by Lizzie Lane
Sickness and hospitals were places Polly had avoided all her life and didn’t particularly want to have anything to do with now.
‘You’re braver than me,’ Edna added suddenly.
From then on it was a matter of self-esteem. Polly had always cultivated the hard-baked exterior of the good-hearted, good-time girl. Edna was calling her bluff and Polly found herself unable to refuse.
‘I’ll go with you. We’ll show ’em they can’t keep a mother from ’er kid!’
When they finally got to Camborne Crescent, Edna got out of the car, her eyes brimming with tears. She walked with Polly to the garden gate, hugged her and poured a profusion of thanks in her ear.
‘Don’t mention it,’ Polly said, blushing with pleasure. For once in her life she felt like a saint.
Chapter Eighteen
Janet heard about Edna’s behaviour from her mother and felt instantly guilty. She promised to visit Susan as much as she could. ‘I owe it to all of them,’ she said.
Charlotte did not try and dissuade her. ‘Just be careful,’ she warned and Janet promised her she would be. ‘I like this job,’ she added. ‘I feel I’m really involved in something useful.’
Between eight and nine o’clock, Saltmead Sanatorium fell into a quiet period between the day and nightshifts. Patients had been fed and food trollies returned to the kitchens. Daytime nurses were tying up the loose ends, tidying desks and medicine cupboards before the night nurses came on duty so there would be no cause for complaint. Time was also taken up with gossip as well as patient progress.
Janet timed things carefully. Through trial and error, she knew whom she was likely to see where and at which time.
Tiny Tim had been abandoned in favour of Ali Baba and his magic carpet. One Hundred and One Arabian Nights had never been one of Janet’s favourites – and it showed. The stories got muddled, not helped by her fear of being caught.
Susan looked forward to her visits, recognizing her storyteller by the large glasses and an outfit too voluminous for her slim figure.
‘I like you best,’ she said at the end of yet another muddled story where a fictional bird had somehow changed into a magic carpet.
‘Because you like my stories?’ Janet asked her.
Susan shook her head. ‘No. Because you don’t put hot things on my leg.’
‘Hot things? What hot things?’
Between tears, Susan tried to explain. The child was clearly upset and left Janet questioning whether she’d heard things right. The following morning she asked Jonathan about it, though she couched it in such terms that Susan wasn’t mentioned.
Although their relationship had cooled on the personal front, their professional interaction had not altered. Obsessed with his work and perhaps with a need to prove himself, he went out of his way to explain things to her.
‘Hot cloths are applied to the limbs affected by the disease. Current medical thinking is that heat generates cellular regeneration, in other words, gets the nervous system working again.’
On Thursday evening she went to see Susan again and dared to lift the sheet that covered her leg. Susan began to snivel.
‘No more!’ Her voice wavered.
Janet felt as though her jaw would break as she surveyed the large pieces of lint covering Susan’s right leg. Letting the sheet down gently, she made a huge effort to compose herself.
‘What story shall we have tonight?’
‘Peter Pan. The bit where he flies away with Wendy.’
Telling the story was harder than it had ever been; that thin little leg encased in white lint was not easily forgotten.
Once outside the ward, she pulled the protective hat from her head and tugged the rough cloth of her garment away from her neck. Still wearing the glassless spectacles, she leaned her head against the wall and took a deep breath. It was dangerous to linger half-disguised. If someone saw her, questions would be asked. But it couldn’t be helped. Seeing Susan suffer was just too upsetting – and she was the only one seeing this. Not Edna, not Colin, not anyone.
A warning voice inside told her to pull herself together, get her disguise off and get out of here before her secret was discovered. Susan’s welfare was all that counted.
Normally she would have stayed in the warmth and comfortable surroundings of her flat for the rest of the evening, but tonight she craved fresh air and escape, so went for a walk to the village.
