The Question

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The Question Page 19

by Jane Asher


  ‘He’s not at all well, baby,’ Barbara was saying. ‘You’ll have to be brave, Susie. Dad’s not too well.’

  ‘Oh for heaven’s sake, don’t patronise the girl!’ Eleanor exploded. ‘Be straight with her. She’s perfectly old enough to be told exactly what’s going on. Your father has been in a very bad accident, Sophie, and they don’t know yet exactly what will—’

  ‘Eleanor, if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to my daughter. Just let me talk to her, please. If you like we’ll go out and talk somewhere else, but I’d be grateful if you’d let me tell her about her father in my own way.’

  Sophie looked from one woman to the other in a daze of unhappiness. ‘Oh, please,’ she said, ‘just tell me. Is Dad alive? You’re not keeping it from me, are you? He is alive, isn’t he? Oh, please?’

  She began to cry, and Barbara pulled her onto the chair next to her as she cradled her and whispered urgently at her, ‘Yes, baby. Of course he is. Dad’s alive. And he’s going to be all right. Just wait and—’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Barbara! You’re talking about my husband! He’s nothing to do with you! He—’

  Even as she stopped, Eleanor realised it was too late. Sophie had snapped her head up so suddenly on her words that Eleanor leapt towards her and grasped her shoulders as if afraid she would fall. The girl looked shocked, her expression a mixture of confusion and fear, but Eleanor could see enough terrified understanding going on behind her eyes to know that there was to be no going back. The dreadful seed of knowledge had been planted, and whatever was said or done in the next few minutes, it would grow in Sophie’s mind until it choked out all the lies that had been planted there.

  ‘Oh Sophie. I’m sorry,’ Eleanor said quietly. ‘I’m so very sorry. I – we – didn’t want you to know. Not yet. We thought it would be easier if—Oh Sophie, Sophie. I’m sorry.’

  ‘What – what are you sorry—I mean, I don’t understand. What do you mean, your husband? How can he be? What do you mean? Are you—’

  ‘Dad was married before, Susie,’ Barbara calmly interrupted. ‘Eleanor was his first wife. We didn’t want to upset you, as they were still very close, and Dad wanted to go on seeing her; making sure she was all right, you see. So Dad decided it would be better if you didn’t know. So when he visited Eleanor every weekend we told you she was your aunt. That’s all, sweetheart. It’s nothing more than that.’

  ‘So – were you married to Dad’s brother first? Before Dad?’

  Eleanor made as if to answer, but Barbara went on: ‘No, Susie. Dad doesn’t have a brother. Eleanor was just married to Dad.’

  ‘But why on earth didn’t you tell me? Half of my friends are living—’

  ‘I know, dear. It seems silly now, but it started like that and just sort of went on. It’s the way your father wanted it.’

  ‘I see,’ said Sophie, remembering the puzzling wedding photo as she said it. ‘Yes, I see now.’

  Eleanor was astonished at the smoothness with which Barbara lied. The neatly packaged picture of a happy little second marriage, perfectly normal, perfectly acceptable – everything above board and in the open – infuriated her, and she was about to counter the cosy scenario with another hefty dose of the truth when she felt Sophie staring at her. She looked so utterly … Eleanor searched for the right word to describe the heartbreaking expression: forlorn. Yes, that was it. A girl who, in a few short minutes, had made the two most devastating discoveries of her life. And suddenly Eleanor knew that her growing love for this confused child was at this moment far stronger and more important than the hitherto unsurpassable sense of outraged injustice and jealousy that had been dominating her for so long. For now, she would be quiet. She would accept the unbearable unfairness of this woman’s ghastly lie, and allow herself to remain the first, discarded wife in Sophie’s eyes for the time being. But only for the time being.

  She sat back in her chair, crossed her arms over her chest and decided, once more, to bide her time.

