CHAPTER THREE
Winter 1962–1963
‘Caput apri defero
Reddens laudes Domino!’
The high, clear notes rose up in the still air of St Matthew’s church, to lose themselves in the dark vaulted ceiling. On any other cold November evening the place would have been silent and empty, but tonight a single electric light beamed down on the Sunday-school piano at which sat Jeremy North, his long fingers on the keys as he accompanied the singer.
‘You have the most beautiful voice, Iris – you should have been a concert soloist,’ he said when the last echo had died away. ‘They’re going to have to learn the “Boar’s Head Carol”, so as to sing the refrain while you take the verses.’
Iris did not reply, but trembled inside her quilted jacket and fur-trimmed hood. He had asked her to come ten minutes early, to try out the ‘Boar’s Head’, and the time had passed all too quickly before the west door opened and in came the rest of them, gathering round the piano and taking their places on the circle of chairs placed around it.
‘Good evening, all! Very pleased to see such a good turnout on a winter evening.’
There was a varied response of ‘Good evening’s; they were all clearly eager to begin rehearsing for the Christmas choir.
‘I think most of us know each other, don’t we? I can see a new lady over there – an old friend, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘Yes, I’ve brought Mrs Phyllis Maynard with me,’ said Mary Whittaker.
‘Yes, Mr North, Mary persuaded me to come,’ Phyllis said shyly.
‘Welcome, Phyllis! We’re all indebted to Mary for that,’ he smiled. ‘Mrs Rebecca Coulter we all know for her splendid contralto’ – he nodded towards a large lady weighing about sixteen stone at least, who bowed in acknowledgement.
‘Mr Wetherby we know, a faithful member of St Matthew’s who will add volume to our efforts – that’s him over there with the Father Christmas beard – and all the way from North Camp, Mr Pritchard – I don’t know if you will be able to help us out, Cyril – we need more male voices, a strong tenor or baritone.’
A thin-faced man of about fifty-five replied in a thin, whistly voice that Mr North could certainly count on him as a tenor.
‘I’ve carefully preserved my voice, Mr North, and would come over for any occasion if needed.’
‘Thank you, Cyril, I knew you’d step in. And if any of you have ever been to Everham Park lately as an outpatient, the chances are that you’ll have met Sister Oates who works in that department – only we know her as Iris, a soprano to die for.’
He gave her a grateful look, and she responded with a self-deprecating smile.
‘Now, then. We must decide on what we’re going to sing. We all know the good old roof-raisers, “While Shepherds Watched” and “Hark the Herald Angels”, but I’d like you to learn something different, like the French carol “Patapan” and the “Boar’s Head Carol”, dating from sixteenth-century Oxford, when the students would bring in the boar’s head, roasted and no doubt with an apple in its mouth, to set before their masters at the high table. It’s a splendid tune, do any of you know it?’ There was a general shaking of heads.
‘Right! Iris, you sing the first verse, and I want everybody to listen carefully.
“The boar’s head in hand bear I,
Bedecked with bays and rosemary,
And I pray you, my masters, be merry
Quot estis in convivio!”’
An appreciative murmur rippled over the group, and Jeremy responded with ‘Encore! Let’s make her sing it again, shall we?’
This time she sang the verse and the refrain, while Jeremy sat at the piano, joining with her in a fine strong baritone.
‘Right! So now come on, my masters, all join in!’
Their varied voices rose up to the roof, with Iris and Jeremy, the nurse and the teacher, leading them into a vision of Christmas, of sparkling stars in the frosty night, of remembered mystery and magic, seen through childhood’s eyes.
How could Iris not fall in love with such a master?
It was after nine when Jeremy North unlocked the front door. He had called at The Volunteer, Everham’s oldest pub, on his way home from the church, so as to sit and listen again, in his head, to Iris Oates leading the little amateur choir in their rendering of the ‘Boar’s Head Carol’, and how quickly they had learnt to sing it in two parts, and how good it had sounded. But it was time to go home.
He heard Fiona’s voice coming from the kitchen, and from familiar experience he judged that her mood was not good. She and their younger daughter Catherine were seated at the kitchen table, Fiona’s face flushed and angry, Catherine’s flushed and tearful.
