by Annie Murray
He started off slowly. It was going to be all right, she decided, relaxing, her cheek pressed to his back. He was talking, but she couldn’t hear him. He started to pick up speed, and she could feel he was flinging out words with a violence which vibrated right through him.
‘What?’ she yelled. ‘I can’t hear you!’
He didn’t turn or say anything to her. Then she realized he was cursing and swearing, she could feel the force of the words, and knew he was in a world of his own and she might just as well not have been there. She was really frightened then.
‘Al – slow down!’
Instead they were picking up more speed, the bike going full throttle so that it began to judder, the light of the lamp jerking in the dusk.
‘Al – for God’s sake – you’ll kill us!’
She was tugging at him, her legs gripping so tightly to the saddle she felt as if the bones in her groins would crack.
‘Al, please – you’re scaring me!’ She started sobbing, hitting at his back, but he didn’t seem to hear whatever she did, and her cries cut out to a terrified gasp as the bike bumped into a hole in the road and he only just managed to keep it upright.
‘Stop . . .!’ She hated him suddenly for making her so afraid, just wanting to get off and be anywhere but on this hellish machine where she had no control and he didn’t seem to care about her at all. But there was no getting off, as they swung along the curved road up a hill, the night air beating against them and hedges, trees, gateways flashing past in a blur. She closed her eyes and buried her face against his back, crying to deaf ears for him to stop.
She felt, rather than saw, the bike reach the brow of the hill, and with a lurch inside her she knew that on the downhill it would go even faster. There was a bump at the top which left her stomach hanging sickeningly somewhere in the air, and then she felt them pick up speed even more, rushing downwards, ever faster, terrifying.
At the point when Alan lost control of the bike, she felt it at once. All she saw, opening her eyes, was the blur of faint outlines and darkness, but she felt the bike veer and hit the verge and a cry come out of her mouth and then she was wrenched away from Alan, being flung through the air, her arms and legs heavy, out of their element, then falling until the hard ground slammed into her from below.
Chapter Seventy-Three
‘You can see him now – just for a few minutes.’
The nurse led her along the ward to a bed where Alan was lying with his eyes closed.
‘He’s very drowsy,’ she whispered. ‘I doubt you’ll get much out of him.’
It was a shock. They’d told Linda what his injuries were, but the right side of his face was so bruised and swollen she could barely recognize him. There was something under the bedclothes, holding the weight of them off his legs, and above the line of the sheet she could see bandages round his left shoulder, up into his neck.
‘He’s in a mess,’ the nurse added disapprovingly. ‘He’s broken both legs, there are at least three cracked ribs and he’s dislocated his shoulder. He’s lucky it’s not worse.’
Linda sat on the chair by the bed, nursing her left arm in its sling. She had got away with scratches and bruises and a broken wrist, on which she had landed after being flung high away from the bike as it crashed. Alan had evidently clung tightly to it and gone down with it, he and the bike cartwheeling over together, and Alan ending up with it on top of him.
The ward was full of evening bustle, but she was oblivious to it. Her arm ached inside the cast and her head was throbbing. She had to move about very cautiously. Of course, they’d drunk a lot last night. When she came to, lying on the lumpy surface of the field, it had been pitch dark. All she could hear were night sounds: an owl, a car in the far distance, and her own heart. She was sure she’d heard that, thumping like a drum. She could remember lying there in the dark, gradually feeling colder. Nothing hurt, not until later. She was numb. Her head was all foggy, and although she thought about getting up, she never could seem to make her limbs move to do it. Vaguely, as if it was a dream, she wondered where Alan was. After a time she fell asleep, half waking on and off through the night, cold, but sinking back into unconsciousness again.
All she knew next was that it was dawn, and misty and she was wet. When she opened her eyes, everything seemed white – the sky and air – except for the black trousers of the man standing over her, accompanied by the hot breath of a brown dog.
‘Hello?’ the man was saying. ‘Miss – can you hear me?’
