The Red Judge

by Pauline Fisk

  All the way there, I sat with my head down as if I was ashamed of anybody seeing my face. Pengwern passed by in a daze. In no time at all, we were on the outskirts of the town, turning into the collection of modern buildings and old Nissen huts that comprised the county’s prime hospital.

  The taxi pulled up outside the main entrance, and I paid my fare, still not looking at the driver. Then he drove away, and I was left standing in the biting cold with sleet blowing into my face. With a growing sense of dread, I hurried through sliding glass doors into a reception area where rows of chairs were filled with people who all looked about as happy as I felt. A massive vase of flowers stood on a plinth. The place reminded me of a funeral parlour.

  I turned round, and would have left again if the woman behind the reception desk hadn’t seen the state that I was in, and called out, ‘Can I help you, dear?’

  I asked where Cary might be found, and she tapped my sister’s full name, CARIEDWEN ELIZABETH FITZTALBOT, into her computer and came up with Intensive Care.

  ‘It’s on the third floor. There’s a lift at the end of the hall,’ she said, pointing the way.

  I went down the hall, feeling more reluctant every step I took. I had always hated hospitals, with their sense of secret sorrows behind closed doors, and pent-up fears. And now I had my own share of those fears and sorrows. I reached the lift and pressed for UP. A pair of stainless steel doors glided open with a ‘ting’. The lift was empty and I got in, pressed the button for the third floor and listened as a metallic voice announced, ‘Mind the doors.’

  Then the doors glided shut, and the lift rose for an eternity, during which it seemed to me that the light reflected in its shiny steel came from hundreds of corph candles. I knew it didn’t really, of course. But it was a relief, all the same, when the doors finally ‘tinged’ open and I was released into Intensive Care.

  I stumbled out, feeling lost, without a clue which way to turn. Signs hung over my head, with arrows pointing in every direction. I tried to work out which of them to follow, and suddenly saw my mother through a pair of swing doors. She looked just about as lost as me, standing in the middle of the ward, her usually immaculate appearance shot to pieces. Her hair was all over the place, she wore not a hint of make-up, and the expression on her face suggested that everything she’d ever worked for had been swept away.

  At the sight of her, I felt my legs turn to jelly. I don’t know what I would have done if she hadn’t suddenly looked up and seen me. Our eyes met, and I knew I couldn’t let her know how lost I felt myself. I marched through the swing doors, a stupid smile stuck all over my face.

  ‘How’s Cary? Is she all right? Can I see her? Where’ve they got her? Is she coming home soon? What do they say? Are they going to keep her in? Can I talk to her?’

  That’s the sort of stupid thing I said. But then I saw the rest of them – all my Fitztalbot relatives clustered like carrion crows in the lounge at the bottom of the ward. They looked up at the commotion, and saw me, and my father looked as well.

  He was sitting by Cary’s bed, holding her hand as if he’d never let go. His face tightened at the sight of me. It actually tightened, like the skin of a drum, and my mother took his arm, as if to try and calm him down. He looked as if he was going to leap up and hit me, but she whispered in his ear and drew him down the ward out of earshot.

  They went into the lounge together and shut the door behind them, as if the last thing they wanted was to have to look at me. I was left alone, standing in the ward. I went and sat by Cary’s bed, taking my father’s place. All around me lay trolleys and machines, winking lights and miles of tubing. Things blinked and bleeped and dripped, and I didn’t have a clue what any of them were doing. All I knew was that my sister lay in the middle of them, her mouth full of lumps of plastic that were presumably doing something good for her, her head covered in bandages, her neck encased in a high yellow collar and the backs of her hands covered in fine little tubes. All the life seemed drained out of her – all signs of who she really was, completely disappeared.

  ‘Oh Cary,’ I said, as if the words were being dragged from deep inside of me. ‘Cary, come back! You’ve got to. Cary, you must!’

