by Ashe Barker
And I won the ‘Guess How Many Smarties In The Jar’ prize. I suppose there are some who’d say I cheated, or at least didn’t properly enter into the spirit of the game. I invested a quid in a tube of Smarties at the sweet stall, worked out how much volume twenty of them took up and the rest was simple mental arithmetic. I got the answer right to within two Smarties. Not much point being a mathematical wizard if you can’t use your talent to win a year’s supply of Smarties, in my book. And Rosie was over the moon.
We’ve done our fair share of moors walking, and even went out for a moonlit hike on Sunday evening. We lay on our backs in the bracken, staring up at the night sky, and I pointed out some more of its wonders to Rosie. We spotted one particularly bright star, which we agreed must be her mummy. Rosie told me she remembers her mummy a little bit, but only ever as being ill. She doesn’t remember much at all before she went to live with Nathan. She was sad when her mummy died, but not frightened because she had a daddy by then. She told me the best thing ever to happen in her whole life was the day she was a bridesmaid when her daddy married her mummy. The next best thing was the day they went to the dog’s home and found Barney. And the next best thing was me coming to teach her violin. God, what an accolade! I could hardly speak for the lump in my throat.
We’ve been swimming—well, me splashing around in the shallow end with Rosie really—but we had fun. And all three of us went to the cinema and then to Nando’s for supper. And today Rosie and I nipped down into Keighley in Mrs Richardson’s car to buy a birthday card and present for a friend’s party Rosie is going to next weekend. She’s so excited, chattering away about the party, the horse riding Barbie we’ve bought as a present, her new teacher at school, violin concerts we could perform for her daddy, the chicks she’s hoping might emerge soon from under Tracey or Beaker, her pet chickens. My thoughts have, I admit, wandered to my own more private version of performing for her daddy, and I’m listening somewhat selectively to the constant stream of little girl consciousness as we let ourselves in through the back door expecting to be greeted by the sweet aroma of Mrs Richardson’s lamb hotpot.
Alas, no. We look at each other in unspoken puzzlement. No simmering dish of juicy hotpot awaits us on the Aga. Indeed, there’s no sign of Mrs Richardson, or our lunch at all. What there is, however, is a very agitated Barney, pacing around the room and whining.
Ignoring the dog, Rosie is more worried about her stomach. “She’s gone out…” she announces matter-of-factly. “What’ll we have for our dinner? I’m so hungry…”
Somewhat puzzled by Barney’s antics but still pretty famished myself I’m already peering optimistically into the fridge—well, you never know, there might be a hotpot in there waiting for us to warm it up. Perhaps we misunderstood what Mrs Richardson said as we were leaving this morning. It occurs to me that she can’t have gone very far—we borrowed her car. Rosie heads off up to her room to compare horsey Barbie to her own not inconsiderable collection of anorexic but remarkably busty plastic lovelies before wrapping it up. As soon as she opens the door to the hallway Barney is through and shooting upstairs, his huge paws pounding along the landing overhead. I feel the first stirring of alarm as I’m debating between attempting to conjure up cheese toasties or cracking open a tin of tomato soup—my culinary skills are not impressive, I think we’ve all recognised that, when I hear a gut-wrenching shriek from upstairs. Rosie’s voice, shrill with panic and terror, bouncing off the walls.
“Eva! Eva! Come quick. Nana’s dead!”
Coming soon from Total-E-Bound Publishing:
The Dark Side: Darkest
Ashe Barker
Released 18th October 2013
Excerpt
Chapter One
“What the fuck…?” I’m running for the stairs, then take them three at a time—I can definitely shift a bit when the situation calls for it. I charge down the landing towards Rosie who is standing at the open door to Nathan’s room. Her fingers are pressed into her ashen cheeks, her continuous screaming just getting louder and louder. Reaching her, I grab the tiny figure by the shoulders, spinning her away from the door. I can feel the small body shaking under my hands as, with Rosie’s face pressed into my stomach, I stroke the dark hair in an instinctive attempt to calm her. I look over her head, dreading what sight awaits me. Blood-curdling murder? Horrific gory accident?
None of that. Mrs Richardson is there all right, on the floor, her legs tangled in the rather fetching navy and black duvet that has slid off Nathan’s bed. She looks to be asleep. I hug Rosie tighter, tell her—somewhat more optimistically than is perhaps justified—that it’s okay, and to wait for me where she is. Her screams have subsided into gulping sobs so I step into the room, and approach the still figure on the floor.
“Mrs Richardson? Grace? Are you okay?” Stupid question.
Nervous, I kneel beside her and stretch out my hand. I half expect her to leap up with a shout of ‘Boo!’ I think it’s fair to say I would have made a disgusting mess on the inch-deep shag pile if she had. But she’s motionless, no response. My hands hovering, I’m not sure if, where to touch and desperately try to think what to do, how to find out if she’s alive.
“Is she breathing? Oh, Eva, is she dead? She can’t be dead. Please. Please don’t let her be dead…”
“Shhh, sweetheart, let me have a look.” Breathing, there’s a thought. Carefully watching her chest I see a faint quiver of movement there. Thank God! Encouraged, I at last take hold of her hand—it’s warm—and I feel for a pulse. It’s there. Faint, thready, but definitely there.
“Rosie, she’s alive but we need an ambulance. Run down to the kitchen for my phone. It’s in my bag, on the table. Hurry, please.”
As Rosie turns to scamper off, her wits now fully about her again, I lean down close, desperately scanning Mrs Richardson’s still face for any sign of consciousness.
