Rosie felt a sense of helplessness. “I’m sure they must be geared up for that kind of thing. Trained counsellors, special nurses …”
Ciaran straightened. “Not in the middle o’ the night. Besides, she hasn’t been moved to the cancer section yet.” He spat the word like a curse. “She’s on the bog standard aches and pains ward. No special nothing there, Ros.” The same anger. He buried his face again and Rosie went quiet. She walked over to the window and gently pulled the curtains shut. It was an act of respect. An attempt to hide the tears of a shattered man, to shut out the unseeing, uncaring world and tell it to mind its own lousy business. This was no time for onlookers.
It was some time before Ciaran sat up. He looked shaken and gave a slight, embarrassed laugh. “Sorry, Ros. Haven’t felt like that since I came to London, when I left you behind.”
Rosie frowned. “How d’you mean?”
Ciaran gazed down at the floor. “Y’know, when I left you there in Leicester. It nigh on killed me doing that. I very nearly came back.”
Rosie stared at him. His eyes glistened moist and the dark lashes were still damp. It was the first time she’d seen her brother cry in a long, long while. “Why didn’t you?”
Ciaran shook his head. “Your letters for one thing. Full o’ London this and London that. You’d set your heart on it. I just wanted to make it all come true for you. You were only a kid.”
Rosie bit the inside of her cheek. How ironic. Back then, she’d have been quite happy to move to a shed in the next village, let alone London. Anywhere to get away from home. But she hadn’t wanted to mess things up for Ciaran, not after he got the scholarship for music college. And London had sounded an enticing place to escape to. Even if she had had to wait five years to join him.
Ciaran gave a wistful smile. “You were a sad little thing back then, Ros.”
“Weren’t you?” Rosie scowled as an unexpected surge of agitation swept over her. “I mean, come on. It was hell on earth living with those two sometimes.”
“I guess I just channelled my energy into getting us out. Seeing if we could make something of our lives.” Ciaran gazed into the middle distance as though he could see it all taking place again. “And we did it, Ros, didn’t we? We got out in the end … even if I did cry myself to sleep over you for weeks.”
Rosie was moved. “I never knew that.”
He shrugged sadly. “I never told you.”
____________
Ward 7a was quiet, but then it was 1.30 in the morning. Beth couldn’t sleep. She lay on her back, arms by her sides, sandwiched between the stiff, white sheets. Low voices from the nursing station drifted down the corridor. The occasional burst of light laughter. A buzzer sounded. Efficient footsteps off to investigate. At least she wasn’t the only one awake. She breathed out slowly.
The thought came to her again. It had been hovering all night. She laid a trembling hand on her stomach. There was an alien inside her; something sinister, something that didn’t belong. To think she’d imagined she was pregnant. For weeks she’d been trying to get used to the idea of having another human being living inside. But instead – this. This entity. Greedy, unwanted, feeding insolently off her. Trying to starve her. She shuddered. Under her hand, her abdomen felt hard. A wave of claustrophobia swept over her and, for a moment, a strange, desperate urge to disembowel herself with her own hands. How long had it been squatting there with its foul, mutant tentacles? How long had it been hiding?
You can try to run away but you can never get away from yourself. You’re stuck inside, Beth, stuck inside … there’s no escape …
Footsteps down the corridor broke the moment of terror. Beth moved her hand sharply. This thing was messing with her head. She tried to rationalise. After all, she’d been half expecting it, hadn’t she? Alec Stafford had hinted at the possibility a couple of days ago. Not that she’d mentioned anything to Ciaran then. It was the first time she’d kept anything from him. Her mind flicked to the pregnancy test. Well, perhaps not quite the first time. A sudden sense of guilt gripped her. What had been happening? She’d never believed in having secrets from each other, yet there seemed to have been so many recently.
Dear, beautiful Ciaran. Her mind pictured the strong face, the dark, grave eyes, the unruly hair. And the tears. Not that he’d let them fall. But she’d seen them all the same that afternoon; somewhere behind the encouraging words and fighting talk, she’d seen them. Surely ignorance was bliss, even if it had only lasted a short while for him.
