The Courtyard

by Marcia Willett

  ‘Where now?’ Gemma had reached a junction and Guy sat up.

  ‘Straight over,’ he said. ‘Not far now.’ He turned to look at Sophie, silent in the back. ‘Hungry?’

  ‘Starving.’ She hoped her look was intimate and, when he gave her a little wink, her heart raced and leaped and she knew without any doubt at all that she was in love and that she wouldn’t be able to eat a thing!

  Twenty

  WHEN JOHN ARRIVED BACK from the office on Friday evening, he looked so tired that Nell knew that their discussion must be postponed at least until the next day. The week she had allowed him was up and they simply couldn’t afford to waste any more time. Certain decisions must be taken and there was an end to it. Nell noticed that John carried several plastic bags as well as a bulging briefcase, all of which he took straight into his little study, and she guessed that he was dismantling the office and that one decision at least had already been taken. Her heart went out to him and she held her peace. She dreaded the thought of another scene. The baby was due any day now and her back ached and she felt tired to death. It annoyed her that things had been put off for so long that, should the baby be born over the weekend, all she had to put it in was a secondhand carrycot with one strap missing. She was deeply relieved that Jack had agreed to go on the school skiing trip rather than be at home for the baby’s birth. She told him that the baby might not come for another two weeks and so he’d probably be back anyway. As it was she had three weeks’ grace to sort things out with John and at Bournemouth before Jack came home for the holidays.

  She got wearily to her feet and went to knock at the study door. She could hear scuffling noises, paper being sorted, drawers opening and shutting. When she knocked there was a dead silence.

  ‘John?’ she called. ‘D’you want some supper?’

  After a few moments the door opened and he looked down at her. He was flushed and she looked at him anxiously.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ he said and made to shut the door.

  ‘John,’ she said, holding on to the handle, ‘are you OK?’

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Thank you,’ he added after a pause.

  He stood for a moment as though listening to the echo of his own voice and then, smiling politely at her, he gently but firmly closed the door. Nell stood outside for a while but now there was a complete silence and presently she went back to sit down and ease her aching back. Her suspicions were confirmed on Saturday morning when John didn’t go to the office as usual. He’d slept restlessly, muttering in his sleep, while she lay wide awake beside him. When he woke she held her breath. He lay quite still beside her, barely breathing, and presently began to move stealthily out of bed.

  ‘Are you all right, darling?’ she asked, trying to make her voice light and normal. ‘Can’t you sleep?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ she heard him mutter and the suppressed fury in his voice made her heart race. ‘Go back to sleep.’

  She struggled up on to one elbow, longing for the comfort of normal speech, normal affection.

  ‘Don’t be upset,’ she begged. ‘Please. I’m only worried because you look so tired.’

  ‘Christ!’ he shouted. ‘Can’t you see? It’s bad enough not being able to sleep. Now I’ve got to feel guilty for waking you up as well. Just go back to sleep!’

  Nell lay trying not to cry, attempting to relieve the weight and bulk of her body and longing for a cup of tea. She was afraid to get up and go and make herself one and after a while she began to feel resentful. Why should she be stuck here like a prisoner, uncomfortable and thirsty, simply to ease his guilt? John didn’t return to bed and when Nell got up late, having fallen into a heavy sleep after a series of fitful dozes, he was already dressed. He made her coffee, wearing a closed unapproachable face, and countered her conversational attempts lightly but with a finality that eventually silenced her. Then he shut himself in the study again and Nell sat at the kitchen table picking at some toast, trying to concentrate on a letter from Gussie, and feeling more and more desperate. At last, when she could bear it no longer, she stood up and hurrying into the corridor banged on the door.

  ‘John!’ she called, praying that her courage wouldn’t fail. ‘Please, John. I want to talk to you.’

  This time the door opened at once and the sight of his face made her gasp with terror. She could smell the whisky on his breath.

  ‘What d’you want?’ He stared at her as if she were a stranger and an unwelcome one at that.

  ‘Oh, John.’ Her fingers twined in an unconscious pleading. ‘Please don’t be like this. Please come and talk to me.’