  At the sound of my voice, a nurse looked up from her desk. She was a busy woman, but her eyes were full of sympathy. ‘That’s good,’ she said. ‘That’s what she needs. Talk to her. Let her hear your voice. Let her hear she’s not alone. She mightn’t answer back, but that doesn’t mean that she can’t hear.’

  She bent her head again and got on with her paperwork, as if she didn’t want to intrude on my private grief. I wanted to ask if Cary was going to die, but didn’t dare. I looked at the bed and wanted to take my sister’s hand, as my father had done. Wanted to feel her warmth, and reassure myself that she was still alive. But I didn’t dare do that either.

  In the end I pulled the chair up as close as I could get. Then I poured out my heart:

  ‘I am so, so sorry,’ I said. ‘Everything’s my fault. If anyone should be hit by a car, I’m the one! I never should have run out into the road like that. I mean, I knew that you were right behind me. I should have thought. And I never should have been out in the town anyway. I never should have left you in the lurch. It was cowardly and cruel.

  ‘But worse than that – worse by far – oh Cary, I never should have made that bet! Will you ever forgive me? None of this would have happened if I hadn’t challenged you! You never would have done any of it – shaved your head, or done that stupid light bulb thing, or the face piercings or anything, if I hadn’t talked you into it. I know it’s all because I goaded you. Oh Cary, please forgive me. Cary, please live!’

  Cary didn’t move. It was impossible to tell if she’d heard a word that I’d said. But someone else had. I heard a sound behind me, and turned to see my father standing halfway down the ward. For a moment we stared at each other. I didn’t know where my mother was, and neither did I know how long he’d been there. Nor how much he’d heard.

  ‘I d … didn’t mean …’ I stuttered. ‘I just said … I was just trying … I mean …’

  My father held up his hand. ‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘What your sister needs is peace and quiet. We don’t want you upsetting her. Let’s get you out of here.’

  5

  Banishment

  We left the hospital together. My father gave no clues as to what he’d heard, but I was in trouble and I knew it. We walked in silence to his car, which he unlocked with a sharp stab of his keyring. We got in and I expected him to start on at me straightaway. But instead he turned the ignition key and put the car into gear.

  ‘Are we going home?’ I said, with some surprise.

  My father didn’t answer, just drove out of the car park, paying the parking fee in the box at the barrier. Sleet was blowing across the road in front of us, and hospital visitors were struggling with their umbrellas. Our car forced its way between them, almost causing an accident. We reached the main road and shot off way over the speed limit – heading out of town.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked as roads and houses disappeared from sight, to be replaced by fields and trees.

  Still my father didn’t answer, just looked ahead. His eyes were fixed on some distant point beyond the windscreen wipers, and his hands formed two tight fists around the driving wheel. We reached the bypass that marked the outer boundary of Pengwern, and he shot across it without even slowing down. The lights of town fell behind us and the sleet started turning to snow, running down the windscreen and gathering at the bottom.

  I asked again where we were going, but still my father wouldn’t tell me. He fiddled with the radio channels until he found some music, which he turned up loud so that we wouldn’t have to talk. By this time, I was shaking and couldn’t stop. I didn’t like this. I didn’t like it at all. My father had always been a difficult man, easy to anger, but I’d never seen him quite like this. Over the years I’d landed myself in all sorts of trouble, but he’d never gone silent o
n me. In fact he’d always had plenty to say!

  Now, however, I was in new territory. I glanced at my father’s face, not knowing what to expect next. ‘Please,’ I said, because I had to say something, even if he didn’t want me to. ‘I know you’re mad at me, but can’t we talk?’

  My father didn’t answer. He didn’t say a thing or even look at me, just turned up the music. The weather was getting worse, but instead of slowing down, he drove faster. It was as if he hadn’t noticed the storm that was developing, or how treacherous the road was, with snowdrifts blowing across it and more snow on the way.

