by S Block
‘It will upset you to see your father – the most intelligent, articulate man we’ve known – reduced to expressing himself in monosyllabic scrawl. But remember, it will allow him to communicate with us without exhausting him, and that’s what’s important. He will still be here.’
In hospital, Will loved Laura to read to him, and would peer serenely over his oxygen mask as she read his favourite works by the poet John Keats. Invariably, he seldom remained conscious for long. It made no difference to Laura; conscious or asleep, she was content to simply sit and watch her father breathe.
Within twenty-four hours of arriving at his new home it became clear that Will was going to be a less compliant patient than Erica had imagined. While he did sleep a great deal, when awake he demanded to be lifted into the wheelchair and pushed to wherever his family congregated, in either the kitchen or the dining room. When they sat and listened to the wireless, Will would sit with them. When they played cards at the dining table, Will would sit in the wheelchair and watch. He might quickly drop off to sleep, but that was beside the point. He wanted to spend as much time as possible with them, in their company, participating in life around the house – if only by being present. When the weather turned fine on his second day home, Will asked to be taken into the garden – not by writing ‘GARDEN’ on a pad as Erica had planned, but by expending the energy to say, ‘I would . . . very much . . . like to . . . be taken into . . . the garden . . . please.’
There was a price to pay for such effort. It exhausted him. The brief fits he had begun to experience in hospital, as if he were epileptic, became more violent, and lasted longer than before, leaving him unconscious for up to half an hour – a consequence he called ‘Sleeping . . . it . . . off’, as if he’d had one too many drinks over lunch. Nevertheless, he adamantly refused to be contained in bed around the clock.
‘I have no . . . desire . . . to be hori . . . zontal . . . any longer . . . than I . . . have to . . . be,’ he told Erica on his first night home, after she had expressed her concern about his refusal to follow her regimen.
‘Plenty . . . of time . . . for that . . . soon. Now . . . I want . . . to be with . . . you all. With. Not . . . next door.’
He promptly fell asleep again, but his point had been made. When he woke before supper, Erica explained herself.
‘If we can conserve your energy you will stay stronger, longer.’
Will slowly shook his head and drew in a long breath to fuel his next sentence.
‘Conserve . . . to what . . . end? Lying on . . . my back to . . . stare at . . . the . . . ceiling?’ He drew another long breath and looked at his wife.
‘No.’
He held out his hand for her to take, and she slipped her hand into his and held it, as she had done during every hospital visit.
‘Quality,’ he said. ‘Not . . . quantity.’
Erica knew he was referring to the time they had left together. During his stay in the hospital she had become expert at interpreting Will’s increasingly gnomic statements, which were a consequence of the sheer amount of energy it took for him to speak. She squeezed Will’s hand to reassure him she understood, and nodded in agreement, and was rewarded with a small squeeze of his hand in reply.
There was a knock on the door. Kate entered, and informed her mother that Pat Simms was at the front door asking if she could have a quick word.
‘What about?’
‘She didn’t say.’
‘Sit with your father.’
Erica transferred Will’s hand into Kate’s and left the room, puzzled.
Pat waited nervously on the Campbells’ doorstep, preparing herself for the task ahead. Erica had been a good friend to her in the past, but Pat had also been on the receiving end of her high-minded morality. Erica hadn’t approved of Pat’s extramarital relationship with Marek. She felt guilty about taking Erica away from Will, if only for a minute or two. But there was no one else to whom she could now turn.
The front door opened and Pat faced Erica.
‘Hello, Pat,’ Erica said, smiling a social smile that also managed to communicate that she hoped that whatever it was that had brought Pat to her door wouldn’t take long.
‘I’m so sorry to disturb you, Erica. I really don’t want to keep you. Kate told me Will is home. That must be . . . How is that?’
Pat’s first impulse had been to suggest it must be wonderful to have Will back from the hospital, but she caught herself in time.
It might not be wonderful for her at all. It might be hellish to have to sit and watch the man you love slip away a second at a time. Could I bear to watch such a thing with Marek?
