by Pam Weaver
The three of them stared down at the nearly empty box. Florrie could see that they were dealing with mixed emotions: anger, disappointment and disgust. They were angry because someone had obviously been helping herself to the chocolates, chocolates meant for everybody to share; disappointed because it was one of their number; and disgusted that the thief could be so devious. With so many chocolates gone, it was clear that the theft had been going on for some time.
‘What are we going to do?’ said Nurse Davies.
Sister looked thoughtful. ‘Gentian violet,’ she said. ‘Leave the box with me and say nothing.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Nurse Cook.
‘The less you know, the better,’ said Sister. The two nurses began to walk away. ‘Perhaps you would get us some more lint from the pharmacy, Nurse Davies, and, Nurse Cook, you can tidy the patients’ dayroom. There are magazines all over the place.’
When they had gone, Sister went into the small treatment room. She closed the door, but Florrie could see her reflection on the glass. She was injecting something into one of the chocolates. When she came out, Florrie snapped her eyes shut. The next thing she knew, she was waking up as someone pushed the tea trolley onto the ward.
The kitchen door opened and Gilbert Oliver almost fell into the room. Everybody stared at him in shocked surprise, and then they saw the blood. Shirley and Tom rushed to help him. Janet put Lucy back into her crib first.
His trouser leg was soaked in blood, and it was all over his hands. As Shirley and Tom helped him into a chair, it was hard to see exactly where the blood was coming from, but with every move he made, he winced and moaned in pain.
‘What happened?’ Janet gasped.
‘That bloody dog,’ he said. ‘Oh, me leg, me leg . . .’
Shirley tried to lift his trouser leg to get a better look, but he cried out and pushed her away roughly. ‘Get off me, you stupid cow.’
‘Tom, hand me my workbox,’ said Janet.
The workbox was on the end of the dresser, but as soon as Tom handed it to her, her husband said, ‘Keep away from me. You’re not cutting my clothes.’
Janet stepped back and put her hand on her hip. ‘Now look here, Gil,’ she said. ‘You’ve lost a lot of blood and it’s still coming. A dog bite can easily become infected, but if you don’t want help, that’s fine by me.’
They glared at each other for a second. Mr Oliver’s face was ashen and he was beginning to sway. All at once, he leaned over the side of the chair and was sick on the flagstone floor. Shirley grabbed the bucket from under the sink to put it beside him, but Janet grabbed her arm. ‘What’s it to be, Gil? Do you want help or not?’
He looked as if he was going to pass out at any minute, but she still made them wait. At last, he managed to nod and Shirley put the bucket down. Janet sliced through the trouser leg with her scissors. The wound was on his calf. It was fairly obvious that he’d stepped backwards and the dog he’d teased, goaded and beaten for so long had seized its opportunity. It had sunk its teeth into the back of Mr Oliver’s leg and done a lot of damage. The flesh was virtually hanging from the bone, and blood pulsed from the wound. Shirley felt so queasy she had to sit down.
‘Give me your belt, will you, Tom?’ Janet put the belt round Mr Oliver’s upper thigh and pulled it as tight as she could. With Tom’s help, she made another hole in the belt and did it up. The flow of blood slowed.
‘Shirley,’ said Janet, ‘I want you to get yourself a drink of water and then run down to the village for help.’
‘No,’ Mr Oliver moaned. ‘No help.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ said Janet. ‘It’s still bleeding, and I can’t patch this up on my own. You need a doctor. It needs stitches.’
It was obvious that although he didn’t want strangers in his house, Mr Oliver had no choice and was in no position to stop them. With the onset of shock, he’d started to tremble.
Shirley steadied herself with a drink of water and grabbed her coat, hat, scarf and gloves. The weather was very cold and there had been flurries of snow since early morning. The ground was icy and it would be hard to keep her footing, but she was determined to do her best. She didn’t like the man, but she didn’t want to feel in any way responsible for the hastening of his death.
‘Be careful,’ said Janet. ‘If you don’t think you can make it to the doctor’s, there’s a farm in Water Lane just as you come into the village. You’ll have to go back a yard or two, but they’ll most likely have a telephone. His number is Goring 952. Got that?’