  Finally the music stopped, and some awful Christmas round-up programme came on instead. Normally my father would have turned it off, but he let it drone on. I don’t think he noticed it any more than the treacherous weather conditions. He tore through villages and towns, over hills, past fields filled with snow, in and out of wooded valleys, on big roads, little ones, dual carriageways and country lanes. And I don’t think he noticed any of it.

  ‘Look, I know I’ve made you angry. I know it’s all my fault. But can’t we slow down?’ I pleaded. My father was seriously frightening me by now. I cursed myself for ever going to the hospital, and even more for opening my heart to Cary. Plainly, my father had heard every single word of my confession. What had I been thinking of?

  ‘Look, you’ve got to listen to me,’ I tried again, afraid of making things worse but knowing I had no choice. ‘I didn’t mean to bring all this on Cary. I’m really sorry. I never in my wildest dreams thought it would come to this. I love my sister. I really do. You’ve got to believe me. I mean it. Honestly.’

  My father looked ahead, as if contemptuous of my honesty. He drove even faster than before, and I knew that I shouldn’t have spoken. On the radio, the terrible Christmas programme ended, and the news came on. Its wars and political rows seemed like nothing compared to what I was going through. I stared out of the window, with not a clue where we were. ‘BOY ABDUCTED BY FATHER,’ I imagined the newsreader announcing in the next day’s headlines. ‘TRAGIC FAMILY LOSES BOTH ITS CHILDREN.’

  By now day was turning into night. The road was slippery with ice but still our car screeched round every bend we came to. My stomach turned over, but my father seemed immune to any sense of danger. I feared that he would kill us both. Imagined the car rolling over on this empty road, and the headline ‘BOY AND FATHER KILLED IN TRAGIC ROAD ACCIDENT.’ That’s if anybody found us, of course!

  By now the snow was thick on the ground, a shroud of whiteness covering everything. I shook my father’s arm – then wished I hadn’t as the car veered across the road.

  ‘Slow down!’ I yelled.

  We careered round a bend, and missed a ditch by inches. I threw my hands over my head, and could scarcely believe it when the car righted itself. It didn’t seem to me that my father had anything to do with it. His hands still gripped the steering wheel, but his eyes were fixed so far ahead that I could have sworn he didn’t even see that bend. But at least we came out alive.

  We carried on as fast as ever, the car slipping and sliding on the road like a beast out of control. Great hulking hills loomed over us, but I didn’t recognise them. As far as I was concerned, we could have been anywhere in that long border country that stretches down from Pengwern. There was nothing special about the landscape that we passed. Perhaps it was the snow that made it so anonymous, or perhaps fear made it seem like that. Perhaps, even if I’d driven back over the Welsh Bridge, I wouldn’t have recognised anything.

  But, finally, I did. We pulled off the main road and started down a lane into a village that looked like a Christmas card, complete with glitter for snow. I caught a glimpse of houses with curtains drawn and others with decorated trees in their windows. We passed a chapel on one side of us and a shop on the other, a pub, a school, another pub and a row of cottages built into a hillside. Slowly it began to dawn on me that this wasn’t just a Christmas card scene, but somewhere real that I actually knew.

  We started slowing down. Ahead of me I could see an old church tower that I recognised, its stubby little spire standing dark against the snowy night. My father turned down the lane next to it and I saw a river with a bridge that I recognised as well, and a couple of cottages. One of them was almost entirely covered in scaffolding, and no lights shone from its windows. A builder’s sign leant against the front wall. A concrete mixer stood in the garden. A FOR SALE sign was fixed to the gatepost, and I stared at it and understood at last what this long journey had been all about.

  My father drew up outside, and I didn’t need the name on the gate, Prospect House, to explain anything. He loosened his grip on the steering wheel and leant back with a sigh. Silence hung between us. I looked around and, sure enough, the pub at the end of the lane was the Black Lion Hotel, and the old church was St Curig’s. If we’d carried on past it, we would have ended up on the pass road over Plynlimon, heading in the direction of the coast at Aberystwyth.

