Wives & Mothers

by Jeanne Whitmee

  She was at the bottom of the stairs when a figure rushed past, almost overbalancing her. She turned, clinging to the bannisters for support, and for a moment looked into the startled face of a youth she remembered being head boy at St Jasper’s two years ago. He ran through the hall in a panic, his shoes skidding perilously on the tiled floor. The front door banged shut behind him, while Mary clung desperately to the newel post, feeling sick and dizzy.

  Looking up, she saw that Paul stood at the top of the stairs, staring down at her. He wore a crumpled sweater and was fastening the belt of his trousers. His thin hair stood up around his head and his eyes were blank and colourless.

  ‘You fool,’ she hissed at him breathlessly. ‘How could you? In your own home and with one of your own boys — after all these years? You promised me all that was over when you married Elaine. I thought you were cured.’

  ‘Shut up, Mother. Just shut up, do you hear? You saw nothing. You understand nothing. You never did.’ His voice shook. ‘What I do is none of your bloody business. I thought this was your bridge day anyway. What the hell do you mean by coming back to spy on me?’ He came down the stairs towards her, a threatening look in his eyes. But Mary was not to be intimidated. Snatching an umbrella from the hallstand she advanced towards him up the stairs again and brandished it under his nose.

  ‘You pervert,’ she screamed. ‘You filthy, disgusting creature. I’ve tried with you, God only knows how I’ve tried, but you’ve never been anything but a failure and a disappointment. I lost the best of my two sons. You should have died, not Richard. I just thank God that your father never lived to find out.’ She prodded him in the chest with the umbrella. ‘What’s Elaine going to say when I...?’

  She crumpled instantly under the blow he dealt her and fell backwards. The umbrella dropped over the bannisters and skittered across the tiles. There was a series of dull thuds as her back bumped over the stair treads, then a sickening crack as her head struck the newel post.

  She lay spread-eagled upside down across the bottom two stairs, limp as a rag doll; her raised skirt displayed skinny nylon-clad knees and her arms outstretched like a scarecrow’s.

  Paul stood, poised halfway up the staircase, numb with shock as he stared down at his mother’s prone body. A feeling of overwhelming revulsion filled his chest and he clasped a hand over his mouth as he tasted bile. Christ, what had he done? More times than he cared to remember he had wished he had the courage to tell his mother to go to hell, and now he had killed her. Hatred filled his whole being as he stared down at the crumpled body. It seemed to him that his whole life had been dominated by women. How he hated them. All they ever did was deceive and despise him. He wished with all his heart that he had died instead of his brother. Now his life wouldn’t be worth living anyway. He thought of what was to come: the police; the trial; then prison. He had heard about what happened to his kind in prison.

  Stepping over his mother’s body into the hall, he lifted the telephone, carefully dialling 999. When he had requested an ambulance and given the address he went out to the garage and got into the car. It would be an accident. No one need ever know now. The Al. He knew just the spot. With luck it would be over quickly.

  He was deadly calm, his mind as clear and calculating as a computer. Automatically, he checked the fuel gauge to make sure he had enough petrol, then backed out of the garage and headed for the motorway.

  He’d been driving for about half an hour when he recognised that he was nearing the place. He’d seen it many times before. A high bank with trees at the bottom. There was a crash barrier but he knew that the car was powerful enough to break through it. He pressed his foot down to the floor and felt the car leap forward — the speedometer needle spun to ninety. He came to the bend in the road, saw the dull gleam of the metal barrier and felt the surge of adrenalin quicken his heartbeat and tighten his stomach. This was it.

  Metal screamed against metal as the car struck the barrier, then, with a terrible rending noise, it gave way and the car somersaulted crazily, down the bank. Gouging a path through the soft turf, uprooting young trees and saplings in its path, it finally came to rest on its battered roof, engine roaring and wheels spinning.