  With an expression that prayed for patience he came out, closing the door behind him, and followed her into the sitting room.

  ‘Well?’ He sounded as if he were humouring an unreasonable request for something that was beyond his comprehension and she wanted to scream and beat at him. Anything to bring him back from behind this unbreachable façade.

  ‘You said that we could talk at the end of the week.’ She made an attempt at calm. ‘I think the time’s come, John. Don’t you?’

  ‘If you say so.’ He continued to look at her with something like contempt but behind it Nell suddenly became aware of a breath of barely controlled fear that sharpened his voice and flickered in his eyes. She took strength from it.

  ‘I do say so. I want to know what’s going to happen to us. Whether you’ve decided to close the business and if we’re going to live in Bournemouth. The baby’s due any time now and I need to know.’

  ‘Then you shall know.’ He pushed his face into hers so suddenly that she shrank back. A muscle twitched under his eye and his mouth twisted and the words were bitten off between his closed teeth. ‘I’m going to become a bankrupt. That’s what’s going to happen to me. The business is closed down and the bailiffs are there now removing the furniture to be sold. And no,’ he was shouting now, ‘we’re not going to live in Bournemouth. There isn’t a house any more. I raised money against it and lost it. All sixty thousand pounds of it. How’s that? Does that answer all that you need to know?’

  A great dizziness assailed Nell and the room seemed to swing round her. She stretched out a hand and John took it, guided her to the sofa and pushed her down on it. He stepped back and stood watching her, his arms folded across his breast. She pressed her hands against her eyes and then looked at him.

  ‘But why are you angry with me?’ she cried. ‘It’s not my fault. None of it’s my fault. If you’d listened to me …’ She stopped but it was too late.

  ‘Oh, no. No.’ He put a hand on each chair arm and the fear and the guilt and the pain burst up in a great flame of rage that seemed to scorch her as she cowered back in the chair. ‘Of course it’s not your fault. It’s never been your fault, has it? You’re always so smug! Giving advice, telling me what to do and watching while I get it wrong! Wrong! Wrong!’ he screamed at her, his face inches from her own, and letting go of the chair he took her by the shoulders and shook her. ‘You’re so bloody clever, aren’t you? You never get anything wrong, do you? And do you know why? Because you never bloody do anything at all. See?’ He threw her back into the chair. ‘Well, at least I tried. And I got it wrong. Really wrong. So really bloody wrong nothing can ever be right again!’ His breath came in great gasping gulps and as he stared down at her sobbing against the cushions, her eyes wide with terror and her arms crossed protectively across her belly, the rage fled from his face and a look of infinite disgust and self-loathing took its place. ‘Oh Christ,’ he whispered. He stretched out his hands to her but instinctively she jerked back from him, flattening herself against the back of the chair. He looked wildly at her for a moment then, turning away, he strode from the room and up the passage. The study door slammed.

  Nell burst into tears, clutching her belly as pain thrummed through it. She threw back her head to cry out but froze into immobility as she heard a shot ring out. There was silence. Nell sat on, holding her breath, listening, then she leaped to her f
eet and hurried into the corridor.

  ‘John!’ she shouted. ‘John!’

  She flung open the door and stopped short, clutching the handle for support. John lay in his chair. The back of his head gaped in an appalling mess of bone and brain from which frothy blood bubbled in an effervescent flood. Nell gasped, shivered and began to retch. She stumbled out into the hall and caught her breath. The pains in her belly were coming more regularly now and she dragged herself into the sitting room and fell on her knees beside the telephone. She dialled 999 and cried out in pain as a voice answered.

  ‘I need an ambulance!’ she cried, tears beginning to pour down her cheeks. ‘Oh, please come quickly. It’s my husband. He’s shot himself.’ She gave another cry of pain, drowning the calm voice asking for her name, address and telephone number. Gulping and shivering, she took a grip on her panic and forced herself to give the information as clearly as she could. ‘Come quickly!’ she begged and, as she replaced the receiver, felt nausea rising again. It occurred to her, between the pains, that John might not be dead. Supposing he was only injured? With a moan of terror she struggled up but as she reached the door her waters broke, gushing down her legs, and the pain came again, slicing down with a violence that cut her off from consciousness.