  But we hadn’t carried on. We were here – outside Grace’s house. I stared up at its windows as if expecting to find her here as well. But the windows were empty: no curtains, no pots of plants and no ornaments. There were no lights either, even in the porch where there always used to be one. Once it had been full of logs, old newspapers and buckets of coal, but now it was so full of snow that I could hardly even see the front door.

  I sighed as well. The last time I’d been here, I’d said goodbye for ever. Now here I was again.

  ‘Out you get!’ my father said.

  It was the first time in our journey that he had spoken. Before I could do more than unlock my seat belt, he leant across, threw open the passenger door and booted me out on to the road.

  Then he drove away.

  6

  Prospect House

  The time has come to own up about something. I really don’t want to, because there are things one doesn’t ever want to talk about, and this is one of those for me. But there’s no way that I can carry on without explaining why my father treated me the way he did that day.

  Perhaps it’s obvious. Perhaps I’m pointing out what anyone with half a brain could work out anyway. But the man I call my father isn’t really. My real father, I mean. He adopted me. My real father died when I was a baby. I can’t even remember him, and my earliest memories are all of Grace. My real father was her son, you see, and in those early days before my mother married again and my Fitztalbot father adopted me, Grace was my family.

  Grace and Cary, I should say, because Grace brought her up as well, and the shock of adoption hit us both together. But Cary went quietly, while I made a fuss. A massive fuss, I might add, which I’ll never forget, and I don’t suppose anyone who heard it, right here on the road outside Prospect House, would ever forget either.

  Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so bad if the whole thing hadn’t been so unexpected. But it came out of the blue – my mother turning up like that without a word of warning, and a new father waiting in the car outside, and a new life waiting in Pengwern; one that I didn’t want because I thought the old one was just fine.

  Cary didn’t want it either, but she pretty quickly saw advantages in the situation that were beyond me. She missed Grace, of course, and the old days in Wales, but that didn’t stop her settling in. She was everything our new father wanted in a daughter of his own. She belonged, right from the start.

  But I was always an outsider. The Fitztalbots were never my real family, and I didn’t want them to be, either. I rejected them long before they rejected me. And it all started on the road here, outside Prospect House.

  Now I stood staring at the house, remembering my parents driving me away, in tears. I never forgave them for what they did that day, and I know Grace didn’t either. The atmosphere was positively Arctic after that. When Grace died, Prospect House was left in trust for Cary and me. Not a penny of its sale was to go to our mother. Grace never visited us in Swan Hill, and whenever our mother took us down to Wales, you could feel Grace hol
ding back her fury, as if she didn’t dare to let it out. It was as if my mother had a hold on her – as if she’d got a trump card up her sleeve.

  And that trump card, I grew to realise, was us grandchildren. We only ever saw Grace when our mother allowed us to. This usually only occurred when she and my father went off on holiday, leaving us behind, but it was a privilege that could be withheld if Grace didn’t toe the line.

  ‘Be good,’ our mother would call as she drove away. ‘I’m trusting you. Only the very best behaviour. You know what I mean.’

  I didn’t know what she meant but I guessed that Grace did. She’d button up her mouth, and if looks could kill, my mother would be dead. But at least we were back. Even Cary would be pleased, and I’d be almost sick with excitement. Maybe it wasn’t quite the same as living here full-time but I didn’t care. Maybe we were seen as ‘different’ in a village where we’d once belonged, and some of our old friends couldn’t understand us because our accents had turned English, but it was still good to be back.

  ‘Cary might be English,’ I told myself. ‘She might have taken to her adopted country, but I’m still Welsh and proud of it. My father may pray for England when the rugby comes on telly, but I pray for Wales. As far as I’m concerned, it means nothing to be a Fitztalbot, and everything to have Welsh ancestry.’

  It also meant everything to be Grace’s grandchild. Unlike my Fitztalbot relatives, she was fun. She’d always have a go at things, and lived life to the full. She didn’t mind making a fool of herself, and never bothered about stupid things like ‘setting a good example’ or ‘minding what you say because of the children’.