  *

  The cable reached Davos half an hour after they had left for the airport. On the flight back to London they made their plans. Elaine would tell Paul she wanted a divorce. She didn’t look forward to confronting him. One never knew with Paul. He could be so fiendishly devious when he chose. Patrick had promised to travel up to Edinburgh to see Cathy next weekend. He was sure the news would be welcome to her too, pretty certain that she already had a lover.

  As they sat side by side on the plane, Elaine looked down at the billowing clouds below and wondered if this was the right moment to tell Patrick that Tricia was his child. She decided against it. She would wait until everything had been settled. The most difficult hurdle was yet to come as far as she was concerned. Telling Paul she was leaving him and his mother — then breaking the news to Grace. All that was going to take courage, and she must do it alone. When it was all behind her, then she would tell Patrick. It would be a special moment; something to look forward to. Then the three of them could look forward to being a complete family at last.

  At Heathrow they decided to part company, saying goodbye at the carousel when they collected their luggage. Promising to keep in close touch, they clung to each other in a secluded corner for one final kiss.

  Patrick whispered, ‘It won’t be for long, darling. Soon we’ll be together for always.’

  When she came through customs Elaine was surprised to see Morgan waiting. She had assured him that she would make her own way home. One look at his face was enough to tell her that something was wrong. As he took her case she searched his eyes. ‘Morgan, what is it?’

  ‘You didn’t get the cable?’

  ‘Cable?’ Her heart leapt. ‘No. What is it? Is it Mum?’

  ‘No.’ He drew her to one side. Putting the case down he took both her hands. ‘Your mother is with me. She’s waiting in the car.’

  ‘Here? But why?’ Her heart almost stopped and she grasped his arm for support. ‘My God, Tricia! It’s Tricia, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, no, Elaine. Tricia’s fine. Listen, it’s Paul. He had an accident late yesterday afternoon.’

  She stared at him. ‘Accident? What kind of accident?’

  ‘In the car. He was very badly injured. I’m afraid. He’s in hospital — intensive care. They didn’t expect him to live through the night, but he’s still alive. I’ll drive you straight there now.’

  Grace was waiting in the back of the car. She put an arm around Elaine’s shoulders. ‘I had to come. I thought you might need me, darling. Morgan will drive us straight to the hospital.’

  ‘What happened?’ Elaine’s numbed mind was only just beginning to assimilate the facts.

  ‘He was driving — on the Al. He went over a bank. The police said the car must have gone out of control. He was lucky that someone saw it happen and managed to pull him clear before the car burst into flames. But I’m afraid he’s in a bad way, dear.’

  ‘What about his mother? Has someone told her?’

  ‘Not yet. As it happens she had a bad fall herself yesterday. She seems to have fallen on the stairs and knocked herself unconscious. They took her to hospital, but apart from slight concussion and shock she’s all right.’ Grace looked into her daughter’s face. ‘Elaine darling, I think you should prepare yourself. I talked to the doctors this morning. They didn’t expect Paul to survive, but he did. If he continues to live the chances are that he’ll be a helpless invalid for the rest of his life. You’re going to have to be very strong.

  *

  Mary lay in the end bed of the geriatric ward. She’d been furious when she found out they’d put her in with a lot of senile old people. When Elaine arrived she was fractious.

  ‘They say Paul’s been in an accident. I could have told him, rushing out of the house like that.’ S
he poked at Elaine with a sharp forefinger. ‘I knew something would happen if you went away.’ Elaine gently patted her arm. ‘Where was he going at that time of day, Mother? What happened?’

  Mary frowned. ‘Can’t remember. I’d been shopping. I was going to make the dinner. He just — rushed out.’

  ‘How did you fall?’

  Mary shook her head. ‘I was going to get my slippers. I started to go upstairs. After that it’s all a blank.’ She grasped Elaine’s arm with a grip like steel. ‘You won’t go away again, will you? They say I can go home tomorrow, but I can’t manage the house any more. And Paul will need nursing by the sound of it.’

  ‘No, Mother. I won’t go away.’

  The blue eyes peered into hers. They looked as sharp and keen as ever. ‘How is he? Any improvement?’

  ‘He’s — progressing.’

