A Tangled Web

by Ann Purser

  But no Bill.

  Well, I'm not going to worry, thought Peggy. He must have been held up. He wouldn't forget, and there's no way for me to find out what's happened. She reflected on the impossibility of ringing up the Turners and asking to speak to Bill.

  Better just get on with something, and put it out of my mind, she thought. I shall see him tomorrow, sure to.

  Bill sat in the reception office of St Lucien's, waiting to see the doctor. He was used to crises and dramas with Joyce, but this afternoon had been a nightmare. He'd cooked a nice lunch, and she had thrown it at him. After he'd cleared up the mess, he'd said he had to go out for an hour or so, and she had exploded. It had been a real explosion, thought Bill, a horrible, frightening explosion with poor Joyce at the centre of it all. In the Sunday quiet of the hospital reception office, he went over and over the past couple of hours and felt again the terror of seeing Joyce in the grip of a fierce convulsion.

  He had been in the kitchen, clearing up, when he heard her scream. It was a different scream from usual, high and full of fear. He had rushed into the sitting room to see her fall, hitting her head on the fireplace's tiled surround. Then the convulsions had begun, racking her poor body. Not realising what was happening, he had put his arms round her, trying to contain the awful jerking. It finally quietened, and he looked at her face, calling her name. Joyce! Joycey! Her eyes were shut, and she was blue. Then she stopped breathing, and he had panicked, trying to remember from long-distant first-aid classes what was the right thing to do.

  After an interminable time of stillness and silence, she suddenly gulped in a choking mouthful of air and began to breathe again. He had held her close, stroking her face and saying her name over and over again. When she opened her eyes and looked about her in a dazed, blinded way, he had laid her gently down on the sofa and gone to ring for an ambulance.

  'Mr Turner?' Bill looked up and saw a young doctor in a white coat, holding a blue file and smiling kindly at him. 'Mrs Turner is sleeping quite peacefully now,' he said. 'You can go in and sit with her for a while.'

  Bill stood up. 'When can I take her home?' he said.

  'Not today,' said the doctor. 'We need to keep her in overnight, do a few tests, that sort of thing. You can telephone tomorrow, and then we shall have something more definite for you.'

  Bill handed over the battered canvas bag containing Joyce's pitifully few, scruffy belongings, and made his way into the ward, where he almost walked past Joyce's bed, not recognising her exhausted face on the pillow.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  The day was one of those deceiving February miracles, when the sun shines warmly and pigeons swoop in pairs, crooning and keening, pretending that it's spring and seeing off marauding suitors.

  It isn't really spring, thought Peggy, brushing down the yard and trying to avoid Gilbert, who followed the broom in a ridiculous, kitten-like game. We could still get snow, she thought with a shiver. And in the yard, hidden from the sun, it was cold and damp.

  She took her broom through the shop and out to the pavement, where she brushed up the previous day's litter and muttered about children who couldn't be bothered to use the wire basket provided.

  'Lovely morning, Mrs Palmer.' She looked up quickly, but it wasn't Bill. He wouldn't call her Mrs Palmer, anyway. It was Mr Ross, walking his little dog and tapping the ground smartly with his stick as he disappeared swiftly into the Bagley Road.

  Peggy stood in the sun, looking across the Green to the willows glowing orange where their long, whippy shoots moved in the light wind. The roofs of the Hall showed clearly today, not a trace of mist. Smoke rose vigorously from one of the chimneys, and Peggy wondered if Susan Standing was feeling sick this morning.

  The hunt is meeting at Fletching today, Peggy's thoughts wandered on inconsequentially. I expect we shall have them all riding through later on, horse dollops all over the road and the hounds rooting in people's gardens. I must make sure the side gate is shut.

  She heard the telephone ringing in the shop, and ran up the steps to answer it. It stopped as she picked up the receiver, and she frowned. Didn't give me much time, whoever it was, she thought. Probably Susan Standing wondering if I happened to be going that way, maybe I could possibly take half a pound of butter as they have run out.

  She unlocked the till, and made the Post Office cubicle ready for the day. Nearly nine o'clock, might as well open up. Peggy drew the blinds on the shop door and the big window, and sunshine streamed in, taking off the overnight chill and glinting on the plate-glass window of the cubicle.