Shirley nodded.
‘If you can carry on, go to the bottom of Water Lane,’ Janet went on. ‘His house is up the hill by the Red Lion. You’ll see a brass plate by the door.’
‘I know where it is,’ said Shirley.
Janet glanced behind her at Mr Oliver. ‘Be as quick as you can,’ she said, and giving Shirley’s hand a squeeze, she closed the door behind her.
Janet and Tom pulled the other fireside chair towards the one Gilbert was sitting in and raised his leg onto it. Janet had put towels down to cushion the leg, but he cried out in agony as she lowered it. She wanted to bandage the wound, but it was far too big. The bandages in the first-aid tin were only suitable for a finger wound, so she laid a clean tea towel over it instead. Her husband was almost unconscious, but she sat with him, talking gently to keep him calm.
Tom made it his business to clean up the mess. Janet watched him with admiration. He made such a good job of it, she complimented him. Taking a bucket of clean water into the porchway, he methodically began mopping up the trail of blood right up to the back door. Janet sat in the quiet of the kitchen, watching Gilbert’s breathing. It seemed to be getting more shallow. She glanced at the clock. Shirley had been gone for nearly an hour. Normally the walk into Angmering would take twenty minutes, but at this time of year, it wasn’t so easy. The rough lanes were slippery, and if the ditches had overflowed, she would have to watch out for black ice. She heard Tom open the back door to throw the contents of the bucket outside into the yard, and then he let out a loud wail. Janet leapt to her feet and ran to him. The door was wide open, but he wasn’t there.
‘Tom? What’s the matter? Where are you, Tom?’
When she saw him, she slapped her hand across her mouth to keep the scream at bay. Tom was on his knees in the yard and sobbing like a baby. In front of him lay the dog, bloodied and still.
‘He’s dead,’ Tom sobbed. ‘Mr Oliver shot the dog.’
CHAPTER 16
The cold air had pierced through Shirley’s coat in no time. She hurried as quickly as she could, but the slippery ground made it almost impossible to run. It was also very difficult to stay warm. She had plenty of layers on the top half of her body – vest, blouse, jumper, coat and scarf – but her socks only went up as far as her knees, and where they met her skirt, her thighs were bare. After a while, she was so cold she began to feel slightly detached and shivery.
When she reached the farm at the top end of Water Lane, the pond was completely frozen over. As she approached the gate, six or eight noisy geese ran to meet her. They looked so threatening with their necks jutted out like javelins that she decided not to risk it and went back onto the lane. She was so cold she couldn’t remember the doctor’s number, anyway. Was it Goring 592 or 925?
Then just past the allotments, she fell over. She recovered herself quite quickly, but now she felt light-headed and her teeth were chattering. There was nobody about in the village. The weather was so bad that most people had decided to stay indoors, and no wonder. The paths were very slippery. People had been grumbling for some time that the culvert wasn’t taking the surface water away like it used to. The council had promised to do something about it, but in this terrible weather, the workmen were a long time coming. As a result, there was a sheet of black ice right across the middle of the triangle, and already there were reports of villagers falling. So far between them, they’d clocked up two broken arms, a fractured wrist and a badly bruise
d back.
Turning left, she walked up the steep hill; where the road fell away and the pavement rose above it, Shirley had to hold on to the icy railings to steady herself. She heard someone coming up the hill behind her. Her frozen legs felt like lead, and she had a dull ache in the middle of her body. At last she spotted the brass nameplate, but it took all her strength to lift the heavy iron knocker on the door. It seemed like an age before someone came to answer it.
The woman who finally opened the door seemed vaguely familiar. She was also a little put out. ‘The surgery is on the side of the house,’ she said curtly. Shirley stepped away from the door with a mumbled apology. ‘Just a minute,’ said the woman. ‘Sheila, isn’t it?’
Without the rail to hang on to, Shirley staggered.
‘Quick,’ the woman cried, and Shirley felt a pair of strong arms around her. ‘You’d better bring her inside,’ the woman said. ‘The poor girl looks frozen to death.’
