Another day. Another room. The whizzing and whirring of machinery.
They are cleaning my blood. My blood is being taken out of my body to be swished through a machine with knobs and dials on. There’s probably bleach in there, some sort of sterilizing fluid. I shall finish up with Domestos in my veins. This will kill ninety-nine per cent of all household germs. What about the other one per cent? Should I worry about it? Dear God, let me not be a candidate for dialysis now!
She turned her head. No. There was just the one clear tube in her arm. Whatever the noise was, it was not connected with or to her. Above her head a saline drip. Drip-drop-dripping, drip-drop-dropping . . .
Hypnosis. Now they are trying to mesmerize me into submission. I shall fight the good fight. Why is my head such a mess, why can’t I think in straight lines?
How many days now? They were talking again. Talking about why she could only think round corners. ‘She’s had so much to cope with . . . mumble, mumble.’ Then later, ‘The kidneys were clearing none of it, antibiotics . . . anaesthetic . . . mumble, mumble.’ She wanted to scream at them, to tell them to speak up, but her mouth was dry. ‘There will have been hallucinations, I should think. And, of course, she’s diabetic.’
Yes. I am a freak. Bring in the spectators, eh? On with the show, the show must go on. It’s pantomime time, folks! Where’s the magician? Perhaps if I try hard, I might become invisible. Though I must stay. There is a reason for staying. It is down a corridor somewhere. Boothroyd is going in the national press. Such a long way home . . .
‘She’s had only one visitor.’ The nurse sounded sad.
Doctor Food-In-The-Moustache fiddled with his tie. He was something of a fiddler, always messing about with thermometers and gauges. There was one in every class at school. Two, sometimes. She didn’t go to school any more, though. There had been a caravan, a cold caravan with just a paraffin heater. How long ago? He coughed again.
‘Mrs Carter’s been every day.’
Good old Mo! Why hadn’t she been awake for Maureen?
‘And it would seem that Mrs C’s been instructed by this one not to tell us anything. It looks as if our Katie wants to be alone. Should have been a bloody film star!’ Kate promised herself that she would get him later. Where it hurt, possibly in the cheque book.
‘Well, she does have her rights, Doctor. If she doesn’t want her family and friends fussing round the bed . . .’
‘Hmm.’ Phlegm rattled ominously yet again. Kate decided that he was a candidate for double pneumonia. ‘Shame, though. She looks so lost and lonely.’
‘Getting sentimental in your old age, Doc?’
‘The girl’s fighting for her life. Any worse, and she’ll have to go to the district hospital. And I don’t want to move her . . .’
‘I . . . will . . . not . . . be moved,’ managed Kate at last.
She caught them smiling as she slipped back into the endless dream.
Standing in Miss Ashe’s office. ‘These phone calls from your husband really must stop.’
‘It’s OK, I’ve got an injunction. If he phones me here or comes near my flat, he will be fined or put in prison.’
‘But why are you resigning, Mrs Saunders? Are you going into another post?’
‘No. I’m finishing with teaching.’
‘Is it because of the phone calls? And how will you live?’
‘It’s nothing to do with phone calls. And I’ll manage, Miss Ashe. There’s more to life than teaching. A lot more.’
She knew it was a dream, because she was whisked now from Head Teacher’s office to a strange place that was half caravan, half her flat on Chorley New Road. Maureen. Lipstick smudged across her two front teeth, hair escaping from a hurriedly donned scarf, eyes wide with shock and disbelief. ‘You have to let me tell them! I can’t go on saying you’ve moved to Manchester. Let me tell your mother, at least! Please let me send for Rachel, please? I’m taking you to the nursing home. Let me fetch your mother.’
‘No.’ The wind rattled a blind on the caravan window, yet Kate could reach out and touch the Paisley shawl on the old armchair by the big fireplace in her own living room.
Maureen was bouncing around in an agitated fashion. The caravan rocked. ‘But you look so ill. What if you go into a coma all by yourself? Someone should know how ill you are.’
‘The doctors know. Diabetes can be real fun, you should try it some time. I shall be in hospital soon. In and out, in and out . . .’
‘Then Geoff must be informed.’ Waves crashed against rocks, but that was silly, there were no waves on Chorley New Road . . . ‘You must not carry on with this stupidity, Kate. Why? It’s verging on lunacy! I’m taking you to hospital, then I’m getting Geoff . . .’
