faces and names she would never remember, while she tried to learn her way around the school and get used to the noise, smells, bad food and yet more noise. Her second was much the same. By the time she got to the end of the third day, she was exhausted and sure that whatever she was doing was absolutely futile. She couldn’t keep order in her classes; no one would listen to her. They seemed to know instinctively that she had no experience and no ability to hold the attention of the class or manage them.

  She was too embarrassed to tell anybody that she had a problem, and nobody had asked how she was getting on. The moment the class sat down, she could feel their attention wandering, and before long the chat would start, a murmur at first, which would soon grow as she pleaded ineffectually for quiet. Sometimes she tried to ignore the noise, talk to those who were listening, but eventually she’d feel that she had to do something, and would start to raise her voice against the babble. In some classes, where the leading personalities were particularly audacious, she would spot things being thrown, notes being passed, and knew that she was failing the test badly.

  As she found an empty chair in the staffroom, her teacup in one hand, and faced the silent hostility of the room, she wondered if she should simply give up.

  No. I can’t. I must be brave. I have to press on, show them I can make a success of this. I’ll teach someone if I die trying.

  ‘How is your little job?’ her father asked when she joined him at dinner at the end of her first week. ‘Ready to throw in the towel?’

  ‘It’s going very well, thank you, Papa.’ Her heart sank. She could tell by his cutting tone that he was in one of his bad, bullying moods. He’d never scrupled over taking out his irritations and frustrations on the family. Not so much on Harry and Gus – they had a different, grander kind of pressure from Papa, and had both slipped out and away
from him as soon as they could – but on her, and on Mama. He seemed to like sharpening the vicious edge of his tongue on them, releasing all the bile and pettiness he never showed the outside world.

  ‘Really?’ He raised his eyebrows at her. ‘Are you going to tell me about it?’

  I can’t tell him the truth. I don’t want him to tell me he was right all along and I’m hopeless. She began to describe the school, tentatively at first, but the look of scepticism in her father’s eyes encouraged her to start spinning a story of success. She was an effective teacher, controlling her classes with ease, inspiring the perfectly behaved children of the East End to previously undreamed-of heights.

  ‘Well, I must say I’m surprised,’ her father remarked acidly. ‘Perhaps this country isn’t going to the dogs quite as quickly as I’d imagined.’

  Cressie looked down at her plate. I will do it, she told herself firmly, feeling invigorated by her own storytelling. I’ll make it come true. I’ll be a splendid teacher yet.

  He listened, then sat back, put his cutlery down and fixed her with a beady stare. ‘I hope you understand that this little jaunt will only last for a year at the most. It’s all I’ll permit.’

  ‘But . . .’ Cressie’s heart began to pound and she felt the familiar panic seize her. As soon as they were in a position of confrontation, a sick powerlessness possessed her. No matter how much she longed to take him on and win, the fear was too much. She knew he was too ruthless an opponent, prepared to win at any price. I’ve got to try, she thought desperately. I can’t be afraid of him all my life. ‘You know I’m thinking about a career in teaching.’

  ‘No daughter of mine needs to slum it in a poor school. And anyway . . .’ He picked up his fork and stabbed a carrot. ‘Teachers are miserable spinsters, everyone knows that. Bluestockings or ugly. You’re neither, I’m glad to say.’

  The blood rushed to her face. ‘Papa, that’s ridiculous. It’s nonsense. I don’t want to just get married and be respectable. I want to achieve something with my life.’

  ‘Have some children,’ he returned. ‘There’s no higher calling for a woman than that.’

  She could hardly speak through her indignation but managed to splutter, ‘You know that’s not true! Think of all the great women, the scientists, the doctors, the writers . . . Things are changing! I want more . . . more than—’

  ‘They’re not changing here,’ her father retorted. ‘Not in this house. As long as you’re under my roof, Cressida, there will be no careers.’

  She stared at him, red-faced and agonised. That was just the problem. She was under his roof, and there was no way out that she could see.

  After dinner, she crept miserably up the stairs to her room. On the way, she saw the door to her mother’s room standing ajar. Lately it had seemed as if her mother was kept as a prisoner under guard; there was always some nurse at the door, pressing a finger to her lips, urging Cressie away. ‘She’s sleeping!’ or ‘She’s tired and must rest’. As far as she could see, there was no one at the door now, no uniformed figure drifting about the room keeping watch.

  She went and looked through the gap. Her mother was lying in bed, propped against the pillows, a book resting on the sheet which she kept open with one slender hand while her eyes moved slowly across the page. She looked the epitome of frailty, barely able to combat the weight of the paper.

  ‘Mama?’ Cressie whispered.

  Her mother looked up and her eyes brightened. ‘Darling! There you are. Come in.’

  ‘Where’s Ruth?’ Cressie advanced quickly and quietly.