It seemed a queer question.
‘Yes,’ she said impatiently. ‘Course I can.’
‘You’ve had an accident – you and your friend. You look in better nick than he does.’
His car was parked by the road and he went and called an ambulance. All day she had been in Good Hope Hospital, getting patched up, sleeping. Her hands and face were scratched and she felt bruised all over. They said the police would tell her mother what had happened. And Alan’s father. But of course, she remembered, Alan’s father wasn’t going to be back for two more days.
She was about to lean forward and speak to Alan, but stopped herself. She wanted to let him sleep – he’d be more hung-over than her – but it was more than that. She wanted to look, to see him, while he was not looking back at her. Last night, on the bike, he had cancelled her out as if she wasn’t even there. He hadn’t cared about her fear. It had cut something off in her.
He looked fragile, that was her first thought. Such a skinny boy and so defenceless lying there. A wave of tenderness went through her, wanting to stroke his forehead, his dark hair, to comfort him, but she still held back. Mixed with her tenderness was a great sense of weariness. There were so many thoughts she had not allowed herself while she was with Alan. About him, and even more about herself. She had felt wanted, honoured, by the way he clung to her, needed her help, her love, to heal him. But all that had happened was him sinking, drinking more and more. She could never truly help, never be enough. Something caved in in her as she stared at him under the bald light of the ward. All his dreams were his escape from pain, but he would never finish a script for a film, never go and work in America. Would he ever be able to make something of his life, or just spiral down into the hurt of it, taking her with him? And hadn’t she taken shelter in him, used him as a reason to limit herself? It had felt so right, so exciting to begin with. Now all she could feel was the hurt and hopelessness of it.
If you stay with him, it will always be the same. It was almost as if she heard a voice whisper it. Save yourself.
Tears welled in her eyes. It felt like a door opening on to light, from the darkness in which Alan lived. Only lately had she noticed how dark it really was. And though her guilt and sorrow were overwhelming, so was her sense of relief.
‘Oh, Al, it’s no good – I can’t stay. I can’t do this any more. I’ve got to get out.’
She spoke the words aloud, but he couldn’t hear her.
Chapter Seventy-Four
‘What’s up, Lin?’
She heard Carol come limping into the room and felt her sit next to her on the edge of the bed. She lay on her bed, facing the wall, crying. She couldn’t seem to stop crying.
‘Mom says d’you want a cup of tea?’
Linda nodded. ‘OK.’
She wiped her face and turned to sit up, wincing. Carol went to the door for a moment and called down to Violet.
‘I’ll bring it up,’ Violet said.
That made Linda cry again. It was something to do with feeling looked after, and the way she knew that Mom would have been furious, the night before last, when she didn’t come home, and then her shock when the policeman appeared and told her there’d been an accident. Mom had come up to the hospital. When she saw Linda with only the sling on her arm and no other damage, she put her arms round her and wept.
‘I thought something much worse had happened. God, girl, don’t ever do that to me again. That boy deserves a good hiding . . .’
&nb
sp; She spent money on a taxi, of all things, to get them home. Linda had never been in a taxi before.
And since then, there had been such a feeling of gentleness in the house, of the preciousness of her being alive. When they were children, Linda realized, Mom had been so full of worries, looking after Dad and Carol, she hadn’t had much left for anyone else. She’d had so little attention for them. It wouldn’t go on like this, Linda knew, this special feeling, but it was something while it did.
That morning, when Linda woke, she’d also come on with her period. At the sight of the rusty blood she sat in the toilet and burst into tears. It was only then she realized how much she had been worrying, deep down, that she might be expecting a baby, even though the thought didn’t seem real. Now there was a gripey but reassuring ache in her belly.
‘Is your wrist hurting?’ Carol asked.
‘A bit. Aches.’ Linda looked at the plaster cast. It still felt an alien thing on her. ‘You’ve had much worse though.’
‘I got used to it,’ Carol said.