  The telephone began to ring again, and Peggy walked quickly across the shop to answer it.

  'Peggy?' It was Bill, and Peggy knew instantly that something was wrong. He was not in a telephone box, and he would never normally ring her from home. She perched on the edge of the stool behind the counter, listening without interruption.

  '... so I'm just off to see her at St Lucien's,' Bill said. 'They're doing tests, and I should get some news. Must go, Peggy, I know she's going to be terrified in there, a strange hospital and all those people...'

  Peggy said all the right things, and put the telephone down feeling cold and dismal. Bill's voice had been distant, his mind on the still, pathetic figure in a hospital bed. Joyce has won, Peggy thought, and then was horrified at her reaction to a terrible experience for the poor woman.

  It was, of course, the chief topic of conversation in the shop all morning, and those who hadn't heard were swiftly informed by those who had. Peggy had the difficult task of appearing objectively sympathetic, while her concern for Bill and herself mounted to near panic by lunchtime.

  She gave Gilbert a saucer of milk, and walked down to the bottom of the garden, where a patch of golden crocuses shone in the weak sunlight. The fields around Walnut Farm in the distance were empty. It was too early in the season for the beasts to be out, and the sun lit up bare branches and leafless hedges. Peggy unbuttoned her cardigan and turned to go back into the house. She saw Ivy Beasley hanging out washing, pillowcases and sheets, sensible knickers and an icy white nightdress. Peggy walked along the garden path, ignoring her neighbour, not expecting any conversation.

  But Ivy Beasley had seen her, and, smartly elevating the washing line with an old wooden prop, she called, 'I expect you've heard the news, Mrs Palmer?'

  Peggy hesitated. She was tempted to carry on as if she hadn't heard, but that would be childish and silly. She turned and looked over the hedge to where Ivy stood, hands on hips, feet squarely placed on the concrete yard.

  'Yes,' said Peggy, not bothering to pretend. 'Very worrying, poor Mrs Turner.' She took a step towards the safety of the house, but Ivy Beasley hadn't finished.

  'You'll remember what I said on Gardens Open Day, Mrs Palmer,' she continued. 'You can drive a person too far.'

  Then she turned her back on Peggy, picked up the empty washing basket and disappeared into Victoria Villa.

  Could've been worse, thought Peggy, nibbling at a piece of cheese in her kitchen, and waiting for the kettle to boil. At least she spared me the worst of her poisonous tongue.

  She sat down at the table, and sipped hot tea, rejecting the biscuits and cheese she had put out for herself.

  And, what's more, Ivy's right. Joyce Turner has been driven over the edge from the sound of it, and I have played a part in it. Oh God, Bill, I'm so sorry, sorry for us all, but most of all for me.

  The shop bell jangled, and a voice called 'Shop!' Peggy got up slowly, and found Mr Richard helping himself to a half pound of butter.

  'We've just run out,' he said, 'and Mrs Standing fancies hot buttered toast for tea ...'

  *

  The hospital ward had been divided into cosy bays, with a large television set at one end and cheerful prints on the walls, brightening the clinical atmosphere. There were flowers and cards everywhere.

  Joyce was sitting up eating grapes, colourful curtains either side of her, half drawn to give her privacy. She looked at Bill without an
y sign of recognition.

  'Good morning!' she said, brightly.

  'Joycey?' he said uncertainly, handing her a bunch of freesias bought from a stall outside the hospital.

  'What a lovely morning,' said Joyce, in a high, social voice.

  She laughed, a thin, tinkly sound, and patted her neatly brushed hair.

  Bill had seen no staff when he arrived in the ward, and had walked on until he found Joyce's bed. Now a nurse bustled up, and took the flowers from him.

  'We must find a vase for those,' she said. 'Aren't they lovely, Mrs Turner?' And then she turned with her back to Joyce and said, in a quiet voice, 'Will you come to my office for a moment, Mr Turner, just a little word?'