‘It seems that the perfect patient in hospital has ideas to be significantly less perfect in his own home.’ Erica paused for a moment, smiling bravely. ‘Not that I’m complaining about having him back with us. It’s wonderful.’
Pat smiled supportively.
‘If there’s anything I can do to help. I still consider us neighbours despite us being elsewhere in the village.’
‘Thank you,’ Erica said, keen to go back inside to Will.
‘I’m sure you and the girls have everything covered here. But perhaps you might like me to let Will’s condition be more widely known, so the village can let you get on without constant enquiries about the state of Will’s health?’
‘That would be very kind, Pat. Thank you.’
‘Not at all.’
‘What was it you wanted to see me about?’
Pat looked at Erica and tried to gain control of her nerves.
‘I wouldn’t have come unless I had to, Erica. And I really had to.’
‘Whatever is it?’
Pat lowered her voice. ‘You are the only person in Great Paxford who knows of my affair with Marek.’
The name of the Czech captain was most certainly not what Erica was expecting to hear. She could not approve of adultery on principle, and knowing Bob as she did, she felt Pat’s relationship with Marek only placed her in greater jeopardy with her unpleasant husband. While Erica had actively tried to help Pat deal with Bob’s behavioural excesses, she had also actively tried to dissuade her from continuing to see Marek.
‘Marek? But . . . I thought Marek had gone. Shipped out on the day of Teresa’s wedding. You told me yourself.’
Pat nodded.
‘Yes.’
‘Which has to be for the best, surely.’
‘No, Erica. It is most definitely not for the best. More than anyone, you know how my life is with Bob.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Since moving in with Joyce, he has been even more vile, taking great sport in treating me one way in front of her, and another behind her back. And at the moment he’s limited in what he can do with Joyce as a witness, but eventually we’ll have to leave . . .’ Pat took a deep breath before continuing. ‘That was difficult enough to live with, but by chance I recently discovered Bob has been intercepting and destroying letters Marek has been sending me.’
‘What?’
Erica closed the front door behind her to prevent these details leaking into the house – a combination of wanting to protect Pat’s privacy and wanting to prevent what Pat had come to say contaminating her own home.
‘Are you sure?’
Pat nodded vigorously to underline her certainty, not wishing to leave Erica in the slightest doubt.
‘He’s admitted it. Whenever I think I have his measure he exceeds it. Joyce collects our post with hers every morning from the post office when she buys her newspaper. All letters – whether for Bob or me – are given to Bob. This is how his mind works, Erica. It never occurred to me he would do such a thing, or even think of it. But he operates on a level beyond the comprehension of most people. I’m sorry . . .’ Pat sounded utterly drained. Erica could see the effort this was taking.
‘You have far, far more important things to be thinking about at the moment. But literally, I have no one else—’
‘I understand. But what
is it you want from me?’
‘I know you disapproved of my involvement with Marek—’
‘Mainly because of the trouble you could get into with Bob. A fear that has been borne out, has it not?’
Pat ignored Erica’s question.
‘As I said . . . you know what life is like with Bob. You heard it daily, through our adjoining wall.’
Erica felt she was being drawn into something she had neither the time nor inclination to be drawn into. Yet she felt torn by the evident distress her friend was suffering.
‘Pat, I’m sorry, I honestly don’t know how I might help—’
‘Let Spencer deliver any letters addressed to me here.’ Pat rattled the words out before she lost courage, then took a breath. ‘Please.’
Erica looked at Pat for a moment, unsure she had correctly understood what Pat had just suggested.
‘Are you suggesting—’
‘I could tell Spencer the letters are from a relative asking for money in light of Bob’s new novel being serialised in the national press. I’ll tell him I don’t want Bob troubled by the letters, and that delivering them here will allow me to deal with the matter without troubling my husband. It will only be one letter, in fact. If there are to be more after the first, I’ll tell Marek to address them to you directly, so Spencer wouldn’t know he’s delivering my post. There will be nothing for you to do except notify me when they arrive.’