They sat in silence. Linda wiped her eyes. The window was open and a warm breeze blew at the flimsy curtain and they could hear some kids playing out at the front. They didn’t need to talk. Carol just sat with her. She could always do that, sit with you, very still, just being there. She looked at Linda and smiled her dimply smile.
‘Must be nice, not being in that chair any more,’ Linda said.
Carol nodded. ‘I can go down the park on my own.’ She picked up the old rag doll on Linda’s bed. ‘Poor old Polly. She needs new eyes.’
They heard Violet coming up the stairs.
‘Here you go. Brought you a couple of bits of toast.’
The toast smelt delicious, real butter melting across it. Linda’s eyes filled with tears again. ‘Ta.’
‘You feeling bad?’ Violet asked anxiously. ‘D’you think you had a bad bang on the head?’
‘No. I’m all right.’
‘You’ll want to go and see Alan, I s’pose?’ Violet asked.
Linda didn’t reply.
‘You can’t go back to work yet,’ Violet said. ‘We’ll have to let her know.’
For two days Linda stayed around the house, happy to withdraw, just to be there with Carol and the dogs while Mom was at work. And she knew she ought to go and see Alan, but didn’t feel well or strong enough. If she went back she might never be able to leave him. She tried not to think about him, lying there alone. One afternoon she took a couple of towels and lay out drowsily on the grass. For a time she stared at Snowdrop in her run, at her confined rabbit life, her quick breaths and staring red eyes.
‘Don’t you want to get out?’ she said to her.
Snowdrop stared back impassively at her. She never bothered to try and escape now, not like when she was young.
During those days, Linda started thinking again about Rosina. All she had ever seen were those pictures she had sent out of her long silence, and that glimpse of her at Joyce’s wedding, so nervous-looking, so afraid of facing them all, it seemed. When her mother came home that evening, she said, ‘Are you ever going to go and see Auntie Rosina?’
Violet sat down wearily. Lighting a cigarette, she took a drag and blew smoke at the ceiling.
‘Oh, I dunno. Sometimes I think I will, and then I think: well, she could’ve come to see us, couldn’t she? Properly, like, instead of how she was at the wedding. I mean Rosy and me, we got on all right, as kids, you know – rubbed along. But she’s made it clear she didn’t want us.’
She drew on the cigarette again and frowned. Linda noticed how lined her forehead had become.
‘Rosy was never like that – not stuck up. I dunno what happened to her.’
‘Was she being stuck up? I thought she looked scared.’
‘Well, what’s she got to be scared of?’ Violet said impatiently. ‘We’re only her flaming family, aren’t we?’
Linda could see her mother was not going to tackle this.
But there was something about Rosina that tugged at her, goaded her on. It was the unknown, the enigmatic glimpses of her, and something about a sense of kinship with her, that Linda felt instinctively. They looked alike, it was true, but it was something more than that. Something of her spirit.
By the time she went back to work – something else she had to change, she realized – she had decided that whether Mom wanted to or not, she had to go and find Rosina.
Chapter Seventy-Five
‘Are you quite sure Bernice is coming?’ Violet said anxiously as they sat on the bus. ‘I’m not sure I want to go if they’re not going to be there.’
‘She’ll come,’ Carol assured her serenely. ‘You know she said she wouldn’t miss it for anything.’
Violet was chewing the side of her finger. ‘Well, I hope so.’
She was dressed in her best frock – white with pink roses on – and white shoes. She was really pleased with the dress. It was the prettiest she had ever had and flattered her slim figure. And she had treated herself to the little white bag which lay in her lap. Rita was paying her generously, and was talking about them being partners in the business. You’ve got flair, love, she told Violet. And it’d take the pressure off me.
‘The other people are nice too.’ Carol looked up at her. Violet was always taken aback by her daughter’s trust in others. It was a precious thing, she decided. And she was getting better with people herself now, coming out of herself, with having to talk to customers in the salon.