‘Tell him, Maureen, and our friendship will be over.’
‘BUT WHAT IF YOU DIE?’
Kate stirred in the hard hospital bed. I am here. I am dying. But no, I shall not allow myself to die. There is a plan, and I have so much to live for now. There’s . . . there’s down the corridor and there’s Boothroyd. I am KAZ and Boothroyd is mine. They are doing an offer of tea towels with Boothroyd on them. Did I do that picture? Yes. In the caravan. Yes, I did the cartoon for the tea towel. And seven weeks’ advance work. I have to get out of here to keep my spot in the paper. The editor knows I’m here. He promised not to send flowers. Perhaps I am coming back now. Perhaps I can go down the corridor . . .
‘Good morning, Katie.’
Bloody nurses. Always so cheerful, they are. And so flaming false.
‘I’ve brought your breakfast. The insulin and sugar levels are balanced and your kidneys have picked up fine. Isn’t it wonderful? There we are now, just a wee bit of porridge . . .’ Eat it up. Come on, mouth, open. There, she has gone. Nursie with her plastic smile is no longer with me.
Damn these dreams! Where is he? Where is my son? Why have you taken him away from me? You had no right. Tell me where he is!
Gone. Down the toilet with your hopes.
No! He is in Boothroyd Junior! He can’t be in the toilet and in Junior! Look at Boys’ Laughs! Junior is my son. He’s not just a duck, he’s my . . . All those months of hiding. Maureen bringing the shopping, the two Misses shooing Geoff from the door, Melanie on the phone, ‘But when can I see you, Mum?’ For what? Which is true? How do I find the truth?
A handsome stranger sitting on the edge of the bed, beautiful blue eyes and wavy brown hair. Sister will not be pleased; visitors must not sit on the edges of beds . . .
‘Mrs Saunders. Remember me?’
Talk to him, you fool. Stop sulking. ‘Yes. Just about. My faculties are not as sharp as they might be.’ She remembered him now. Yes, she definitely remembered him.
He smiled tentatively. ‘I teach at Lark Lane. You had my sister in your class until she . . .’
‘Until she died.’ Leukaemia. Pretty girl, dark hair and impossible violet eyes. ‘You were her guardian, weren’t you?’
He nodded. ‘Our parents were killed when Rosie was very small. I brought her up. You were so kind to her, Mrs Saunders. She loved you.’
Yes, she loved me. There were cards on a string above the bed. She had done her homework. Come back, Kate. Don’t go into the nightmare again. Look at him – speak to him!
She raised her head. ‘We all loved Rosie.’ She stared at him. Was he trustworthy? He looked trustworthy. Strong face, broad shoulders, kind eyes. ‘Don’t tell anyone I’m here, will you? I’m supposed to have emigrated.’
‘Where to?’
She smiled for the first time in weeks. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. Timbuctoo. Or three, if you like. How did you find me?’
He hesitated a fraction. ‘My . . . friend is a porter here.’ Then, in stronger tone, ‘I’m homosexual.’
‘Are you? I’m Sagittarius.’
He laughed heartily. ‘That has to be one of the most original reactions I ever had! How long have you been in here?’
‘Most of my life. Have we had Christmas?
’
‘Few weeks to go yet. Can I do anything for you?’
Kate stared up at him. This was a crazy moment, or was it the beginning of a miracle, the start of her recovery, a first step towards life? Because she felt so close to him, as if the two of them had been joined for years, joined at the hip, inseparable, paired, twinned. Yes, this was crazy.
He was sad. In spite of all the surface frivolity, she could have almost reached out and touched the grief. It was raw and sore, just beneath the surface, just barely covered by a thin parchment of normality. Their eyes locked for several moments, as if each were reading the other’s mind and soul.
They were coupled, the two of them, attached one to the other by and through Rosie. Kate’s thoughts were still somewhat dislocated, yet she recalled that awful long night so clearly. They had been strangers, yet because of his sister, they were now almost friends. No, more than friends. Perhaps people who sat together during a death were always united thereafter?