When the warmth of the room hit her, Shirley almost fainted. Now the pain started. She was hardly aware of what was happening to her, except that she was crying. Before she knew it, her damp coat and scarf were removed and she was swathed in a warm blanket. She could see now that she had been saved from falling by the postman delivering letters. She recognized his navy uniform with red piping on the sleeves and his peaked cap.
A cup of warm tea was put in front of her, and a man came into the room.
‘She’s one of the evacuees,’ the woman told him. ‘I thought they’d all gone home, but it looks like this one stayed. I settled her myself. Sheila something.’
‘Shirley,’ said Shirley. She recognized the woman now. It was Mrs Dyer.
‘That’s right. Shirley,’ said Mrs Dyer. ‘Well, Shirley, my husband is here now and he’s going to look you over.’
‘Move over, my dear,’ said the newcomer good-naturedly, ‘and let me get to my patient.’
Shirley blinked in surprise. When they’d met in the village hall all those months ago, Shirley had had no idea that Mrs Dyer was the doctor’s wife.
‘Before you drink that tea,’ said the doctor, ‘I need to take your temperature.’ He stuffed a thermometer in her mouth and held her wrist while he looked at his watch. ‘What on earth were you doing running around outside dressed like that? You should have put on much warmer clothes, young lady. Your temperature is only 88.6 Fahrenheit. You’ve got a case of moderate hypothermia.’
Shirley willed her befuddled brain to function. ‘It’s Mr Oliver, sir,’ she said as she suddenly stopped shivering. ‘There’s been an accident.’
‘Now I remember you,’ cried Mrs Dyer. ‘Miss Lloyd and I took you and your brother to Oliver’s Farm.’
Shirley nodded.
‘An accident, you say?’ said Dr Dyer. ‘What sort of an accident?’
Shirley’s head was spinning. The ache in her middle was still there, and her legs wouldn’t stop shaking. ‘The dog.’ Her speech was slurred. ‘Dog bite. Big bite. Lost lots of blood.’
‘I’d better get over there, then,’ said Dr Dyer. ‘Muriel, put her to bed and keep her warm. I’ll get the car out.’
‘You can’t possibly drive up there in this weather,’ his wife protested. ‘That road will be lethal.’
‘What choice do I have?’ said the doctor. ‘And besides, if this young lady has risked her life to get help, I can’t very well refuse to go, now, can I?’
At the farm, the waiting seemed endless. Janet kept an eagle eye on the tourniquet on Gilbert’s leg, loosening it every now and then to make sure the blood was still flowing. She rubbed his foot a couple of times to help his circulation, but he didn’t like it and became aggressive.
The weather was deteriorating all the time. The sky was battleship grey with snow clouds, and it was very cold. Once he had got over his initial shock at finding the dead dog, Tom had become subdued but calm. They ate their breakfast, two hours late, and then he went outside to see to the chickens. Janet had persuaded him to leave the dog where it was for the time being. The ground was far too hard to dig a hole to bury it, and she didn’t want Tom wandering around the farm on his own in this awful weather. After all, she was worried enough about Shirley. Of course, she knew they’d have to dispose of the dog’s body fairly quickly. The smell of decay would attract scavengers and she certainly didn’t want foxes near the chickens.
They’d covered the dog with a piece of sacking. She felt wretched about it, but at least the poor animal was out of its suffering. Gilbert couldn’t torment it any more, and even though the dog had paid a high price for it, to finally get its revenge must have felt sweet, even if it did only last for a few seconds. From what they could gather during Gilbert’s lucid moments, the gun had gone off accidentally when the dog had attacked his leg. The second shot, the one that killed it, was deliberate.
Being on a farm meant that they always had something to do. The cows were under cover, so she and Tom fed them hay and pulped turnips. For the afternoon milking, they prepared a mixture of wheat straw, cow cake and bran. If the cows were feeding as they were being milked, it flowed more easily.
Back in the kitchen, Gilbert appeared to be sleeping. The baby was in her crib, which Janet had put well out of his reach. Lucy was beginning to whimper. Janet had just washed her hands and was preparing herself to feed the baby when she heard the sound of tyres on the lane outside. A few minutes later, a voice hailed them from the gate. ‘Dr Dyer.’
