The Girl Now Leaving

by Betty Burton

  At the crossroads they parted company as usual, Ralph pressing on into the Lampeter area, notorious for its poverty – famed for nothing else to some – home to scores of families, most of whose lives were spent keeping their heads above water. Some failed and sank, children being taken into care and parents going God-knew-where, leaving a bit of space for some other family to fill. That morning, Ray heard that his father’s ship was to return to home port this year. That thought, and his mother’s condition filled his mind.

  He scarcely knew his father. Once or twice a year they would hear from him, usually by postcard depicting a scene from the place where he went ashore. These had been fixed around the frame of the only picture hanging in Number 110. A framed picture in Lampeter Street indicated that Vera Wilmott still held on to the remnants of her pride.

  As he neared home, he was forced to think about the homecoming in relation to his mother. What Chick Manners had thought was Ray having the hump about something was in fact intense anxiety. What he had seen that morning had scared him to death. When he was almost ready for work, he did as he usually did on early shift, taken her a drink of tea and a bit of toast. He gave himself ten minutes extra because he knew that she would be fretting about Lu and he had planned to sit with her and have a chat.

  When he had tapped gently on the bedroom door and put his head round, they had both jumped out of their skins. His mother had obviously not heard him come upstairs; Ralph had jumped because of the state she was obviously in. He had slopped the tea and turned his head away, whilst she had dragged the top coverlet around her. He’d almost been too embarrassed to move. She’d sat down on the edge of the bed clutching the cover, as embarrassed as he, and for a moment or two each had been at a loss to know what to say.

  But it was no use pretending, he had seen the state she was in, and she knew that he had. The old-fashioned petticoat she used to sleep in was soaked with blood; there was a pool on the floor and her feet and legs were smeared, as was the coverlet with which she had been trying to mop herself.

  ‘Oh dear, Ray, I’m so sorry. It looks worse than it is. I didn’t hear you come up.’ She was near to tears and afraid, and no wonder.

  Scared as he was, he hadn’t been able to bear her polite stoicism, and it had been that which gave him the impetus to go into the room. He put the tea down on the stool that served as a bedside chest and stood hovering. He hadn’t dared touch her. ‘What is it, Mum? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Ralph, I’ll be all right. When you hear Dotty putting her ashes in the dustbin, just ask her to pop in.’

  ‘Pop in be blowed, Mum. Put your legs on the bed and don’t you move. I’ll go and fetch Dr Steiner. Here, have a drink of tea, it’s sweet, that’s good for shock.’ He hadn’t listened to her protest, but had wrapped her around with the coverlet, shaken Kenny roughly awake, told him that Mum was in bed and to get his trousers on and watch she didn’t faint.

  ‘What’s wrong then?’ He looked stupid with sleep.

  Ralph, who was not one to panic, hauled Ken out of bed and flung his trousers at him and said fiercely, ‘For Christ’s sake, put a move on, she’ll bleed to fucking death if I don’t run for Dr Steiner quick.’ The use of this obscenity, which was rarely heard in any family home, spurred Ken to leap into action.

  Dr Steiner was not only the GP in this most unfavoured part of town, he was, with the splendid Mrs Steiner, a confidant, educator, occasionally a dispenser of potions for women in trouble, or of the strong green stuff for patients who had reached the extreme of endurance with pain and wanted no more. Abortion and euthanasia? Perhaps. Dr and Mrs Steiner never made a move that wasn’t compassionate. He was in Number 110, his trousers and jumper pulled over his pyjamas, within a few minutes of Ray’s ringing of the emergency bell. Shortly after that Vera Wilmott was in the ambulance and on her way to St Mary’s.

  Now, before Ray reached Lampeter Street, he turned in the direction of the hospital. He had left Ken to tell the other Wilmotts. Important, because there would be family ructions if they heard the news second-hand. The Wilmotts were easily slighted and quick to take offence. Ray wanted no irate aunties on his back, nor did he want anybody letting Lu know about it; he impressed on Ken that he must make that clear to Uncle Hector.

  Inside the hospital he was close-questioned about his relationship with Vera Wilmott and, having established that, in the absence of Arthur Wilmott, who was somewhere in the South Atlantic, he was her nearest relative, he was escorted along the glossy, carbolic-fumed corridors, upstairs and along even more dangerously glossy corridors and told to wait in the corridor. Eventually he was told, Doctor will see you.