  Sister's desk was neatly organised, with piles of notes and files, and a small pot of purple African violets placed on a mat in one corner. She indicated a chair for Bill, and then sat down herself, clasping her hands tidily in her lap. Her pleasant, round face looked kind, and Bill waited for her to speak.

  'It's absolutely nothing to worry about, Mr Turner,' she said, 'but we think Mrs Turner may have a slight memory lapse, quite common after a convulsion of that magnitude. She seems very happy occupying another world at the moment, and we must just humour her gently.'

  'She's escaped,' said Bill quietly.

  'I beg your pardon?' said the Sister, leaning forward.

  'I reckon she's escaped,' he repeated. 'She was very unhappy at home, has been for years. It's her way out.' He sat hunched and miserable, and Sister walked over and patted him on the shoulder.

  'Don't worry,' she said. 'When she's gained some strength, we plan to move her to Merryfields for a week or two. If you are right, Mr Turner, she needs some help, and they have the resources there to give it.'

  Bill returned to sit with Joyce, and for a while he listened as she prattled on about shopping and children, and making sure she'd left a note for the milkman. It was as if he were a total stranger, called casually to enquire after her health. He rose to go, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek. She looked up at him with a surprised smile.

  'Well, thank you, kind sir!' she said, and waved to him as he walked quickly out of the ward.

  Bill collected some chicken feed from the warehouse in Tresham, called in at a pub by the river for a pint and a sandwich, and then drove reluctantly back to Round Ringford. He dreaded the questions and the village concern. Most of all, he realised, he dreaded seeing Peggy. It was all different now, all changed.

  He turned into Macmillan Gardens and parked outside his house. There was nobody about, and he walked quickly into the garden and let himself in at the back door. It was quiet, very quiet. He went through to the front room and saw Joyce's toy bear, on his back with his paws in the air, where he had fallen from her arms.

  Bill walked over to the window, and drew back the layers of curtains, pulled them all back until the light flooded the room. Then he took the bear and sat him on the windowsill, looking out.

  'There you are,' he said. 'You can sit there and wait for her.'

  Then he went around the rest of the house, drawing curtains and opening windows, letting in light and fresh air.

  Ivy Beasley, walking along on the opposite side of the Gardens to call on Doris Ashbourne, saw Bill at the window, and was shocked.

  'He hasn't wasted much time,' she said, as Doris opened her door. 'There's no end to the wickedness of man, is there?'

  CHAPTER FORTY -EIGHT

  The wood was dank and cold, the wind penetrating through the leafless trees and scattering leaf skeletons, whipping them up in a frenzy and then letting them fall lifeless. It seemed to Peggy, plodding miserably through the mud and brambles that she was caught up in some rustic danse macabre. Only the wind and its victims moved in the wood. Everything else was hiding, hibernating, closed off from the lingering winter.

  No colour, no life, no scurrying animals and birds, just a middle-aged woman walking like an idiot through a chilly wood, and nobody to meet at the end of it. Peggy had been unable to stay indoors after the shop shut, and had without thinking walked on and on, and now here she was, in the familiar clearing, wrapping her scarf round her ears and staring over the village below.

  She stood still for a few moments, knowing that Bill was nowhere near, but hoping that by some miracle he would come up behind her, put his hands gently over her eyes and kiss the back of her neck.

  Nothing caressed her but the cold wind, however, and she made her way back to the road, downcast and convinced that this was the end. She dared not think how she would manage. It had been Bill's strength she had leaned on after Frank's death, but Joyce had staked her claim, once and for all, it seemed. Now we shall see, she thought, slipping around on the muddy road, if I can cope on my own, really on my own.

  The weather had not improved next day, and Peggy shivered as she awoke, not having warmed up properly all night. For a few seconds she sleepily planned to stoke up the Rayburn and make a casserole for her supper, mentally adding warm layers to the clothes she would wear in the shop.

  Then she was wide awake and remembering that she had still heard nothing more from Bill. The heavy grey sky allowed scarcely any light into her bedroom, and she pulled on a dressing-gown and slippers and went down to the kitchen, turning on the radio for the news.