  Over the following three days the three women found themselves settling into an uneasy, but workable routine. Sophie appeared to have accepted Barbara’s version of the family setup, and seemed more concerned with the progress of her father’s condition than with bothering to ask either of the others any further questions. They took it in turns to sit at John’s bedside whenever a break between tests, treatment or routine nursing would allow, each hoping to be the one to see the first sign of some kind of recognition, or at least consciousness, in his inert form. Doctors came and went, gentle and careful in their detailed explanations of brain function, nerve damage, brain scans, physical trauma and all the other factors terrifyingly gathered together to create a cloud of uncertainty hovering above the damaged human being between them.

  Eleanor liked to think she understood everything, and countered the explanations with questions gathered from late-night reading of a medical encyclopaedia hastily picked up from the library on one of her journeys between the hospital and flat. But in reality she understood no more and no less than either of the other two, and the extraordinary truth, that made its way slowly but inexorably into the consciousness of the three of them, was that nobody – not the consultant, the intensive care doctors and nurses, and certainly not Eleanor or Barbara, knew what John’s future was likely to be. His body remained stabilised but unresponsive; his mind remained unknown.

  By the third day John’s physical condition was deemed to be safe enough for him to tolerate the move to a general ward and the three women continued to take it in turns to sit with him, massaging his hands, whispering into his ears, knowing that he was almost certainly totally unaware of every attempt made to reach him, but unable to resist a little indulgent twitch of hope deep inside every time one of them sat down to take her turn in the latest foray into the depths of his unconsciousness. His eyes remained open, and sometimes Eleanor would stand up and lean over the bed, trying to find the spot nearest to where John appeared to be looking directly at her, but frustratingly unable to catch the apparent focus of his gaze. Each time a doctor would tap a hammer onto a kneecap, shout his name, scratch the sole of a foot or push a pin into the skin on the back of his hand they would hold their breath in unbearable anticipation, every sense straining to catch a sound, a movement, a breath of response. And sometimes there was one – a twitch of a muscle, a jump of a foot, a flicker of an eyelid, and a hopefully beseeching gaze would be turned on the doctor, only to have it crushed by the explanation of reflex pattern responses and continuing basic unresponsiveness. And each time their hearts would sink a little lower and their hopes dim a little more. They talked little among themselves, merely acknowledging each other’s presence as the change in shift took place, not liking to break the relatively peaceful flow of purposeful watchfulness that had established itself in the small side ward.

  Eleanor returned to the London flat for a few hours in each twenty-four to grab a little sleep while Barbara or Sophie took a turn at the bedside. It was the first time she had slept there since the day of the discovery, and it was a relief to know that when she was there the ‘other flat’ was always empty. She worked hard to turn her imagination quickly away from any thoughts of cosy two- and threesomes that had taken place only a few yards below her for all those past years. She had just enough clothes stored there to keep her going for the immediate future, and the occasional call to Carla, who had been happy not only to look after the house but also to keep George at home with her, in Surrey reassured her that, for the time being at least, there was no need for her to leave London.

  It was startling how quickly all three of them adapted to the new routine of hospital, sleeping at one or other of the flats and of doing just enough shopping and cooking to maintain themselves. Sophie was considerate and loving to both women, spending some time alone with her father and some with either Eleanor or Barbara by the bedside or in the flat. It appeared to make perfect sense that her father’s ‘first wife’ should use his London flat as a base for visiting
him in the hospital, and all discussion of any depth had been pushed aside into an unacknowledged limbo. There the big questions that Eleanor and Barbara knew were seething to be faced could be stuffed away and ignored, allowed to fester and breed until such time as either of them could consider letting anything enter their consciousness other than the unthinking routine of sitting with John or robotically carrying on with the rest of their limited lives.

  The occasional call to the office revealed that, as Barbara had said, Ruth had ‘sorted things out’ with her usual efficiency, putting insurance claims in train, dealing with accident investigators and helping with the day-to-day domestic issues of both London and Surrey. Eleanor hated to deal with the woman, but, terrified of losing control to Barbara, insisted on being the only one to speak to her. Martin Havers had smoothly taken over the running of the company, and Eleanor marvelled how little John appeared to be missed. Another little bit of leverage, she sometimes thought as she sat watching him. You always felt so important, didn’t you? Well, just fancy. It’s all running smoothly along without you. What do you think of that?