‘Hi, there!’ he said, picking up the kettle and filling it from the cold tap. ‘Who’s for a cuppa?’
‘A lot of use you’ve been this evening, just when I need all the help and support I can get!’ replied Fiona. ‘I’m going to see that manageress at Gibson and Price, she’s thoroughly upset Catherine. I’ll tell her I’m going to report her to their head office!’
‘Sounds bad,’ said Jeremy, standing waiting for the kettle to boil. He thought of asking Cathy if she had a kiss for her old dad, but her red and swollen eyes warned him against it. Instead, he asked her what was the matter.
‘Come on, chick, it can’t be that bad. Was it because she found you having a quick snog with Kevin behind the sale-rail?’
‘Don’t be so damned insensitive!’ Fiona broke in, while Catherine sobbed that Kevin had had nothing to do with what had happened.
‘It was that so-called friend who let him down, and now the shits have taken him in for questioning!’
‘The shits being the boys in blue, I take it?’ asked Jeremy, pouring boiling water into the teapot.
Fiona turned on him. ‘You think you’re so clever, don’t you, making fun of our daughter’s trouble,’ she said, and he realised that she too was on the verge of tears. He sighed.
‘Here’s your tea, girls. Sorry it’s nothing stronger, but Roy must have been at the medicinal brandy. Any chance of some light refreshment at this late hour? Shall I do egg on toast for us?’
‘Oh, do yourself a damned egg on toast,’ snapped Fiona. ‘Here’s me trying to comfort a distraught girl while you’ve been lording it over that all-important choir.’
He made a conscious effort to stay calm. ‘What about Denise? Is she anywhere around to lend a hand? And our devoted son?’
‘You can be so hurtful,’ said his wife. ‘No, Denise has gone out with that nice new boyfriend to see that film on at the Embassy, and Roy’s out with that boy from the garage. Well, you can hardly blame them, there’s not much to keep them at home, is there?’
‘And Peter-poppet? Didn’t Denise bath him before she went out? After all, he’s her child.’
‘I bathed the poor little chap and put him to bed,’ said Fiona. ‘Thank you for the help you gave me with that!’
‘His mother should care for him, not you, Fiona. And what about you, Cathy?’ he asked, not unkindly. ‘Couldn’t you help sometimes with your little nephew – or lend a hand in the kitchen?’
For answer Catherine put her hands over her ears and screamed at the top of her voice.
‘I want to get away! Away from Everham, away from everybody who bullies me!’
Fiona drew the girl into her arms and stroked a soothing hand over her hair as she gradually calmed down. ‘Sssh, sssh, come to Mummy, dear, don’t take any notice of him, he’s like that with all of us. Sssh, ssh.’
Jeremy opened his mouth, closed it again and left the room. Quietly he climbed the stairs and went into his grandson’s room. The boy lay sleeping, and tears pricked Jeremy’s eyes as he placed a light hand on the fair head. ‘Peter-poppet, you poor little bastard, you’re the only one in this place I really love. And the only one who loves me.’
An idea came into his head. He thought of his sister and brother-in-law who lived at Basingstoke. He had a happy relations
hip with them – the lucky buggers had no children – and he decided to ask them if Catherine could stay with them for a week or two, as she’d lost her job and needed a calmer atmosphere than she had at home. Just until things were more settled, he would beg, a chance to get away from Everham, and possibly to save Fiona from having a nervous breakdown.
And avoiding one for me, too, he thought to himself. Bloody hell, that would scuttle the Christmas choir before it had really got started.
‘There are two new admissions to be clerked in on Antenatal, Dr Hammond,’ said Staff Nurse Moffatt. ‘One’s having her third and getting weak contractions, so we’ve given her an enema and hot bath. The other one’s a primigravida who’s overdue, for OBE.’
‘What’s that, Order of the British Empire?’ asked Dr McDowall who had followed Shelagh into the ward. ‘I always want to laugh when I hear those initials – oil, bath and enema! And when you consider that it’s castor oil, it sounds so barbarous.’
‘No more barbarous than the ARM she’ll have tomorrow if the OBE doesn’t work,’ replied Shelagh coolly.
‘You mean artificial rupture of the membranes? You’ll have to show me how.’
‘Thank you, Laurie,’ said Shelagh, ignoring him. ‘Anybody in labour?’