The air was cold and a light mist dived and eddied in the beam of the torch she took with her. The torch was a necessity as there were no streetlights between the elegant building she lived in and the huddle of cottages that made up the village. The village itself was far from well lit, dependent for the most part on light falling from cottage windows or from lead-paned saints if an evening service was in progress at St Michael’s. Pavements were variable and in places nonexistent, the old flagstones giving way to areas that were grass in summer, but mud at this time of year.
Squares of light also spilled from the windows of the White Lion, a place of thick smoke, young farm labourers playing darts, and old men playing bagatelle or dominoes. Then the door to the lounge bar swung open and two people came out. By the light that flooded in with them she saw Jonathan and a plain little nurse who sometimes worked on Susan’s ward. Somehow hurt and most definitely surprised, she flicked the button on her torch and kept to the shadows. Seeing them together, she suddenly remembered the rose on the desk in the empty office.
She’d always thought the girl plain, but not tonight. Jonathan had changed her, but what had attracted him to her in the first place?
They climbed into Jonathan’s big, grey Humber. As the smutty grey smoke belched from the exhaust, it came to her that Jonathan had chosen this particular nurse because she was plain, which in turn made her vulnerable. Just like me, she decided. He saw my vulnerability too. The awful memory of her rape seemed to explode inside her. She wanted to go home at once, to tell someone what had happened to her. But her mother had taken her father to Portishead for the weekend, reasoning that the sea air would do him good. Just as well, she thought. Was it fair to burden them at a time like this? Nevertheless, the urge to go home was too strong to ignore.
On Friday night she went along at her usual time to see Susan and explain that she was going home and wouldn’t be seeing her until Monday evening. Just as she’d expected, her news was not well received.
‘What about my story?’
Janet took hold of her hand and hoped that Susan could see she was smiling even though her mouth was hidden behind a mask. ‘I promise I’ll have a new story for you on Monday.’
She thought about telling her that she’d be reporting to her parents, but dared not chance it. If Susan should repeat it to anyone on the ward, her job, and Susan’s one and only visitor, would be gone.
Before leaving Saltmead, she phoned Dorothea, but was told she’d gone away for the weekend. She was disappointed. A night out with Dorothea might have taken her mind off things. But the alternative, a bath, a cocoa, a good book, and an early night, would serve her just as well.
Luckily she was offered a lift by the almoner who lived just over the other side of the Clifton Suspension Bridge in Leigh Woods. Getting home took only an hour and a half rather than three hours on the bus.
After unlocking the front door at Royal York Crescent, she reached for the light switch that was just inside to her left. With a tired sigh, she let her bag and her mackintosh fall to the floor and breathed in the lingering aroma of the beeswax polish so beloved of Mrs Grey. Chinese vases, dark red rugs and a gilt-framed mirror gleamed in the light thrown from a cut glass chandelier. Despite the good quality furnishings, the house felt cold, almost menacing.
A bath was first priority. The bottom stair creaked beneath her foot and she would have bounded to the top, but what sounded like laughter came from the direction of the stairs that led down to the kitchen. She paused as a second voice floated up to her. Both voices were loud. Her hand slid back down the b
anister as she turned towards it and tried to guess who it was. Surely not Geoffrey? He was back at Oxford. Parents were away. There was only Ivan …
Outrage replaced weariness. Could it be that their Polish lodger had company? The cheek of the man! Well, she’d soon fix that! How dare he take advantage of her family’s absence!
Chin firm and shoulders squared for battle, she skipped down the stairs and with a determined flourish, pushed the door so it swung wide, bouncing against its surround.
The scene was not quite as expected. Two figures sat on either side of the table on which sat a decanter and two glasses. The decanter was almost empty. So were the glasses.
Looking surprised, Ivan sprang to his feet, knocking his chair over in the process. ‘Good evening!’
Janet rewarded him with a scowl. Her gaze transferred to Colin. Face wet with tears, he sat immobile as if he couldn’t care less whether she chastised him or threw him out. Seeing his look of utter devastation, she realized her mistake. It wasn’t laughter she had heard, but a cry of anguish.