  The doctor was not one of St Mary’s regular specialists in gynaecology, but a visiting surgeon – a mister, in fact. Surprisingly young for a specialist. He fiddled with some notes without looking up and waved Ralph to a chair. ‘Be with you in seconds.’ Ralph forced himself to sit with his back against the chair. His white knuckles and working jaw muscles indicated his state of mind. He cleared his throat nervously as the surgeon looked up. ‘Your mother, right? Mrs Vera Wilmott, 110 Lampeter Street. Mr Wilmott is a rating serving in the Navy, at present aboard his ship?’ He spoke slowly, as though Ray might not understand, or that these were important facts to consider.

  ‘Yes, I told the nurse that.’

  ‘Well, Mr Wilmott, I am Mr Bathouse, a gynaecological surgeon.’ He said the latter as though to query whether Ray knew what that might be. Ray nodded. ‘I have to tell you that in the absence of Mrs Wilmott’s next-of-kin, I was forced to take a decision to remove the womb.’

  Ray clutched the edge of the chair. In spite of the mixed emotions he was experiencing, he held on to his dignity.

  ‘Normally one would consult the husband, but in view of the haemorrhaging, there was no option but to go ahead with the procedure to perform a hysterectomy. In any case, Mrs Wilmott was able to agree to the surgery herself.’

  ‘How is my mother?’

  ‘She is recovering quite well from the anaesthetic.’

  ‘I should like to see her.’

  ‘Too soon, I’m afraid. She is barely back from theatre. Anaesthetics take some time to wear off, and then she will be sedated and given a strong analgesic… pain-killer.’

  ‘I realize that. I just want to see her. I don’t care if she hasn’t come to, I just want to see that she’s alive.’

  ‘My dear young man, of course your mother is alive, very much so. Indeed, now that she is rid of her enormous fibroid, she is likely to feel better than she has for years.’

  ‘I shan’t be any bother… I just want to see her.’

  ‘You will be allowed in at visiting time tomorrow.’

  ‘I must see her today.’

  The important man spun his fountain pen impatiently.

  ‘Listen, sir, if you had taken your mother a cup of tea up and found her standing in a pool of blood looking as if she’d been attacked by a mad axeman, and then seen her rushed off in an ambulance and been told you couldn’t go with her; and then if you’d had to go to work and keep your mind on it as if nothing had happened; and then been told that she’d been cut open and bits of her taken out, wouldn’t you want to just have a look at her… sir?’ Ralph was pale and stiff with the stress of speaking his mind to such a powerful and important man.

  Mr Bathouse tapped his teeth with his pen, opened a packet of cigarettes and said, ‘Have a smoke, Mr Wilmott.’ Ralph drew a deep breath and then expired deeply. ‘Thanks, but I don’t.’ There was a pause whilst the doctor lit up. ‘I’m sorry, sir, if it sounded as if I was blowing my top, but I’ve been that worried at work. I shouldn’t have been so personal.’

  ‘I wish that I could say that I understand, Mr Wilmott, but I’m afraid that is beyond me. I haven’t had a mother since I was four.’

  Ralph would have liked to cry. He didn’t really want to hear somebody else’s troubles, but he didn’t want to get on the wrong side of this man either.

  �
�But you are right, Mr Wilmott, in my profession it is not always easy to remember that there is a person under the sterile sheets. Rather it is an interesting case… a human being, of course, but detached; a person in a vacuum, perhaps. Mine can often be a dramatic profession, as it was with your mother’s emergency: the operating room is not called a theatre for nothing.’

  ‘Perhaps I could come at visiting time this evening then?’ Ray said hopefully.

  The surgeon rose, stubbed out his cigarette, went to the door and called, ‘Nurse!’ The response was immediate. ‘Take Mr Wilmott to the recovery ward.’ The nurse raised her eyebrows. ‘If Sister queries it, then refer her to me. Now, Mr Wilmott, no conversation with my patient.’ Ray nodded agreement and Mr Bathouse smiled, ‘I’ll be on the carpet before Sister if you do.’