‘Yes, we’ve transferred a girl to Delivery Room One, she’s about two centimetres dilated, and the other – the one I told you about – getting a few pains, but it’s early yet, we’ll wait and see.’
Shelagh nodded. ‘OK, I’ll have a word with them both.’ I can carry on as long as I’ve got work to do, she thought, but part of her brain was constantly thinking about her mother in the operating theatre with Mr Kydd and Dr Rowan. What was happening? How far had they got?
‘Dr Hammond, Dr Hammond, where are you?’ called a student midwife from the ward office. ‘Oh, there you are – phone call from Sister Kelly.’ She handed the telephone to Shelagh.
‘Hello, Sister Kelly. Dr Hammond here.’
‘Are you free to come over and see your mother, doctor?’
‘Yes, of course, Sister. Is she in the recovery room?’
‘No, no, dear, she’s back on the ward,’ said the sister whose friendly informality was not a good sign. Shelagh began to tremble, her knuckles white on the receiver.
‘Back on the ward already? That was quick. How is she?’
‘She’s coming round from the anaesthetic, and asking for you, doctor. Are you free?’
‘Yes, I’ll come over straight away.’
Shelagh replaced the receiver and hurried over to the gynaecological ward, trying not to think, not to imagine …
Bridget Hammond was lying flat, with one pillow under her head. An intravenous infusion of glucose/saline was in progress, and a urethral catheter drained slightly bloodstained urine into a glass bottle on the floor. Her hands travelled restlessly over the sheet, as if trying to find something. Shelagh took hold of her left hand and held it to her cheek.
‘It’s me, Mother, I’m here with you,’ she whispered, and as Sister Kelly took the patient’s blood pressure, Bridget’s eyes flickered and turned to focus on Shelagh.
‘Shelagh – daughter – forgive me.’
‘It’s all right, I’m with you, Mummy, don’t try to talk.’ She had not said Mummy since she was a child.
‘I’m sorry, Shelagh – my little baby – forgive me, please forgive me.’
‘Ssh, Mummy, everything’s fine. I’m right here beside you,’ murmured Shelagh in bewilderment.
‘Forgive me, my – f-forgive …’
Her words tailed off and her eyes closed as a pain-relieving injection took effect.
‘I’m sorry, doctor, it’s just that she kept saying your name, and I thought the sight of you might calm her,’ apologised Sister Kelly.
‘Of course, Sister,’ faltered Shelagh, her blue eyes brimming. ‘But what does she mean? Why does she ask me to forgive her? It’s I who should ask to be forgiven, for my carelessness, my lack of observation—’
The sister put a warning finger to her lips and glanced at the patient. Shelagh bowed her head and covered her face with her hands. Then she felt a tap on her shoulder, and turned to see Dr McDowall, who had followed her.
‘All right, Dr Hammond,’ he said, and taking her arm led her out of the room and along to the ward office.
‘Why does she ask me to forgive her? What for? Why?’
‘Patients get all sorts of funny ideas when they’re recovering from an anaesthetic,’ he replied. ‘But never mind, leave her to sleep now, and Mr Kydd will have a word with you later.’
‘But why is she back from theatre so soon?’ she asked, though dreading the answer.
‘Because the operation’s over, Shelagh. Harry Kydd will speak to you when he’s finished the list. Oh, hello, Sister Kelly, good timing. Can somebody organise tea for Dr Hammond?’
‘But what’s he – what’s Mr Kydd going to tell me?’ Shelagh asked, her eyes staring into his – where she read the truth without being told.
‘It’s inoperable!’ she cried. ‘Oh, my God!’
‘Stop that, Dr Hammond, stop it at once, do you hear? You’re going to have to be strong for her, she needs you to be brave. Look, Sister’s bringing you some tea. Look after her, there’s a dear,’ he muttered to Sister Kelly, and left the office.
Shelagh washed her face in cold water, combed her hair back into a coil secured with a clip, and returned to Maternity.
When Mr Kydd spoke to her at midday in his office, her found her surprisingly calm as she received the news that she had already guessed.