Dear God, please look after him. I love him so much, please don’t let this hurt him.
It was a spontaneous moment. Her eyes filled up and she closed them, forcing the warm tears to spill down her cheeks and into her hair. She hadn’t prayed in such a long time. For a few minutes she lay in the stillness. No thunderbolt of chastisement. No sense of divine indignation. Just a quietness at first, and after a few moments, a sweet, gentle peace which seemed to enfold her like warm liquid. The words of an old song came back to her, a song that she hadn’t sung since her childhood.
What a friend we have in Jesus, all our sins and griefs to bear.
What a privilege to carry everything to God in prayer.
O what peace we often forfeit, o what needless pain we bear,
All because we do not carry everything to God in prayer.
Suddenly she was back in Saint Edwin’s. Eight or nine years old, gripping her mother’s hand and gazing round as the congregation sang the hymn with great conviction. The rousing swell of the music, the comforting smell of beeswax candles and polished wood, the motley family of unmatched, colourful characters all offering their worship, the solid sense of being part of a much bigger picture. It came back to her now as though it had happened only the Sunday before. She turned over onto her side, overcome by a sudden, bittersweet longing. What she would give to go back to those innocent, untroubled days. As if in response to her heart cry, a soft voice seemed to whisper,
You are still my little one. And I’ve been waiting for you … .
____________
Michael Romily was restless. He’d made the stupid mistake of falling asleep on the sofa earlier in the evening, and now here he was in the small hours, wide awake and fidgety with not an ounce of slumber in him. He turned over to Sarah. Her breathing was almost silent, but the rhythmic rise and dip of her shoulder told Michael she was firmly in dreamland. Conceding defeat, he gently swivelled out of bed and padded downstairs. His eye caught the accusing face of the mahogany grandfather clock in the hall. Two fifteen. He wasn’t going to let it get to him. That was the worst thing one could do. Making himself some hot milk, he went into the lounge. He realised something was niggling his mind. At first it was a vague, grey disorderliness, the sort of cloudy-headed feeling one might expect after the kind of stressful day he’d been through. But as he pondered on what the problem might be, it narrowed into a specific; something he’d meant to check out, a question he’d meant to answer …
Of course. It came to him in a moment. He went over to a cabinet by the Hi-Fi system and clicked open the door. His fingers leafed systematically through a wedge of glossy publications: Country Living, House and Garden, The Lady. He frowned to himself. Surely it was still here; Sarah couldn’t have thrown it away. His confidence in her was suddenly rewarded as his hand fell upon an item sandwiched between the rest. A magazine they’d only just started taking – The Maestro. He quickly flicked through the pages. Yes, here it was. He skimmed the words and smiled wryly. Well, this guy had certainly rated her.
‘A tiny figure with an almost luminescent fragility, whose slender arms and small white hands moved with such lyrical intuitiveness, she succeeded in producing a performance of quite ferocious tenderness …’
He skimmed again. Blah blah blah –
‘For my money, only one question remains. What next from the angelic Beth Maconochie?’
Michael sat back in his chair. The spelling was certainly the same. He remembered the girl from
the concert. Could it possibly be? London was a big place – there could be dozens of Beth Maconochies out there. Still, it wasn’t a common name. He breathed out slowly, thoughtfully. Well, he’d know soon enough. She was on his clinic list for tomorrow. A humorous image forced its way into his mind. If she turns out to be six foot four with the body of a beached whale, I’ll know alright. Absolutely no connection whatsoever.
____________
Of course it was her. The moment she walked in and he shook one of the ‘small white hands’, he knew it. She looked even more slight now than he remembered, and to his trained eye, the drawn anaemic face was a sure giveaway. The decline had been rapid.
“Mrs Beth Maconochie, I believe you’re a musician.”
Her eyes lit up. “Yes, yes I am! And my husband too.”
Michael shook hands with Ciaran and gestured them both to sit down. He felt almost pleased with himself. This was proving to be an excellent icebreaker.