  ‘She’s gone down to the kitchen for an early supper. I’m on my own.’ Her mother patted the covers. ‘Sit down and tell me all about what you’ve been doing. I feel as though I haven’t seen you for ages.’

  Cressie sat carefully on the white counterpane, and took hold of her mother’s hand. It was slender and bony, with a bluish-white tinge to it. ‘How are you, Mama?’

  Her mother smiled as gaily as she could. ‘I’m doing very well! There’s a new doctor coming – isn’t it exciting? Perhaps he’ll make me better and everything will be all right again.’

  Cressie smiled back, nodding, even though she had long since ceased to be excited by the advent of a new expert or to hope that her mother would ever recover. She was wasting away, anyone could see that. Perhaps if her father permitted her to be taken away to a hospital, they might discover what was wrong with her, but he wouldn’t allow it. He thought that home was the best place for a patient, even while she faded in front of his eyes.

  ‘How are you, my darling?’ Mama asked. She scanned her daughter’s face. ‘You look a little sad. Is something wrong?’

  Cressie looked back at her worn face and felt bound again by the conspiracy of silence that they were all part of. No one dared say that they were trampled down by her father’s huge and domineering personality. The boys had escaped through the doors that were open to them – university, careers, their own homes – and the fact that they were accorded the respect due to men. Cressie, it seemed, could only escape by marriage. Or running away. But I could never leave Mama when she needs me so much. After all, her mother was a life prisoner, with death her only way out. ‘No,’ she said, ‘nothing’s wrong.’

  Her mother gazed at her keenly. ‘How is Papa today?’

  Cressie said in a tight voice, ‘A little tired perhaps.’

  Her mother understood the code. ‘You mustn’t let him upset you,’ she said gently.

  ‘But he does upset me!’ blurted out Cressie. Her emotions were still churned up from the encounter at dinner and she couldn’t hold it in. ‘You know what he’s like, what he does . . . He doesn’t care anything for what I want in life. All he wants is to control me. I’m not allowed a thought or an action of my own!’ She was panting, her cheeks flushed, looking pleadingly at her mother for support.

  Mama’s face creased with concern. She was so loyal despite her hopeless situation and the misery she’d endured over the years. What was bad had been made ten times worse by the attitude of her husband, but still she found it hard to breathe a word against him. She gazed earnestly at Cressie and said, ‘It is not easy, I know. But you won’t change him, there’s no point in hoping for that. And he’ll need you in the future – when I’m not here.’

  A flash of fear went through her. Was her mother asking her to stay here, take her place and devote her whole life to caring for the old tyrant? The idea was too terrible. ‘I . . . what am I supposed to do?’ she asked, almost fearfully.

  ‘I know what you put up with, darling. You’re an angel to him, though he doesn’t see it. I know you squash your own spirit to keep him happy.’ Her mother leaned forward, her expression suddenly intense. ‘But I don’t want you to be defeated. He’ll try to stop you, but if you see an escape – one that’s worth anything – you must take it, no matter what. I’m too selfish to set you free right now, I still need you so much myself. But even if it means I lose you, you must walk through the door when it opens.’

  Cressie stared at her, astonished. She had never heard her mother talk in such a way before. She wanted to ask her to say more, but just then there was a knock on the door and Ellen put her head round to say there was a telephone call for Miss Cressie.

  ‘Come and see me soon,’ her mother said. ‘Come tomorrow afternoon and tell me everything. I long to hear about what you are doing.’

  ‘I will,’ Cressie promised, dropping a kiss on her thin cheek. Then she went downstairs.

  A tingle of excitement ran through her as she went down to the hall where the telephone sat, huge, black and stately on the table under the mirror. The receiver was placed carefully beside it on the shiny surface, looking almost menacing with its thick black cord curling away. Could it be him?

  She picked it up and said, ‘Hello?’

  ‘Cressida?’

  Her whole body vibrated at the sound of Ralph’s voice, and she shut her eyes, clutching at the side of the hall table. She’d p
ut him out of her mind, not wanting to think about the way he had affected her, and the unavoidable, unchangeable fact of his wife. It was wrong to feel the way she did about someone who was married. She’d almost decided not to telephone him, to let the whole thing float away and disappear. It was as though she could see trouble ahead and had made the decision to avoid it if she possibly could. But here he was. He wasn’t going to slip out of her life so easily after all.

  His voice came down the line again. ‘Hello? Are you there?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered.

  ‘You haven’t called. Are you coming back?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know.’ She had thought she might not see the studio again, but now she pictured it vividly – the way it was so different from the constraints of her own home. Ralph and Catherine were free, able to please themselves. They were not rich, but they had their liberty and evidently lived in the way they chose. She envied it suddenly with all her heart, and longed to be in the large light studio, looking out over the golden church, with Ralph.

  ‘Oh,’ he said in a low voice.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m so busy,’ she said wretchedly. She must sound so rude.