  The grip on her arm relaxed and after a moment or two Mary appeared to fall into a doze. Elaine sighed. The whole thing was like some terrible nightmare. She had learned from the doctor at the hospital this morning that Paul was paralysed. Paraplegic, he called it. It meant there was no feeling in his body from the waist down. There was a fear he might have suffered some brain damage too, but they wouldn’t know for sure until the swelling went down and they could see the X-rays more clearly. There had been talk of a rehabilitation centre — having the house adapted to accommodate a wheelchair; of sending someone to teach her the special nursing care he would need. Slowly, little by little, she had realised that what they were talking about was the shattering of her dream — a life sentence.

  She had telephone Patrick immediately afterwards. Trying hard to keep the tears out of her voice she had told him what had happened, and explained what it meant. He had been appalled, disbelieving — and unaccepting.

  ‘Elaine, what are you saying? You can’t stay after all that’s happened. What about me? What about us?’

  ‘I can’t walk out now, Patrick. You must see that. And I can’t lose the feeling that it would never have happened if I’d been here.’

  ‘How can you say that? You can’t possibly know.’

  But she could. Deep inside was the memory of the things he’d said on the night he told her that he knew Tricia was not his child. She felt guilty and ashamed — feelings she could not share with Patrick now. Whatever Paul was — whatever he had said — she had still cheated him. How could she desert him now?

  ‘How can you put him first?’ Patrick was saying. ‘Surely to God he’d be better off in hospital? For heaven’s sake think what you’re doing to us both. You can’t mean it, Elaine.’

  He had pleaded with her, on and on, urging her not to waste her life — not to throw away their chance of happiness like this. She had listened to his voice tearing at her heart until finally, unable to bear any more, she had very quietly hung up on him to weep her own silent, aching tears.

  Mary watched Elaine through the slits of her half closed eyes. They had all swallowed her story about not being able to remember. No one need ever know. Paul was a fool; a weak, stupid fool. He never could do anything right. She’d always had to push him in the right direction, plan and scheme and cover up for him. God only knew where he’d be if it wasn’t for her — mixed up in some unsavoury scandal, most likely; a social outcast without a job. But if Elaine ever found out the truth about what had happened that afternoon, she wouldn’t stay. Who could expect her to? And what would they do then?

  In her mind she went over the sequence of events again. She’d regained consciousness by the time the ambulance man came and found her. He said someone had telephoned to say there’d been a ‘fatal accident’. In his own panic-stricken way, Paul must have thought he’d killed her and rushed off typically to take the coward’s way out — to do away with himself. And he hadn’t even managed to make a good job of that. Still, it wasn’t her problem any more. Elaine would take care of them both now. After all, it was her fault in a way, wasn’t it? If she hadn’t gone selfishly swanning off to Switzerland none of it would have happened.

  Chapter Twenty

  1987

  As usual Harry had arrived early at the rehearsal theatre in Camden Town. Climbing the steps at the side of the stage he took the dust sheet off the piano and opened the lid. Then he sat down and ran his fingers experimentally over the keys. He pursed his lips. It could do with tuning. He’d mentioned it the last time he was here but they never seemed to take any notice. He flexed his fingers, wincing slightly and trying to ignore the twinges of pain in the joints. Arthritis — the dread of every musician. If he refused to acknowledge it, kept on playing and exercising his fingers, perhaps it would go away.

  As he let his hands drift up and down the keyboard he thought of the dreams he had once had. Concert pianist, solo entertainer... He smiled. Deep inside he’d always known he’d never reach those heights. It wasn’t that he wasn’t good, more that he’d never had the necessary drive. A good jobbing musician, that’s what he’d always been. When he was with Stella, in her heyday, there had been a little reflected limelight. That had been the nearest he had ever come to fame. It had touched him like she had, with the transitory warmth and colour of a flame. And with her it had died. Without realising it he had begun to play one of her songs, ‘Where Has Our Love Gone?’ Poor Stella. He still missed her.