Her own anger drained away. So did any fears about the lodger who stood watching her somewhat sheepishly.
She put her arm around Colin’s shoulders and hugged his head against hers. At the same time she threw an accusing glare in Ivan’s direction. ‘Come on, Colin. Let’s get you home. Edna will be worried.’
He shook his head despairingly and sank lower over the desk. ‘No, she won’t. It’s Susan this and Susan that. She’s forgotten me, forgotten our Peter and our Pamela.’
His voice was slurred. Janet threw an accusing look at Ivan who seemed almost sober. He gazed right back, arms folded, mouth grim set as if ready to respond to any accusation she cared to throw at him.
She looked away. For now she would say nothing, not until she had dealt with Colin.
‘Oh Colin! What a mess you’re in.’ She patted his shoulder. ‘Come on, I’ll get you in a reasonable state to go home, then I’ll get you a taxi and tomorrow I’ll come over to tell you how Susan’s getting on.’
Ivan headed for the door.
Janet angrily assumed he was retreating in the face of her mounting anger. ‘Typical! You get a good man drunk, then sneak off to bed!’
He paused by the door, seeming to dominate the room. His look appeared to say, That’s what you think. But he said nothing, merely left, slamming the door behind him.
Ivan is not important, she told herself. Colin is.
‘Coffee first, I think,’ she said as Colin’s head sank slowly onto his arms. ‘Lots of coffee,’ she muttered as his head hit the table with a dull thud.
She lit the gas, put the kettle on and got out a cup. No need for a saucer; Colin was in no fit state for social niceties. A search in the larder found three bottles of Camp coffee, one pound of tea and six packs of granulated sugar. Mrs Grey, she mused, had suffered the rationing of the forties and couldn’t quite get out of the habit of keeping a large supply of basic necessities – just in case.
While waiting for the kettle to boil, she bent down at Colin’s side, adopted a bright look and a cheery voice as she looked up into his face. ‘I’ve seen Susan every day, Colin. Did Mother tell you that?’
Sandy brows frowned over bleary, uncomprehending eyes. ‘Susan?’
‘I’ve seen her and I’m going to see her again. But I have to be careful,’ she added. That too was true. Determined as she was to give some comfort to the little girl, she was breaking sanatorium rules. If she got caught Susan would have no familiar face to help her through this and Janet would have no first-hand information to pass on.
She stroked Colin’s hair back from his temples. ‘Susan is being taken care of. The fever’s dying. She’s one of the lucky ones. She won’t be in there for too much longer.’
She bit her lip because she’d sounded as if she were talking about weeks when in fact it was likely to be months. Oh well, she thought, rather a hope-filled lie than a daunting truth.
Susan’s tears, red cheeks and cracked, dry lips were not mentioned. Neither did she say that, although the nerve damage to Susan’s arm was likely to be minimal, the damage to her leg was more serious. Wait until things get better, she told herself. Colin was in no fit state to take it in. Besides, it was best to paint as bright a picture as possible. Above all else, they had to have hope.
Ivan came back just as she was holding the hot coffee to Colin’s lips, shoved his hands into his pockets, leaned against the door surround and said, ‘The taxi will be here in about ten minutes.’
Surprised and thinking perhaps she’d misjudged him, she mumbled her thanks.
Colin spluttered and his face reddened.
‘It’s gone the wrong way,’ Janet groaned.
Ivan moved behind the chair and gently cupped Colin’s head in his hands. Janet placed the cup between his lips. Colin sipped slowly, his eyes rolling in his head.
There were inches between Ivan’s body and her own, and yet she felt his warmth, saw the gentle strength in his hands as he held Colin’s head.
Ivan’s features were set in grim lines, his eyelids heavy and lowered as he concentrated on Colin. He didn’t look drunk himself, didn’t sound it either. As always, his voice was steady, moderated. Again it reminded her of Charles Boyer, not the man who had attacked her from the shadows.
‘That’s the best I can do,’ she said after trying to get him to drink a third cup. ‘Poor Edna. As if she hasn’t got enough to contend with, now she’s got a drunken husband as well.’