  The doctors continued to be noncommittal and vague in their answers to the continual questioning that they received from the anxious women, but in the ever widening gaps between visits and in the resigned looks that accompanied them, Eleanor, in particular, sensed a hopelessness settling in that frightened her. A terrifying word was hovering at the edge of her consciousness, and she couldn’t be sure if she had recently overheard its use in connection with John during one of the almost furtive, muttered discussions that the posse of medical visitors were wont to have around the bedside, or if she had projected it onto her awareness from some formerly glimpsed encounter. Vegetative. That was it. And what was the rest of the horrible phrase? Permanent. Christ, yes, that was it. Permanent Vegetative State.

  Barbara’s visits were full of bustle and activity. Unlike Eleanor, who tended to sit quietly brooding as she spent hours in a solitary vigil at John’s side, Barbara would chatter and fiddle, smoothing his brow, singing him little snatches of cheap tunes or reading him stories from the Daily Express. Eleanor found the one-sided conversations increasingly irritating as she encountered them on arriving or leaving at the times of her visits, and she channelled her rising annoyance into a determination to do something; anything, to effect some change in the unending, heartrending routine. Direct questioning of the doctors still resulted in a refusal to predict the eventual outcome of John’s condition, but she did manage to get one of them to admit that there was ‘nothing more we can do for him’.

  She was sitting in Dr Simons’ office when the damning phrase was used, and she shook her head to rid herself of images of John’s body shrivelling and decaying in the hospital bed, ignored by white-coated backs as they moved on to where something could still be done. She knew it was time to initiate action; to engineer some sort of confrontation by bringing into the open the horrifying phrase that still lurched around her head.

  ‘He’s vegetative, isn’t he?’ she asked. ‘You can tell me. I’ve read about these things, of course. He’s in a permanent vegetative state, isn’t he?’

  The doctor hesitated, and pressed his hands flat on the desk in front of him. He bit his lip and sucked in a small breath as he looked across at her. ‘Well, that’s an extremely rare condition, Mrs Hamilton, as I’m sure you know. These things that you read in the newspaper are – well, things are never quite as simple as we’d like them to be. One never wants to be too definite about these cases, and newspaper reports are inevitably sensationalised, of course. But, well, yes, since you ask, I have to say that the nearest and simplest description I can give you of your husband’s condition at present is, indeed, that of persistent vegetative state. You’ll notice, I’m sure, that we tend to say “persistent” rather than permanent. It’s not a good idea to brand such things as permanent – at any stage really. There’s so much we just don’t know.’

  ‘They switch them off, don’t they?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘These vegetative people. Like the Hillsborough boy. They switch them off?’

  ‘There have been occasions when nourishment has been withdrawn, Mrs Hamilton, yes. There’s no question of “switching off” as you put it, because of course your husband is breathing on his own, as you know. But, there is absolutely no question of our considering anything like that, I assure you. These things are very difficult, and, as you know, we feel there isn’t much more we can do here. But, since you’ve raised the matter, there are various neurological institutions where John may be able to get care more specific to his needs. I can easily put you in touch with the right people if you so wish. There will need to be approaches to the relevant authorities as regards funding and so on, but there are people here to help you with that. I don’t know whether there is an insurance situation here, or—’

  ‘Yes, of course, my husband was fully insured in every way. That isn’t a problem. There is money to be used for treatment, if that is going to help. And you misunderstand me when I talk of switching off, or withdrawing nourishment, or however you put it. I would not condone such an outcome in any circumstances. I have unfinished business, you see. I have to tell you Dr Simons, that there is nothing that I will not do to give my husband every possible chance of recovering whatever function there may be …’

  ‘Well, naturally, Mrs Hamilton, I know just how much you—’

  ‘No, I don’t think you understand. There is no question of my not being able to communicate with my husband. It is unthinkable. Quite unthinkable. It is essential – beyond anything you may be thinking; beyond all normal experiences in this kind of case – that I am able to talk to my husband in a way that can get through to him. There has to be a way; if he is alive, if he is breathing, that he can be made to be aware. I have something extremely important to tell him; something I was about to tell him on the day of the accident and which I cannot countenance going to my grave without his knowing.’