But she knew him. She knew him as well as she would ever know anyone. To this man she would and could talk; in this man she knew she might confide. It was madness, the whole thing was odd. She would never be able to explain it, yet her trust in him was suddenly and blindingly implicit.
‘Can I do anything for you?’ he repeated quietly.
She thought about this. ‘Yes,’ she said at last. ‘You can go and see my son. He’s in an incubator somewhere miles away. I wouldn’t know him myself, but the name will be on the cot. He’s Michael. Michael John Saunders. Only don’t tell anyone about him because I had him aborted months ago.’
‘Did you? How strange.’
Her grin widened. ‘I had to have an abortion because of my diabetes. But I chickened out at the last minute and spent the night in a Liverpool hotel.’
The visitor chuckled. ‘Alone?’
‘No. I shared my bed with a bottle of champagne. It altered my perspective and buggered the insulin good and proper.’ There! She was talking sensibly, coherently, even wittily!
His eyes widened. ‘But how did you conceal the . . . ?’ Words failed him as he marvelled at what she had done. Whatever her reasons, the task must have been a monumental one.
As if a dam had suddenly burst, words poured from a mouth that had been sealed for far too long. ‘At first, I thought I might confide in my mother. But we had a big row about that abortion I pretended to have, so that left just Maureen. I quit school before the bulge became too obvious, told Maureen Carter the truth, and after that she looked after me. I lived in a caravan till Mo found me almost in a coma. And here I am, here I’ve been ever since. The only problem was my poor daughter. I still don’t know what to do about her.’
He took hold of her hand and held it gently. ‘What’s . . . er . . . what’s the basic problem? If you don’t mind my asking?’
She shrugged and sighed heavily. ‘I married the wrong man and he had the wrong mother. They were a bad influence on my first child, and I wasn’t letting them sink their claws into a second.’
‘They’re sure to find out, though. Especially if you hang around in Bolton. Everything gets dug up in the end, which is why I’m moving jobs.’
‘Because of your homosexuality?’
His eyes were clouded as he gripped her hand more tightly. ‘Yes. There have been a few remarks, so I’m off to Liverpool. Not yet, though. And when Mark said there was a Mrs Kate Saunders in here, I simply had to come and see you. After all you did for Rosie . . .’
She swallowed. ‘That was awful. Her dying like that.’
‘Yes. Yes, it was. I still miss her. And I can’t throw her clothes and dolls away. When I’m in a maudlin mood, I sit in her room and cry till Mark comes and finds me.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Although she didn’t enjoy his misery, it helped somehow, made her own recent mess seem trivial in comparison. ‘If I could bring her back for you . . . When are you going to Liverpool?’
‘In a few months. After Easter.’
‘And Mark?’
‘He’ll be a weekend visitor. I’m buying a semi-detached in Crosby.’
‘The posh end.’
‘That’s right. Debtors’ retreat, all fur coats and no knickers.’ He stared at her for a long time. ‘I like you. I actually do like a lot of women, you know. As friends. You’re . . . you’re special. Why don’t you come with me? Away from all the flak?’
‘What?’ Her breath was temporarily taken. ‘But . . . sorry. I do wear knickers, might not fit in in Crosby. And you shouldn’t make these offers on the spur of the moment, Mr Collins.’
‘Steve.’
‘I’ve got a flat for now, and I’ll find somewhere safer as soon as the baby’s strong. Don’t worry your head over me.’
‘What about money?’
‘I’ve a bit saved. And I’ll do some tutoring on a private basis. Then there’s . . . well . . . I draw, for comics and newspapers. We’ll manage. Go and see my baby.’
He turned and dragged a wheelchair across the ward. ‘Good job you’re in your own room,’ he muttered furtively. ‘Get out of bed.’
Her jaw dropped. ‘I tend to fall. It was a Caesarian and I think it upset the old kidneys somewhat.’
‘Stop being so bloody soft! You want to see your lad, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Then shift yourself.’ He dragged her from the bed, lifting her in strong arms and dumping her without ceremony into the chair. ‘OK?’
She nodded. ‘A bit dizzy. Still, at least I’ve had a conversation. This is the first time since the op that I’ve spoken sensibly, I think. You are a good influence on me, Mr Steve Collins.’
They crept silently down the corridor to the baby unit, only to be accosted at the door by Kate’s favourite doctor, the one with the moustache.