‘Your mum’s a tough lady, Shelagh. There’s considerable secondary spread, and the wonder is that she’s kept going for so long – sheer obstinacy, I expect!’ He attempted a half smile. ‘You mustn’t waste what time you have left in vain regrets, my dear, on the contrary, she’ll need cheering and supporting. Happily, you’re near at hand, and whether she stays in hospital or goes home, you’ve only to let me know your wishes. Is there a relative anywhere who could come to stay with you to help care for her?’
‘I really don’t know, sir. She’s rather lost touch with her relatives in Ireland – there’s an unmarried sister, and I’ll write to her to ask how things stand, whether she or any other woman member of the family could come over.’ Shelagh paused, and asked the question that doctors have been asked for time immemorial. ‘How long, Mr Kydd?’
He shrugged. ‘Who can say, Shelagh? Your guess is as good as mine – a month, perhaps, or maybe two or three. You know how impossible it is to predict in terminal—in cases like this. The main aim is to keep her as comfortable as we can. There’ll be a bed for her here whenever she needs it.’
‘Thank you, Mr Kydd.’
‘I can’t help feeling pleased that you’ll be staying with us for a while,’ he said with a smile. ‘Our patients will always be giving us new problems to solve. By the way, I intend to take our Mrs Blake to theatre on Friday, and we’ll be under orders from Dr McDowall regarding her medication for the epilepsy – but he’ll be under our supervision as obstetric surgeons, so we’d better not fall out!’ He chuckled. ‘I think we’re going to have a few disagreements before he’s finished his course, but I’m confident that he’ll find the “old man” and the senior houseman – I mean woman – rather more than he bargained for!’
It was impossible not to smile, and Shelagh was grateful. ‘I’d better get back to Maternity, sir – I need to carry on as normal, and I can see my mother at any time of the day or night. Thank you again, Mr Kydd.’
‘Good girl, Shelagh.’ His smile and handshake hid the pity he felt for her.
Ever since Jennifer Gifford had excitedly reported that she had started getting morning sickness, Phyllis had begun to experience unexplained doubts about the pregnancy, and was not surprised when she received Jenny’s frantic phone call before seven two days later.
‘Oh, Mum, I’m losing blood – a lot of blood, it’s pouring out – oh, Mum, what shall I do?’
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‘Get Tim to send for whoever’s on call at the surgery, straight away, Jenny dear – and try to keep calm. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’
‘Oh, this is the end!’ wailed Jenny. ‘I’m no use, no good, I’m barren – barren! Tim’ll have to divorce me and marry a woman who can give him a child! It’s not his fault, he’s had all those blasted sperm counts and froze his testicles in that icy water – but it’s me, I’m the culprit, I’ll leave him for his own good, I’m a failure!’
And so she continued for the rest of the day. Tim took the morning off from work, but was unable to comfort her. He turned to his mother-in-law when he too shed tears, not so much for the disappointment as for his wife’s desperation.
‘I’ve told her again and again, Phyllis, I don’t mind if we don’t have kids, as long as I’ve got her – only she won’t listen, and I’m at my wit’s end. What can I do to make her see that I love her, and don’t want another woman, not if she had twenty bloody kids – oh, Phyllis, don’t ask me to put my trust in God. He’s been a cruel bastard to my poor Jenny!’
‘Ssh, ssh, Tim, that sort of talk will get you nowhere, though I can sympathise with how you must feel,’ Phyllis told him, cradling his head on her shoulder, just as she’d tried to comfort her daughter. Their GP, Dr James had called and said he felt fairly sure that the bleeding was menstrual, and not an early miscarriage, but either way it made no difference, and all he could do was inject a strong sedative to calm Jenny for the time being, write out a sick note and advise rest and reassurance.
Except that there was no reassurance to be had. Marion and her husband had sent their sympathy, and cards arrived from Jenny’s colleagues at Everham Primary. Jeremy North phoned to tell her to take as much time off as she needed, though he knew she would be badly missed as Christmas was looming up with all its concerts, plays and parties; it couldn’t have come at a worse time, he thought gloomily. At least he had managed to despatch Catherine to her aunt and uncle at Basingstoke, and his sister had assured him that the poor girl could stay with them for as long as she liked – even over Christmas if that was what she wished. ‘As you know, Jerry, we’ve been disappointed in our hopes of a family, and we’re only too glad to help out with yours. The poor girl’s only seventeen, isn’t she?’
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