Gently Ivan lowered Colin’s head onto his arms. ‘A man is not supposed to cry when he is sober, so he must cry when he is drunk.’
Janet snatched the cup from the table, took it to the sink and struggled to turn on the tap. ‘So you helped him drink.’ She couldn’t help the anger.
‘No. I helped him cry.’
‘What kind of excuse is that?’
‘A good one. Some of us care very deeply, but cannot always give way to our emotions, especially you British. It is being human I think.’
‘How would you know? You’re Polish!’
‘Do you mean I am not human or that I am not British?’
‘Take it which way you like!’
He stood too close for comfort and his breath was warm on the nape of her neck. The blasted tap still refused to budge and she was in no mood for giving up or for looking round at him and backing down.
‘I hope you have a very good reason for saying that,’ he said, his voice as coldly precise as if he might use it to stab at her back. ‘But what else can I expect from a spoilt young woman who has lived a carefree life and knows nothing, nothing at all, about suffering?’
A brawny arm took her by surprise as it slipped to one side of her and he turned the tap easily. The thickness of his upper arm seemed to hem her in. Feeling uncomfortable with his closeness, she sidestepped, half-afraid he would grab her by the neck and shake her vigorously for the awful thing she’d said to him.
There was a moment when the tension between them was so great that anything could have happened, but was diffused by the sound of a car horn. The taxi had arrived.
Ivan looped his arm beneath Colin and heaved him to his feet. ‘Come on, my friend.’
‘Let me …’ Janet began, meaning to take Colin’s weight on the other side.
‘No need,’ he said abruptly, his body wedged between hers and Colin’s.
He took Colin’s full weight so that his tin legs were left dangling. She followed and watched as he gently pushed Colin into the far corner at the back of the car then laid his metal legs along the seat.
Satisfied that Colin was comfortable, he turned to Janet. ‘I am going with him. Someone has to see him home.’
She couldn’t think of a single thing to say. She felt useless, foolish and angry with Ivan, the world, her attacker and herself. The cab doors slammed shut.
The mist that had prevailed all week formed haloes around the rear lights of the taxicab. Exhaust fumes left a ragged grey trail to the end
of the crescent then was gone. Even after the street was empty except for stray cats squabbling in the dark, she stood there, silently, looking at nothing in particular, her mind a mix of different worries, different thoughts.
Ivan’s comment about Colin needing to cry stayed with her like a jagged wound in her heart because he was right. Everyone needed to cry – including her – most definitely including her. The wind’s cold, she told herself, as she swiped the back of one hand across her eyes, and headed indoors.
The kitchen was warm, the coffee and sugar were still on the table and the kettle tucked under the tap when she had second thoughts about drinking coffee. The whisky was still on the table. Blow the coffee! She needed – no – she deserved something stronger.
After slamming the kettle back onto the stove, she got out a clean glass, sat at the table and eyed the bottle of Highland malt. Sherry or Port would have been preferable, but tonight she would diversify because tonight she felt sorry for herself. No one else is, she thought bitterly. All the anguish of the past few months bubbled to the surface. What did men know about crying? What did men know about anything?
As for that other bloody Pole … Ivan! How dare he call her spoilt! How dare he accuse her of leading a carefree life while others suffered! He knew nothing, nothing at all, and she would tell him so once she’d built up the courage.
Doggedly determined to confront him when he got back, she poured whisky – a lot of whisky – into the clean tumbler.
‘Just you wait, Ivan whatever your name is!’
She held up the tumbler, eyed the whisky determinedly and made a snapshot decision. ‘Down the hatch!’
It burnt! The back of her throat tingled and she had to force herself to swallow it, to get it past her taste buds and down her gullet. Closing her eyes and clamping her lips tight together seemed to help. One gulp and the burning sensation passed as the effect of the alcohol drifted into her head. If I have two or three more, she thought, I will become even braver, more ready to deal with him when he gets back.