Pat knew she was asking Erica to get involved with something she might not be comfortable with, but was driven by her acute need to re-establish contact with Marek.
‘Pat . . . under any other circumstances—’
‘Erica, please. I am begging you to do this for me. Please.’
The tone of Pat’s desperate plea made Erica feel increasingly uncomfortable.
‘I cannot have every single aspect of my miserable life placed in the palm of Bob’s hand. I simply cannot,’ Pat continued.
Erica realised she may have underestimated the strength of Pat’s feelings for Captain Novotny. She had assumed theirs had been a reckless, casual affair. But she could see it clearly meant a great deal more to Pat. Yet she couldn’t help thinking it might be for the best if Pat were to let it go and get on with making her life better with Bob.
‘It was only an affair, Pat,’ Erica said, trying to sound as kind as possible. Pat started to shake her head, but Erica was committed to her thought.
‘Wouldn’t it be for the best to put it behind you?’
Pat stopped shaking her head and looked fiercely at Erica.
‘If you had been married to someone who treated you as badly as you know Bob treats me, and then met Will, would you let him go?’
Erica was stunned by the question, followed swiftly by a wave of anger that Pat was comparing her decades-long marriage to Will to a relationship Pat had with a man she’d only known a few weeks.
‘That is entirely different.’
‘I won’t ever have what you’ve had with Will. Bob didn’t want a family so I won’t have a family, as you’ve had. I will never watch children grow up as you’ve watched Kate and Laura. I threw my lot in with Bob and thought he would soften, but Bob doesn’t soften. Year on year he just gets crueller. Marek came into my life and I suddenly caught a glimpse of what you experience on a daily basis. Love. Respect. Feeling cherished. Wanted. You have to understand, I believe Marek is to me what Will is to you. I thought I’d lost him but I suddenly have a chance, the slimmest opportunity, to make contact with him and find out if he feels the same way about me – as he once said he did. For that I need to be able to read and reply to his letters. That’s all I’m asking you to do, Erica. Take them and keep them for me, so Bob can’t destroy them.’
Erica experienced a powerful impulse to send Pat on her way and return inside to Will and the girls. But to do that she would have to ignore what she knew about Pat’s life with Bob. How he verbally abused her. Controlled her. Taunted her. Shattered her self-respect, and occasionally beat her black and blue. Erica had heard each of these occur on more than one occasion through their dividing wall, and had despaired at her powerlessness to intervene – except once, and that had been a terrible blunder.
‘The last time I became involved—’
‘It went too far but I know it was well-intentioned. The “tonic” you gave me for Bob worked. But it was my fault for increasing the dosage. Had I kept to your instruction he would have never been in danger. I’m not asking you to become involved now, Erica. I’m only asking you to let me know when Spencer delivers a letter addressed to me “by mistake”. There would be no danger to anyone, and no question of you getting drawn any further into the situation.’
‘By mistake?’
Pat paused for a moment and looked at Erica, waiting for the penny to drop.
‘What with the post office and the fire service and Claire, Spencer’s rushed off his feet. I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t make mistakes with post all the time.’
Please, Erica. You are the only one who can help me reach him.
To Pat it seemed like an age before Erica released a small sigh of acceptance, and said, ‘Very well. Tell Spencer to divert your letters here.’
Tears of gratitude began to pour down Pat’s cheeks, and she stepped forward and kissed Erica.
‘Bless you,’ she said softly. ‘I cannot begin to tell you how much this means to me.’
Erica stood on her doorstep and watched Pat disappear round the corner. The expression on Pat’s face suggested Erica had done the right thing, but the feeling in her stomach left her doubting the conviction almost immediately. She wondered if she should discuss it with Will. His advice was always worth hearing, even if Erica didn’t always follow it. She decided against.
He’ll be gone soon. I have to learn to lie in beds of my own making.
Erica went back inside and closed the front door.