  ‘Promise, sir. And thank you for… you know, what you did for her this morning. I can tell you, when I went in that room it put the wind up me.’

  He saw her, a glimpse only, but it was enough. He was glad that she was still out, he couldn’t bear to think of what was covered by the stiff sheets, or of how she would feel when she came round. She looked dreadful. The nurse reassured him that this was normal and that everything was fine, and that he should bring in these things. She gave him a list of necessities. He left the coolness of the hospital and went out into the warm air and sat on a wall and read the list. It seemed very long.

  He contemplated asking Dotty or the aunties to go and get the things, but just now he couldn’t face them, so he went down to the Co-op himself and drew a Clothing Club cheque for five pounds to be paid back over twelve months. When he had paid off the last Clothing Club, he had said that in future they would try to steer clear of buying anything on tick, and his mother had agreed. It hadn’t been easy all that time when Lu was sick, the Doctor’s Club had lapsed and they already owed Dr Steiner for that, and now there would be other fees and bills. Had their mother kept up the hospital insurance? It was something like a pound a year, the first thing people in debt let go. Ah well, it’s no use worrying about that now; time enough later.

  The brave face he had put on when standing up to the surgeon held sufficiently for him to go to the ladies’ clothing department and ask if he could speak to the manageress. She was charming and understanding and invited him to sit in the staff room and wait for her to send around to the various necessary departments. ‘Slippers are not listed, she would want slippers, and toiletries, perhaps eau-de-cologne?’ Having agreed that she should use her discretion, Ralph relaxed for the first time that day and waited. A shy assistant brought him a cup of tea. He was slightly embarrassed at having to approve the choices. Three night-gowns, blue, pink and green with a sprig pattern. Three hand-towels, two face-flannels, soap in a soap-dish, and various other items deemed essential. He also approved a tube of Innoxa hand-cream because the manageress assured him that the air in hospitals was very drying to the skin. Ralph was past caring and approved everything. In for a penny, in for a pound, he told himself. He’d ask for a bit of overtime. Overtime was often given to men who needed to earn an extra quid in an emergency. Freemasons were not the only men who saw one another right in bad times.

  * * *

  Not long after Ray had left, the sound of his voice had reached her consciousness and Vera Wilmott had lifted her eyelids a fraction. Bright sunlight filtered through the neat, pleated cotton screens. She closed them again and drifted off to where voices echoed, words that she could not quite understand. Footsteps. She drifted back to the sunlight and heard a distant clatter of plates and cutlery. Potato and apple. The smell made her feel nauseous, but before it could bother her she drifted off into warmth and restfulness.

  Later she was drawn back, to become aware of a dull, aching, painful, sore hollow that seemed to stretch like a band across her belly. It hurt, the pain was raw, but in its way it felt cleaner and more bearable than the pain she had put up with for so long. Too tired to open her eyes again, she lay still, slowly becoming aware of her surroundings.

  She had had the big operation that all women dread, taking it all away. This pain she could stand. This pain was welcome. This pain was almost cheerful because she had signed for the surgeon to take it all away. No more mouths to feed when Arthur went back to sea. She remembered Lu. Thank God she had gone over to Ted and May’s. Now, Lu would always be her youngest. Perhaps when she was on her feet again she might be able to get back to the factory. On piecework, they might get out of debt.

  The screens were rolled apart sufficient to allow a nurse to slide in. ‘You’re back with us then, Mrs Wilmott.’ Speaking as though Vera might be simple and hard of hearing.

  Vera hauled up her eyelids and the corners of her mouth, and agreed that she was.

  * * *

  Lu realizes that she must have dozed off. She looks up and discovers that Aunty May and Bar have moved on several rows and are now walking back. She jumps to her feet and falls back into the straw, her head spinning, and hears Aunty May say, ‘Whoops’, as she runs along the strawberry rows. ‘Oh dear, pet, perhaps you been too long in the sun?’

  ‘I fell asleep.’

  Aunty May feels her brow. ‘You are a touch warm, best be careful, though I dare say it’s just that you jumped up too quick. You look fine to me. Why don’t you and Bar go on back down to the house? Have a bit to eat, there’s things in the big larder, but don’t cut into the new pie, and put a bit of something on a plate for Mr Strawbridge, will you, Bar? I’ll be upalong when I finished to the fence. I made some lemonade.’