“I saw you perform at the Laureate Hall a few weeks ago. Most, most impressive. I bought tickets as an anniversary treat for my wife, and I must say, we were not disappointed. Absolutely marvellous.”
Beth’s pale face suddenly glowed. In a few well-chosen words, Michael Romily had given her a point of reference. A reminder of who she was. Somewhere outside the crazy chain of events that was overtaking her, there was normal life and music and dreams. Whatever happened, she had to hold onto that.
Later that afternoon, Michael Romily managed to find a quiet space just long enough to have a cup of coffee. It had been a tiring day and it wasn’t over yet.
He thought about Danny Rossington, the nine-year-old boy he’d bumped into earlier on the ward. Michael had been treating Danny’s father for the last five months. The prognosis was not good. He doubted Ben Rossington would last much beyond February. One of the nurses had been chatting with Danny’s mother. “And what will you be wanting for Christmas?” she’d asked the young boy, just to bring him into the conversation. Danny had replied in a quiet, hopeful voice. “My dad. I want my dad back home – better.” That had shut the nurse up, Michael recalled; and it had left him standing there like some impotent Santa Clause, frustrated that he couldn’t grant the boy’s wish. Cancer had been his life’s work for the last twenty-two years. He both hated it and respected it. In his war against the disease, Ben Rossington was one battle he looked like losing. And Michael hated losing.
He allowed his mind to flag up his schedule for the next few days. Tomorrow Angus Baldwin was coming in for review. Mattie Lennon was due to be discharged; that was always a pleasant task. Various other names swirled round his head. Courageous people he’d come to think a great deal of. It had been a heavy few weeks; some cases were tough going. That was the thing with cancer, he reflected. No matter how many victories he managed to win, there was always another battle to be fought, another trusting hopeful looking to him to deliver them from the enemy’s clutches. Not until this formidable foe had been wiped off the face of the planet could people like him claim total triumph. Something told him his job was secure for a good while yet.
He found himself thinking about his new patient. Such a gifted young woman. But then in this game, what did that matter? Talent, money, education, pedigree – all the things that society coveted were paper swords in the face of this opponent. Cancer was no respecter of persons. In Beth Maconochie’s case, even the statistics went against her. Twenty-four years old with stomach cancer – that certainly wasn’t the norm. His own daughter Carmen was the same age. A Cambridge graduate with a brilliant scientific mind, she was also beautiful. Beautiful, tanned and healthy, nothing like the pallid girl he’d spoken with earlier.
He filed some notes into a cabinet. Let’s hope there’s no extensive metastasis. He shut the drawer with a clunk. Local invasion at the very worst.
____________
It was the first time Rosie had seen Beth since the diagnosis. They sat in the hospital restaurant as they had just over a week ago, but this time Rosie felt strangely awkward. They’d already exchanged superficial pleasantries on the ward, but now there was a strained quiet between them. It was Beth who spoke first.
“It’s okay, Ros. I’m not going to dissolve into tears or anything freaky.”
Rosie shuffled uncomfortably. “Sorry. It’s just …” She paused, unsure what to say next. “How are you – in yourself, I mean?”
Beth gazed out of the window, a troubled half-smile on her face. “To be honest, Ros, I feel a bit of a schizo at the moment. I mean, in a weird way it’s almost a relief. I’ve felt off it for ages, but you just ignore it, don’t you? Pretend it’s not there, hope it’ll go away.” She toyed with the idea of admitting that she’d bought a pregnancy test, but decided against it. It hardly mattered now. “Three weeks ago I guess it all came to a head.”
“Three weeks ago? Why, what happened?” Rosie frowned.