They were on their way – a two-bus journey to Edgbaston – to an August Bank Holiday garden fête held by the Infantile Paralysis Fellowship. They’d been to a couple of their other fundraising socials. Carol loved going, because she saw old friends and there was the immediate understanding that the polios shared, even though some were much worse affected than others.
It was a fine day, although you could already feel the wane of summer in the way the light fell. The leaves had lost the fresh, expectant look of spring. As they walked from the bus stop to the imposing Edgbaston house, Violet plucked nervously at the edges of her white cardigan and ran a hand over her hair. She looked approvingly at Carol in her yellow sundress and little pumps, her gold hair in waves down her back. My girl, she thought. That’s my little girl.
For a moment they stood uncertainly outside the house, in the shade of a tree. Then Violet heard a voice call, ‘Come for the fête, dear? Do come in!’
There was a side gate to the garden and a tall woman in a hat was waiting to show people in.
‘Here we are – you’re very welcome. Hello, dear!’ she finished, cheerily, to Carol. ‘Don’t you look pretty!’
The garden was a long oblong, surrounded by a wall along which were climbing roses and hollyhocks, and they could smell flowers as soon as they walked in. All across the grass were stalls, run by women in cheerful frocks, and children, some in wheelchairs, others on crutches or with calipers on their legs, others their siblings, running about whole-limbed and unimpeded. A woman hurried past carrying a big metal teapot, smiling anxiously. Violet would have liked to see the garden with no people in it. It would be a sleepy place, she decided, full of the sound of bees.
‘Come on, Mom – let’s look at the stalls!’
Carol had half a crown’s spending money which was burning a hole in her pocket. Feeling shy and uncertain herself, Violet was glad of Carol’s self-assurance and followed her as she limped fast across the grass, eagerly in search of the white elephant stall and tombola. She was on home territory here with other polios.
Amid the bric-a-brac of old vases, a chipped teapot and embroidered napkins, she found a little china dog with soulful black eyes.
‘Oh, Mom – can I get it?’ She was almost jumping with enthusiasm. ‘I’ll give it to Lin – it’ll cheer her up!’
The woman running the stall was elderly, with grey hair in a bun, and she laughed at Carol’s excitement.
‘It’s very nice, dear, isn’t it? I think you could have that for tuppen
ce. Does that sound fair?’
Carol nodded and handed over one of her sixpences. Looking up again she cried, ‘Oh, look – there’s Bernice!’ and took off with the little dog in her hand.
Violet rolled her eyes and accepted the change for her.
‘She’s not one of the polios?’ the woman asked, with gentle tactfulness.
‘She is,’ Violet said. ‘See how she’s limping – it left her with one shortened leg.’
‘Goodness though – you’d hardly know, would you? She’s been lucky.’ Her face clouded. ‘My little niece wasn’t so lucky, unfortunately.’
‘Oh dear . . .’ Violet said.
‘Died within a few days with it.’ She shook her head. ‘Terrible disease. A scourge.’ Her face cleared. ‘Go on – you get after her. She’s lovely.’
Bernice was still in a wheelchair, awaiting more operations at St Gerard’s. She and Carol were nattering away while Mrs Miller, her mother, a slim woman with long dark hair, stood watching with a smile.
‘Hello, Violet – lovely to see you. And what a wonderfully pretty dress!’
Violet had been very intimidated by Bernice’s mother when she first met her in the hospital. She was a rather well-spoken, confident lady and Violet felt silent and awkward beside her, as if she had nothing to say. But they had had their daughters in common, and the terrible, long-lasting worry of polio, and all that had dissolved some of the social lines between them.
‘Hello, Rachel – how is she?’
‘They say she’s doing well. She’s due to go back in in two months.’
Rachel Miller smiled, though her eyes wore a wistful expression. She had a wide mouth, her face sensuous, with high cheekbones. ‘It would be so nice if it was all over. I’m sure I get in more of a state about it than she does.’