  The doctor was well accustomed to coping with distraught relatives, but there was something in the way the woman spoke that he found extremely disturbing. Her expression was unfathomable: he wondered how it was possible for eyes that appeared to be dead of all emotion to be at the same time expressing such relentless purpose.

  ‘Of course, Mrs Hamilton. Believe me, I do sympathise more than I can say with your situation. And, indeed, sometimes the most distressing aspect of a sudden accident such as this one is the realisation that things have been left unsaid, or words spoken that have been regretted. Or finding a little present or note from the injured relative, or something that one had meant to give them: all these things are very upsetting indeed.’

  But on looking up at her again, he realised that she wasn’t listening. The deadness of the eyes was still there, but they had acquired a focus that was turned in on themselves and removed from the room. His comforting words were not penetrating whatever wall of thought had been put up between the two of them, and Dr Simons realised that wherever Mrs Hamilton’s mind had gone, nothing he could say could impinge on it in any way. He felt himself give an almost imperceptible shudder, and shifted in his seat and gave a little cough to cover it. Whatever she was thinking was stamped with a determination that was untouchable; and the young doctor felt an instinctive sense of relief that, whatever or whoever might be the beneficiary of the intensive contemplation taking place behind the inscrutably unemotional eyes, at least he could safely assume that it had nothing to do with him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The hospital was set on the side of a hill, and as Eleanor and Sophie approached it along the old A40 it loured over them in a way that was strangely comforting. More parental than threatening, Eleanor thought as she pulled the car off the main road and into the forecourt: a benign mother hen watching her chicks scuttling under the safe warmth of her feathers. The lettering of the myriad signs directing doctors, visitors and patients to various departments of the building and grounds was o
ddly soothing too. Eleanor found herself wondering how so many hospitals, roads and public buildings appeared to co-ordinate the style of their notices into a coherent, familiar pattern, at once essentially British and well meaning but at the same time silently stern in their polite instructions. ‘Visitors’ Car Park’, ‘Stevens and Railton Wards Only’, ‘Cafeteria – No Parking’, ‘Medical Staff Only’: all were spelt out in the same, straightforward black lettering on white, blue-framed backgrounds that held the unmistakable aura of nannying that made her feel in safe hands.

  After the several telephone calls that had been necessary to arrange John’s admittance and transfer she felt she had absorbed the feeling of the place and that she had a good idea of the type of institution she would find, but on seeing it for the first time she realised she had imagined something altogether on a smaller scale. The three large Edwardian sections of the building – a centre block and two wings – were linked by modern wood- and steel-covered walkways, and as she parked in a bay just outside one of these glass-lined corridors she began to experience a familiar feeling of discomfiture at the mix of old and new; the straightforward functionality of the structure immediately in front of her awkwardly at odds with the ornate mouldings and balustrades of the older parts.

  She and Sophie had braced themselves for what they might find on Railton ward. Knowing that all the patients – or clients, as she noticed the staff described them – were in a similar condition to John, she was prepared for rows of inert, sightless figures lying in beds side by side in giant wards, or perhaps a chain of tiny separate rooms, each containing an unaware body, functioning as a physical entity, but with a mind as unresponsive and inanimate as the bed on which it lay. But nothing had prepared either of them for what they found, and Eleanor had to stop herself releasing an exclamation of confused shock as she stepped out of the lift on the first floor and met her initial sight of the inhabitants of the ward.

 

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