  The pain in his fingers gradually eased and he began to warm up. He took off his jacket and hitched up his shirt sleeves, securing them with the expanding arm bands he always wore. The caretaker greeted him cheerily as he walked down the centre aisle, his cockney voice echoing slightly in the empty theatre:

  ‘Mornin’, Mr Wendover. Fancy a nice cuppa coffee?’

  ‘Thanks very much, Jack. I’d love one.’

  The little man climbed on to the stage and poured the coffee from a flask, grinning at Harry as he put the plastic mug on top of the piano, ‘’ow many ’opefuls this mornin’ then?’

  ‘About a dozen, I think. Mr Crichton will be here soon. Got any more of that coffee for him?’

  Jack winked. ‘I’ll nip round the caff in a bit and get a refill. Can’t ’ave ’is lordship goin’ without, can we?’

  ‘Certainly can’t.’

  Max Crichton, the conductor of the New World Youth Orchestra, arrived ten minutes later, filling the dingy little auditorium immediately with his luminous presence. Max was a young conductor who Harry admired very much. At twenty-nine he was already a well-known and respected name in the music world; a professional to his fingertips. But Harry knew all too well that professionalism wasn’t enough in the entertainment world. You needed dynamism — something he now recognised that he had never had. You needed a powerful personality and charisma, that elusive, magic quality that Max Crichton had in abundance.

  He stood at the orchestra rail, looking up at Harry with a smile on his handsome dark-bearded face. He wore his favourite clothes, cord trousers and a leather blouson over a rollneck sweater.

  ‘Good morning, Harry. I’m glad to see they’ve allocated you. Looks as though we’ve got a heavy morning ahead of us. I hope you’re feeling strong.’

  Harry grinned back. ‘When there’s a vacancy to work with you, there’s always a rush. And the standard’s usually high. I like playing for your auditions. It’s nice to see youngsters getting on.’

  It seemed no time at all to Harry since he was a young hopeful himself, burning with brash confidence and youthful enthusiasm. Sometimes he wondered where the years had gone — what had happened to his life since the days when he had played in the pit orchestras of variety theatres and travelled up and down the country with dance bands.

  A sudden flurry of activity at the back of the auditorium told him that the candidates were beginning to arrive. He stood up and took the list of names from Max, preparing to meet them.

  Two hours later they were coming to the end of the auditions. One after the other, the young violinists had climbed on to the stage to stand beside him and play a piece of their own choice, followed by the set p
iece, chosen by Max Crichton. The standard had been average, ranging from the merely competent to the technically accomplished, but Harry knew from the look on Max’s face as he sat there in the front row that none of them quite came up to his high standards. ‘People expect so little of youth, especially today,’ he’d said to Harry once. ‘I want to show them that we have the best young musicians in the world. Nothing but the best will do for us.’

  They were just about to conclude the morning session when there was a commotion at the back of the hall. Max had come up on to the stage and had begun to speak. He paused, frowning as the sound of raised voices cut through his speech. Shading his eyes he peered into the gloom at the back of the theatre, trying to see who was causing the fracas.

  ‘Is there anything wrong back there?’

  The caretaker appeared, his chirpy face bristling with indignation. ‘Young woman ’ere, sir — says she wants to audition. I’ve told ’er she’s too late and you’re done for the mornin’ but she won’t ’ave none of it.’

  Max’s dark eyes twinkled with amusement. ‘It’s all right, Jack. Let her come in.’

  Everyone turned to see a slender girl with straight blonde hair step through the doors at the back of the auditorium. She looked cool, except for the light of defiance in her bright blue eyes which was directed straight at Jack.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late, Mr Crichton,’ she called out to Max in a cool, clear voice. ‘There was some sort of dispute on the Underground and I got held up.’

  ‘That’s quite all right, Miss...’ Max consulted his list.

  ‘Kingston. Patricia Kingston.’ The girl had reached the front row and stood staring straight up into his eyes with her direct blue gaze. She seemed to exude confidence and her presence was such that it was all he could do to stop himself from moving instinctively towards her.

  ‘Well, now that you are here, I take it you’d like to play for us?’