‘No food in it this time,’ she commented.
‘Pardon?’
‘Your moustache. There’s no soup in it. One day when you stood over me and talked as if I were already a corpse, you had tomato in your facial hair.’
He smiled. ‘You’re better. Get back to bed.’
Kate folded her arms. ‘Shan’t. Show me my son. Is he bigger now? Will he live?’
‘Yes to both. But you can’t go in without a mask.’
Kate glanced at Steve. ‘Tonto,’ she said fiercely. ‘Bring Lone Ranger’s mask.’
‘Aye aye, Kemo whatever. I’m not too hot on Apache.’
They donned their masks. ‘Hi-ho Silver, away,’ shouted Kate as they approached the door of the baby unit.
‘Shush,’ ordered the doctor. ‘There are sick babies in there. Is this Mr Saunders, by the way?’
Steve glanced down at the wheelchair. ‘Yes,’ he pronounced convincingly. ‘We just had a bedside reunion, it was the most moving moment of my life.’
‘Fool,’ spat Kate beneath her breath.
The baby was beautiful, four pounds of humanity in a clear plastic case. He lay on his stomach, fists clenched into tight knots, a funny little bonnet on his head. A feed-tube, which ran to a stopper outside the crib, was fastened to the side of his face with paper tape.
‘They’re feeding him through his nose,’ whispered Kate. ‘Isn’t he gorgeous? I want to take him home.’
‘You wanted to take Rosie home, remember?’
Kate nodded. ‘She needed a mother’s love. So does Michael and so does my daughter. But you did well for Rosie, Steve. Better than I’ve done for Melanie. Rosie was well adjusted for a kid without parents.’
‘Thanks.’ He peered closely at the tiny infant. ‘Handsome young devil. How the hell are you going to hide him?’
‘I don’t know. They make a lot of noise, do babies. As you say, I may have to come clean.’
‘Does no-one suspect?’
‘Only Maureen Carter, and she can be trusted. I don’t want Geoff to have him, Steve!’ Her tone was suddenly harsh. ‘I don’t want him or Dotty Dora getting hold of my boy. Can you imagine what they’d turn him into? Another like
Geoff, another who’ll need wet-nursing forever. I can’t allow that.’
Steve whistled beneath his breath. ‘Then you must come to Crosby with me. First though, you will have to explain yourself, to your daughter, at least. I mean, you can’t just bugger off without a word, can you?’
‘No. And I’m not so sure I’ll come with you . . .’
‘Where else would you go? How much money do you have?’
‘How much is the house?’
‘Three thousand.’
She studied him for a long moment. ‘Right. I’ll put a thousand down, can you match that?’ He nodded. ‘Then I’ll take a mortgage for five hundred and you can do the same. I’ll get a minder and teach part-time somewhere. This is crazy, isn’t it?’
He grinned broadly. ‘Naw. You’ll be safe with me, flower. And I’m good with kids, so’s Mark. We’ll have to do it legal and proper, just in case it doesn’t work out. Right?’
‘Right.’
They gazed at the baby for a long time. ‘That’s the only thing I regret,’ he said finally, ‘that I’ll never have a child.’
Kate glanced at her new-found friend. ‘That’s all right,’ she said solemnly. ‘You can borrow mine, old girl.’ Then they both got thrown out for laughing.
Kate had spent four whole days cleaning up. There were only two rooms, but she was weak in body, so it was sheer determination that pushed her along with mops and wet cloths and dry cloths and polish. Anybody would think she was expecting Queen Elizabeth herself to drop in, she thought as she poked between fireplace tiles with a matchstick wrapped in cotton wool. This was for her child. No, it was for her children. One lay in hospital; the other was about to visit this very afternoon.
She sank into the Paisley-shawled chair. Melanie. Yes, this was make or break time. Either Melanie would keep the secret, or she would run home and tell Daddy and Dotty. Oh Lord! Her life would not be her own if the child decided on the latter course. And if Geoff were to find out that Kate intended to take the baby to live in a house with a member of a persecuted minority . . . Still. She couldn’t hide a brother from Mel, wouldn’t hide him from her. But what an enormous weight this was, a terrible burden for such a young back.
Nest of Sorrows Page 27