  Bar, having clocked up another hour in the fields, doesn’t mind at all going back to the house. Mrs Wilmott has pies, something they only get at home if their ma buys one – and that’s not often.

  Aunty May says to go back along the lane way because it’s shadier.

  ‘Your aunty says you got a new skirt, that right?’

  ‘One of my other aunties run it up in the stay fact’ry, and a top to go with it.’

  ‘What’s the stay fact’ry?’

  ‘It’s where women go to work and they do the corsets.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, you know corsets, don’t you?’

  ‘A course, it’s they pink things they sell in the shop.’

  ‘It’s for making ladies’ stomachs flat.’

  ‘I shouldn’t like that.’

  ‘You have to when you grow up.’

  ‘I won’t. I’d sooner have a round belly like my ma’s. Anyway, I shan’t have no babies, then it will stop flat down.’

  ‘Why won’t you?’

  ‘Because I’m going to live by myself, in a little, tiny house, with a nice chair and a bed and a fire inside the house.’

  They dawdle idly. It is April. Bright dapples of midday sun come through the ancient trees on one side of the lane. Lu is surprised at how close they can go to some birds without them fluttering; even then they only fly a few yards away. It seems hard to believe that it was only yesterday that Uncle Hec’s lorry came along here, brushing aside the twigs and buds as they hit the windscreen. Perhaps it is because she has fallen asleep three times and each time she awakens the place seems to be a bit more familiar. She points into the hedge bottom. ‘We got flowers like that back home.’

  Bar looks a bit mystified, for they are celandines, the most common and long-seasoned flower imaginable. ‘Celandines.’ She picks one. ‘Louise …? What’s your other name?’

  ‘Wilmott, of course.’

  ‘Oh, a course it is. Louise Wilmott, do you like butter – very much, much, a little, or not at all? Answer the truth, or you shall pay a forfeit.’

  ‘Very much.’

  Bar holds the flower close to Lu’s chin. ‘You tell the truth. Now test me. You have to say the whole thing, else you can’t make me pay the forfeit.’

  Lu does as she is told, standing in the middle of the lane, a thing that would be impossible to do in the streets back home. Bar answers, ‘Very much’, and Lu does the test that children
have done for unknown generations. ‘Not true, not true, it hardly shines at all. You have to pay a forfeit.’

  Bar grins. ‘I know, it don’t never shine much on my skin, I expect it’s too dark.’

  Lu tucks the flower in Bar’s hair. ‘It looks lovely in your hair though.’

  ‘What about my forfeit?’

  Lu thinks. ‘Why did you say you wanted a fire inside the house?’

  ‘That’s not a forfeit; you’re supposed to make me climb a tree or jump a wide ditch, or carry you.’

  ‘I know, I just wondered why you said it.’

  ‘Because that’s what I’d like. A cooking fire with a black oven, inside, like Mrs Wilmott.’

  ‘I mean, what do you mean inside? Where else could you have a fire?’

  ‘Outside, of course, like ours is.’

  Lu is puzzled, but doesn’t like to show her ignorance more than she has already. ‘Your forfeit is that you must come again tomorrow.’

  Bar laughs. ‘That’s an easy one. Mrs Wilmott wants me every day you are stopping here. I’ll tell you what I’ll do for a forfeit. I’ll weave you a wreath to go all round your hat.’ Lu has never seen anyone wind and plait so swiftly; two lengths of thin willow, still with its new pussy-buds, a strip of new ivy growth, and into these she binds flowers of the April hedgerow and some premature May finds: pink campion, brittle stitchwort, white cow parsley, yellow Alexanders and celandines. When she has finished, she bands Lu’s charity hat. Lu takes it off to look at. ‘That’s lovely!’ and tries the hat on Bar. It sinks down well over Bar’s brow, making them giggle.

  ‘I wish I could do that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Make a crown like that.’

  ‘Why can’t you?’

  Lu shrugs her shoulders. ‘We haven’t got any of this stuff at home.’

  ‘It’s only hedge flowers.’

  ‘We haven’t got hardly any… well, only celandines and dandelions and ivy. We haven’t got this other stuff, only those pussy-cats sometimes when our teacher brings them in. Not often.’