  SHE SEEMED TO BE swimming up from the bottom of a great pool where she had been struggling and fighting with some black, pain-filled weight. Pushing, gasping, she burst into light and air. She lay listening to the noises that ebbed and flowed; a bell ringing, hammering, voices shouting. There was silence and then a splintering of wood and the sound of hurrying footsteps. Pain clawed her back into the pool and she cried out. As if in a dream she glimpsed shapes, a figure bending over her, its mouth opening and shutting; she saw feet running past and heard voices.

  ‘Oh God! Yes, that’s Mrs Woodward. Mrs Woodward? Can you hear me, dear? Oh God.’ … ‘Out the way, madam, please. Come on, love. You’re going to be all right. Come on …’ … ‘He’s dead. We’ll have to call the Coroner’s officer. Where’s the phone?’ … ‘Christ! Is she going to make it?’ … ‘Dunno. We’ve got to get her into Southmead. Dave’s getting the stretcher. Come on, love …’

  Nell gave a cry and grappled again with the monster, trying to rid her body of its tearing weight. She was lifted, carried, aware of bright sunlight. Now there was movement. Someone was bending over her again and she heard the high insistent whine of a siren. The movement ceased and she saw white coats, anxious faces, lowered voices; felt hands laid upon her, stripping, washing, probing, before the pain wrestled with her again and she gave herself up to it.

  SHE OPENED HER EYES drowsily upon a darkened room. Her body was light and free, empty and weightless. Slowly she became aware of her hand being held and, turning her head slowly on the pillow, she saw Gussie. She tried to raise her head but the effort was too great.

  ‘Gussie?’ It was barely more than a breath but the grip on her hand tightened.

  ‘Yes. I’m here.’

  Nell’s brow wrinkled in puzzlement but she was too tired to pursue it. Something was terribly wrong but she simply couldn’t remember …

  WHEN SHE WOKE AGAIN Gussie was still sitting there but now the room was full of sunlight and Nell remembered everything with a dreadful clarity.

  ‘Gussie! My baby, Gussie! And John. Oh God! He … Oh, Gussie …’

  ‘John’s dead, my dear. He shot himself. You must be very brave.’

  ‘Oh God!’ Nell saw again the slimy, shiny wound, the drops of blood. She struggled to sit and Gussie stood up, still holding her hand. ‘The baby started to come. Is it all right, Gussie? Where is it?’

  ‘The baby died, Nell. They tried to save him but it was too late.’

  Nell stared up at her. She shook her head.

  ‘No, Gussie …’

  ‘Oh, my dear. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘No!’

  The cry echoed in the small room and Gussie put her arms round her. Nell struggled and suddenly went limp. She stared into Gussie’s face only inches from her own and shook her head again.

  ‘No, Gussie,’ she pleaded.

  The tears rose in Gussie’s eyes and rolled down her cheeks and Nell watched and her face screwed up in pain.

  ‘My baby!’ she screamed. ‘I want my baby.’

  She fought and cried and the door opened and once again there were people and voices and then the blessed, blessed darkness.

  IT SEEMED AS IF the process of the law, once it got under way, would never cease. When she was stronger, Nell agreed to give a statement to the police. They were satisfied by this time that they were dealing with suicide and Henry, who had driven to Bristol with Gussie immediately after the telephone call from Nell’s neighbour, stayed in the flat and did what he could to make the process swifter. He was horrified at the state of John’s affairs; each day disclosed something new and Nell’s future looked bleak indeed.

  ‘She’ll have her portion of John’s pension and that’s it,’ he reported to Gussie one evening. ‘He owed everybody. He even cashed in his insurance policies. Even if the house in Bournemouth sold tomorrow at a good price, there would be little if anything left. The car will have to go and anything that will bring in a few pennies.’