Chapter 42
Steph Farrow’s kitchen was plain but intensely functional, reflecting the farm and its buildings outside the window; the kitchen of a family that spent most of its waking life working the land. For Steph, who shared the farm’s work with her husband, Stan, and in his absence with their son, Little Stan, the kitchen was just another place of labour on the farm. Where the milking shed produced milk, the kitchen produced food. She had it finely tuned to her purpose.
Steph could find any utensil she needed for whatever she happened to be cooking, simply by reaching out and grasping it, without having to look – everything where it needed to be to produce meals quickly from jars and cupboards, without fuss or unnecessary elaboration, for Stan, Little Stan and their farmhand, Isobel. Plates and cups and blackened pots and pans were stacked within arm’s reach on the dresser, or on simple, time-warped shelves, or hanging from hooks from solid beams running the length of the ceiling. There was a dark, dented stove and hob at its heart, and a thick, stone sink, chipped and lined by years of having crockery and hot pans dumped in it unceremoniously, prior to cleaning. The floor was covered in thick red clay tiles, scuffed and scratched from decades of boots tramping across them, and faded by hot liquids splashed across them, and bleaching summer sunlight burning the colour from them.
For all its lack of sheen and finish, the Farrow kitchen nevertheless had its own dignified simplicity, stripped of unnecessary flourish. This was a room where tired farmers came to fuel themselves for the day ahead, and where they sat in silence at sundown and fed themselves, their drained muscles craving armchairs beside the parlour fire, where they could doze, full-bellied, and forget tomorrow’s work for an hour or two.
Steph looked around her wooden kitchen table at the five friendly faces of the ‘Trekker Accommodation Subcommittee’, and then at Gwen Talbot, who had insisted she be included to represent WI members who were unhappy about unduly helping trekkers, or refugees, as Frances called them. Mrs Talbot, and those she claimed to represent, believed assisting them would put pressure on local resources and encourage more and more people
to come into the area, until the village became overrun. If she couldn’t prevent Great Paxford’s WI from helping them, she could at least do everything in her power to try to limit the damage she believed would be done by the majority’s naive impulse to help those beyond help.
Steph had been clever in the composition of the subcommittee, choosing farming women, like her, who were her friends and shared her general outlook.
She had also asked Isobel, who was not only intensely loyal to Steph, but who had been sent away, out of a major city, at the outbreak of war precisely because her blindness made her more vulnerable. Steph believed Isobel’s experience gave her additional insight and compassion into the trekkers’ experience of being displaced. She was also calm and thoughtful, and wouldn’t agree to anything just because Steph had suggested it.
Steph had also asked Teresa to join the subcommittee, a woman she knew to be considerate and compassionate, and one who could offer a Liverpudlian perspective on any discussion they might have.
‘You know better than anyone what they’re going through. You can talk to them about our proposals, and they’ll listen.’
‘I’m sure they’d listen to you just as much.’
Steph shook her head. ‘You’re one of them. Makes all the difference.’
Teresa knew Steph was right. Their location on the west coast, and their city’s distinct, maritime history, meant many Liverpudlians saw themselves as an almost separate ethnic group to other Britons. Hearing someone with their own accent explain the situation in Great Paxford, and what was on offer, would, Teresa agreed, reassure many that they were being treated fairly, with good intentions.
All the faces around her – bar one – smiled at Steph encouragingly, willing her to take charge and steer the meeting where it needed to go. Mrs Talbot, however, looked at Steph with thinly veiled disdain. She was predisposed to disappointment, and expected the worst.
From inside a folder Steph pulled out a sheet of paper on which she’d written a list and picked up her pencil, hoping it made her look ‘businesslike’. Twelve months ago, such a simple action would have been impossible. Able to manage a farm as well as any man, before Frances became Chair, Steph would have never imagined herself joining the WI. The way Joyce had run it meant Great Paxford’s branch wasn’t for women like Steph. Working women. Women who could neither read nor write. Frances, and then Teresa, changed all that – the former by taking over the branch and throwing its doors open to all women of all social backgrounds; the latter by painstakingly teaching Steph to read and write. Now she was sitting at her own kitchen table, heading a WI subcommittee.