  It was the regular religious homily, and a honey-voiced bishop was exhorting constancy and belief in a world full of paradox and suffering. 'Oh ye of little faith,' he said, as Peggy filled the kettle and put a piece of bread in the toaster.

  'Faith?' she said aloud, setting down a plate of fish for Gilbert, who began eating hungrily. 'Faith? Faith in whom? Am I supposed to have faith in Bill, trust all the things he's said to me in the past, wait patiently until Joyce releases him, if ever?' She sat down at the table, poured a dish of cereal and began to eat.

  'Or,' she said, putting down her spoon and reaching out to turn off the confident voice, 'or should I recognise Bill's duty to be faithful to his wife, in sickness, and tell him to bugger off? Which he appears to have done, anyway ...'

  It was a monotonous morning in the shop, and the rumour of Susan Standing's pregnancy, now rife in the village, had superseded Joyce's drama, so that no one mentioned it, and Peggy heard no further developments. She went through her duties mechanically, making several mistakes in the Post Office and apologising for short changing Nigel Brooks on his weekly purchase of butter mints for Sophie.

  The shop was empty when the telephone rang, and Peggy grabbed it. But it wasn't Bill; it was Olive Bates, checking on the big order for the wedding. Olive was doing all the cooking herself, had been baking for weeks, and the big freezer in the barn was nearly full.

  Peggy put down the telephone with a sigh, and as she did so the shop door opened and Ivy Beasley came in with a chilly rush of air and an expression to match.

  'Bottle of lemon barley,' she said, with no preliminary polite greeting.

  Peggy put the bottle on the counter, and took Ivy's money.

  Dare I ask her, she thought, and then, because she was desperate, said, 'Is that for Joyce Turner? How is she?'

  Ivy was taken aback. She thought she could be in and out of the shop in minutes, and be on her way to get a lift with Robert into Tresham, where she planned to visit the hospital.

  She turned, and seemed about to leave the shop without answering, but then hesitated and said, 'Not good, they say. Lost her memory. Doesn't know where she is. Didn't recognise Bill.' Her staccato delivery was like a hail of bullets and Peggy flinched. At the door, Ivy turned again and looked directly at Peggy, meeting her eyes fiercely.

  'Best not to interfere,' she said. 'There's been enough damage done, one way and another.'

  That's it, then, thought Peggy, and suddenly desperately wanted to put her arms round Bill and comfort him. Surely he must need her? Well, there was no way of finding out, what with Ringford rules and the impossibility of going to him.

  Ivy Beasley stood at the gate of the hospital, looking up at the old, o
rnate building, and remembered her mother's last days. It had been a grim time, with Mother losing her power of speech, so that Ivy could only guess from her eyes what she wanted to say.

  She squared her shoulders and marched up to the reception area, asking for Joyce's ward, and then walking more quietly along the shiny, antiseptic-smelling corridors.

  'Good afternoon!' said Joyce. 'How nice of you to come and see me.'

  She smiled brightly at Ivy, who knew at once that Joyce had no idea who she was.

  'I brought you this,' she said, thrusting the bottle of lemon barley water at Joyce, who took it with elaborate thanks and put it on her bedside locker.

  What on earth am I going to say to her? thought Ivy

  Beasley, whose small talk was limited to Ringford doings and sayings. Since Joyce was clearly temporarily round the twist, these would be of little use. But it was easier than she thought. Joyce chatted on about films she had seen and clothes she had bought, and all Ivy had to do was nod and agree with her.

  'You got plenty of magazines to look at, then, Joyce?' she said, gathering up her gloves and scarf.

  Joyce stared at Ivy Beasley, her face suddenly rigid with fear, and began to scream.

  The word 'magazines' had struck a terrifying, jarring note in Joyce's private world, reminding her of painful reality back at Macmillan Gardens. Nurses came running, and Joyce just went on staring at Ivy, screaming louder and louder.

  Ivy hastily put on her coat and ran from the ward, her heart thumping. She didn't stop running until she was out of earshot of the dreadful screams and then she sat down on a row of chairs outside the baby clinic, surrounded by young mothers and tiny babies. She sat there until her heart slowed down and then she walked unsteadily out of the hospital and down to the busy market place where she had arranged to meet Robert.