Tom opened the kitchen door. ‘The dog is dead,’ he called. ‘It’s safe now.’
Janet again heard the sound of car tyres and took Lucy off the breast. She didn’t mind Dr Dyer seeing her feeding the baby, and she could hide herself from Tom, but if they had visitors, Lucy would have to wait a bit. Lucy pouted a little and stretched herself as she came off the breast, but she didn’t cry. The door opened and Dr Dyer came into the room. ‘Thank you for coming,’ said Janet. ‘He’s over there.’
‘A dog bite, you say,’ said the doctor, putting his bag on the table. He lifted the tea towel and examined the leg. ‘Nasty. He’ll have to go to hospital.’
Gilbert stirred and winced with pain. ‘No hospital,’ he croaked.
‘You’ve got two choices,’ Dr Dyer said drily. ‘Go to hospital or stay here and die.’
Janet was watching the door. ‘Where’s Shirley?’
‘She’s at my house,’ said the doctor. ‘She’s got hypothermia. My wife has put her to bed.’ He turned his attention back to his patient. ‘This is going to hurt a bit, old man.’ With that, he poured iodine onto the wound and Gilbert’s roar went through the roof.
At the same time, several policemen burst into the kitchen, two of them brandishing revolvers and shouting, ‘Police! Stay where you are.’
Lucy jumped in her mother’s arms and began to cry. Janet froze. The doctor instinctively stepped back, his arm across his face as if to protect his head. Tom pressed himself against the wall, his face pale and his eyes wide with fright. It was a surreal moment.
‘Oh, sorry, Doc,’ said the police sergeant as he recognized the village doctor. ‘We were informed that an armed and dangerous man was here.’
‘Well,’ said Dr Dyer, looking down at his patient, who was still grimacing with pain, ‘he’s no danger to anyone now.’
‘He fired his gun at me,’ the man from the ministry insisted as he came into the room. ‘I had to run for my life.’
Gilbert raised himself slightly and pushed the doctor’s arm. ‘Get off my land,’ he croaked angrily. ‘Go on. Clear off!’ He was so beside himself with rage that he jerked his leg and shouted out with pain.
‘The gun went off when the dog bit him,’ said Janet, but her voice was lost in the general mayhem that followed. Everyone was talking at once. Gilbert had recovered slightly and was again demanding that everyone leave. The doctor wanted peace and quiet for his patient, and the policemen were having to restrain the man from the ministry, who had, at last and after much provocation, finally lost his temper.
Gilbert attempted to lash out with his arm and hit him but fainted instead.
When Shirley came back to the farm a day later, Dr Dyer brought her in his car and dropped her at the gate. Janet was overjoyed to see her. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘Once I’d got warm again,’ said Shirley, ‘I was fine. Mrs Dyer kept me in bed most of the time and I had some really long sleeps.’
‘Lucky you,’ Janet grinned.
‘Where’s Mr Oliver?’ said Shirley, looking around.
‘He’s in hospital,’ said Janet, ‘and after that he’ll be spending some time in the police cells.’
Shirley raised an eyebrow. ‘Police cells?’
‘They’ve arrested him,’ said Janet. ‘The sergeant said he’d be locked up straight away because he’d threatened a government official with a firearm. They are going to send him for trial.’
Shirley had to turn her back in case Janet saw her smile of relief. How marvellous. Life would be so much better now. Tom came in and touched her arm awkwardly. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked. She didn’t attempt to hug him. Even though she was his twin, Tom found showing affection difficult and she respected that. She could see how pleased he was to see her from the smile on his face, although he didn’t make eye contact.
‘He killed the dog,’ said Tom.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘Mrs Dyer told me.’
‘Mr Roberts helped me bury him,’ said Tom. ‘In the orchard.’
‘That’s good,’ said Shirley. Mrs Dyer had sent her back with a suitcase. She put it on the table and opened it. The case was full of warm second-hand clothes. ‘Look, I’ve got you a lovely corduroy jacket.’
They could tell at once that Tom loved it. It was light tan with dark patches on the elbows, and it had woven leather buttons. He put it on immediately.