“I had a real bad do at home. Felt like someone was strangulating my insides. Suppose that’s the first time I got really scared. Things went pretty pear-shaped after that. Four days later I ended up in here. Still, as I said, at least now I know what we’re dealing with. In some crazy way, it’s a relief to have it out in the open.” She gave a small, ironic laugh and stared down at her hands. They looked sinewy and fragile, and seemed ill-fitting on one so young. She exhaled slowly. “From time to time I’ll get these strange surges of mad elation, like my adrenaline’s psyching up for a fight. And then at other times, it all seems unreal, like I’m in some film or stupid hospital soap. Then I think I can make anything happen. Y’know, change the script, walk off set, and everything’ll be back to normal. But then it hits me. In no time at all I’m as low as I think it’s possible to get. It’s all so scary. Overwhelming. I feel just too small. I think, Why me? Then I think, Why not? All my fight goes out the window and it feels like everything’s over for me.” She shook her head and laughed weakly again. “No kidding, Ros, it’s exhausting. I can move through all these moods within an hour. It’s like having some kind of weird multiple personality disorder.”
They sat in silence for several moments. Rosie could certainly identify with one thing. It did all feel unreal. Okay, so Beth did look very thin and not particularly well. But that could be put down to anything, surely. A tummy bug or a bad dose of flu. Not cancer. That seemed almost unthinkable.
“So what happens next?”
Beth sighed and rolled her eyes. “Well, I’ll be moving to B1 – that’s the cancer wing. I think they’re sending me up there in a couple of days if they can find a bed. This week they’ll be doing more tests. Ultrasound scan, blood monitoring, full body scan. It’s almost certain they’ll do surgery at some point, but not till they’ve got a better picture of how things are.”
“D’you have any idea when you’ll be home?” Rosie realised she was thinking about Ciaran. She could only guess how tough he was finding it.
“Apparently I’m not up to it yet. Besides, Dr Romily says things will move a lot faster while ever I’m in here. It would only be for a little break anyway, y’know, before they whip me back in for surgery. Whether they decide to schedule that before or after Christmas will depend on what they find in the test results. Everything’s a bit up in the air really.”
“Well, at least you’ve got their attention. I’m sure they’ll do everything they possibly can to sort you out.” Rosie tried to sound positive.
Beth grimaced. “I can think of better ways to get noticed.”
Their conversation drifted onto other things. At first, Rosie had been nervous about making any comment that might remotely smack of humour. She knew it was out of some distorted sense of respect; it seemed almost irreverent to pepper her talk with the usual wisecracks, Beth being in this condition and everything. For that reason, she’d found herself saying little and listening far more than was usual for her. But Beth was not so easily dampened. In the middle of recounting a long, unsavoury bedpan tale, she suddenly began to snort with laughter, and Rosie r
ealised to her relief that Beth’s irrepressible spirit had not been broken yet. By the end of their time together, they were laughing as they always had. Rosie was pleased. A barrier had been broken down. The Big C had been dragged out into the open. The unmentionable had been mentioned. And they were still friends.
“My parents are travelling down in a couple of days.” Beth’s face seemed to light up at the thought of it. “It’ll save on Mum’s mobile bill at least. I’ve lost count of the times she’s called me this past fortnight. It’ll have cost her a fortune.”
A cold, empty shadow shivered through Rosie’s mind then. I don’t begrudge you that, Beth. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t envy you.
Chapter 9
Beth glanced up at the ward clock. The familiar squeak of the meals trolley as it trundled back down the corridor signalled the end of yet another lunchtime. Hospital routine was so unvarying and predictable, she found herself forgetting what day it was sometimes. Not today though. Today was Tuesday, and Beth had made a request. Now she sat by her bed waiting expectantly. At about quarter past one, a young woman came onto the ward. She looked about sixteen or seventeen and was tall and heavily set. She had, Beth noticed, the body of a large woman, but the chubby face of an adolescent girl. Her mousy hair was taken up into a ponytail and she wore no makeup at all. It was clear that the young woman had made no attempt to pretty herself up in any way. Even her clothes were dowdy and practical.
“Beth Maconochie …?” She plodded purposefully over to the bed.
Beth nodded, pleasantly surprised at the confident tone of her visitor.
“I’m Laura, your hospital volunteer. I’ve come to collect you.”
They went out onto the corridor and towards the lifts.
“It’s the chapel you want, isn’t it?” Laura pressed the lift button with a pudgy finger. “We’ll soon have you down there. It gets boring when you’ve been in here a bit, doesn’t it?” She spoke with a command that seemed at odds with her played down appearance.
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