  ‘Thank God that she’d moved all her precious things to Nethercombe.’ Gussie looked quickly at Henry who was a JP. ‘You won’t tell them about those, will you?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Henry indignantly. ‘A few sticks of furniture! How is she today?’

  ‘Getting stronger but …’ Gussie sighed and shook her head. ‘What a dreadful, dreadful blow. To lose your husband and baby and then discover that you’re about to be evicted and you have no money.’

  This had, by now, occurred to Nell. Slowly the loose ends were being tied up and soon she must face the future.

  ‘But have I got a future, Gussie?’ she asked one evening at the flat, where Henry had bought her time and a breathing space.

  Jack had come home and Nell had told him the truth. He’d stood white-faced and very straight beside her at the funeral of John and the baby boy whom they had planned, during those happy, peaceful days together, to call Henry Augustus. Nell wept for her baby and tried to think of John with some other emotion than anger and Jack put his arm round her and tried to comfort her.

  ‘Of course you have a future.’ Gussie’s brand of realistic, unemotional sympathy gave her courage but Nell sighed.

  ‘Oh, Gussie. I want to believe it but I don’t know what to do or where to go. What shall we live on? Where shall we live? I can’t believe that we have no home.’ Her voice shook and she swallowed back the tears that these days were always near the surface. She still felt so weak. ‘I’m so frightened.’

  ‘My dear Nell.’ Gussie raised her eyes from Jack’s jersey which she was mending. ‘What can you mean? I thought you realised that as soon as you’re strong enough and everything’s wound up you and Jack will come to us.’ She looked at Nell’s puzzled face and clicked her tongue impatiently. ‘Well really, Nell! What are you thinking of? Where on earth would your home be other than with us at Nethercombe? ’

  Twenty-one

  WHEN SEVERAL WEEKS PASSED and there was no letter from Henry, Gillian began to feel anxious. The days dragged by. Sam had an office in Avignon to which he went most days although he continued to promise her that very soon he would be in a position to delegate most of his responsibilities to someone whom he had taken on and was in the process of training up. When she asked him how things were going at the site in Dartmouth he stared at her blankly for a moment.

  ‘Oh, yes. Sorry. Got a lot on my mind at the moment. Oh, it’s going fine. No problems. By the way, I’ve arranged a meeting with an English couple who want to look at a property we’ve got on the books. I’d like you to come along.’

  ‘Oh?’ Gillian looked at him in surprise. He’d once told her that she was going to be very useful to him but, apart from finding John, there had been no further suggestion th
at she should interest herself in his affairs. ‘Why specially?’

  ‘Oh.’ Sam pursed his lips and shrugged. ‘I’d just like you to be there. Lend tone and all that. As my wife, of course.’

  Fear jumped into her heart.

  ‘But who are they? Suppose they know me … ?’

  ‘Oh, come on, darling! They come from the north. He’s got a little factory or something and he’s made a reasonably respectable packet and he wants to spend it but, having a good, hard, north-country head, he also wants to see it working for him.’ He grinned at her. ‘And I want to help him. What’s the old saying: “A fool and his money are soon parted”? Anyway,’ he gave her a tiny wink, ‘you’ll lend a touch of class to the proceedings.’

  ‘OK. But you’ll have to tell me what it’s all about.’

  ‘Naturally.’ Sam looked more closely at her. She seemed to have lost some of her sparkle. ‘What about, something new for the occasion? I want you to look good. Prosperous. Mind you, they’ll be so relieved that you speak English that it won’t matter too much what you wear. Still, it’s time you had a jolly.’

  Even the prospects of a jolly couldn’t quite lift Gillian’s spirits but Sam, on the edge of a rather tricky deal, was too preoccupied to notice. When almost another week had passed and there was still no letter, Gillian swallowed her pride and wrote to Henry. She suddenly felt frightened that her short, guarded, irregular replies may have been so discouraging that he’d given up and a sudden flicker of anxiety which she didn’t pause to analyse hurried her across to her little desk. She wrote a more friendly letter than usual, wondering how they all were and if they’d enjoyed Easter.