“Grace? Grace, can you hear me?” I want to pick her up, shake her shoulders, but I’m scared of hurting her. I settle for leaning into her face, calling her name. Rosie comes skidding back seconds later, my phone in her hand. She thrusts it at me and I stand, pressing nine-nine-nine. The efficient disembodied voice responds, politely asking me which service I require.
“Hello, yes, ambulance please. Our housekeeper has had an accident.”
The next voice I hear is the ambulance service, asking me what the problem is.
“Our housekeeper’s had an accident. She’s unconscious.”
The calm female voice asks me if I know what happened.
God knows. “A fall, perhaps. She’s unconscious.”
“How long has she been unconscious?”
Christ, why can’t they just send a bloody ambulance? “I don’t know. We just arrived home and found her like this. No, she’s not talking. Yes, she’s breathing.”
At last the ambulance lady seems to get the message and starts asking for the location. I realise I don’t even know the postcode. I look helplessly at Rosie, who rattles it off. Bless her, and bless Nathan and Grace for drilling it into her. Gathering my own wits now, I realise we’re due a good wait as the nearest ambulance must be half an hour away. That’s assuming they can even find this place. I give directions as best I can while Rosie disappears back out onto the landing.
At last the ambulance control room assures me that help is on the way and I hang up. I stand in the middle of the room, looking helplessly down at Mrs Richardson who has shown no sign of stirring. For the first time I look around, trying to imagine what on earth could have happened. At a loss, I kneel beside her again, taking her hand, stroking it. “It’s okay, Grace, an ambulance will be here soon. You’ll be okay. Please, please be okay.”
I hear Rosie come back in, stand behind me. Her little hand is on my shoulder. “Uncle Tom’s coming. He’ll be here in five minutes.”
“What? Who—”
“I phoned Uncle Tom from the downstairs phone. He’s in the top meadow but he’s on his quad and he’ll be here in
five minutes.” At my incredulous look she goes on to explain. “It’s a long way round by road, but only a few minutes across the fields. He’ll be here soon.”
I hug her for the clever, resourceful little wonder that she is. I never thought to call Tom, but of course he’s our nearest neighbour. He knows the area. He can direct the ambulance crew. I start to feel a sense of relief—this bloody catastrophe might just turn out all right after all.
A faint rustle and moan behind me has me swirling around and once more leaning over Mrs Richardson, looking for some sign that she might be coming round. Her eyelids flutter, a brief flash of slate grey as she opens them a crack then lies still, silent again. Rosie is kneeling on her other side, we each have one of her hands in ours and Rosie is talking softly to her, tears once more rolling down her cheeks although the earlier panic has now gone. “Nana, please wake up, Nana.”
Nana?
I feel the hand pressed between my palms flex slightly. I squeeze back to show I’ve felt the touch. “Can you hear us, Grace. It’s Rosie and Eva. Can you hear us? Please, open your eyes…” I glance across at Rosie, her little face trembling, and I reach over to stroke her wet cheek.
“She’ll be okay, love. We’ll look after her.” I hope I’m not making promises I can’t keep.
“Who’ll look after us? Who’ll look after me? I’m scared…” The whisper is faint, fearful, conveying the agony of doubt faced by a child whose world is about to shatter. And not for the first time.
“Your daddy will. And until he gets home we’ll look after each other. And Mrs Richardson. I promise.”
Rosie looks at me, our gazes lock over the inert, unconscious body of the woman she clearly thinks of as her grandma, and the promise is sealed, shared.
The clatter of a door crashing downstairs and the pounding of footsteps coming up and along the landing heralds Tom’s arrival, in less than the promised five minutes, it seems to me.
“What’s happened?” He’s crouching beside us, reaching out, feeling Mrs Richardson’s neck for a pulse.
“No idea. We came back from shopping a few minutes ago, found her here, like this. The ambulance is on its way.”
“Good. They’ll never find this place, though, without some help. We need to send someone down to the bottom of the lane, direct them up here. And someone needs to stay here with Grace. Do you have any first aid experience, Eva?”
I shake my head.
“I do. We farmers are accident prone. Right, I’ll stay then. And we’ll need to make sure the gate is opened for the ambulance to get in. There’s a remote control in the kitchen—do you know where it is, Rosie? Do you know how to override the sensor?”
She nods. Thank God someone’s thinking straight.
“Great.” He tosses me a small set of keys. “Eva, you take the quad, go down to the bottom of the lane and wait for the ambulance. Helmet’s on the seat.”
Shit. “I’ve never ridden a quad bike before…”
I’m just standing there, looking from his face to the keys in my hand. Despite my own hesitation, Tom clearly has no doubts as to my ability to cope, so I decide not to harbour any either. His instructions are succinct.
“You’ll be fine. Throttle’s on the right handlebar, brake on the left. Turn it towards you to go faster. Just press the brake to stop. Gears are automatic. Rosie, you make sure those gates are open and stay open till the ambulance gets here. I’ll stay with Grace. Give me your phone, Eva.”
I hand it over, without question, as he pulls his own from his pocket. Switching both on, a few rapid keystrokes later he hands me his. “If the ambulance gets lost they’ll phone back—on your phone—so best if I answer. I know the area better than you. You take mine in case we need to be in touch. I’ve put your number on my speed dial, but it might be best to use the landline in case the ambulance service need to call.” I take his phone and pocket it, nodding. And I’m out of there.
A few moments later I’m outside on the drive, eying up the huge red quad bike dumped by the front door. I pull the helmet on and jump astride the thing. It starts at the first turn of the key—so far so good—and I try an experimental turn of the right handlebar. The machine inches forward and I turn the handlebars to circle away from the house. I press the button under my left thumb, just to make sure I know where the brake is, and it stops. Right, good enough. Belatedly, I realise I never asked about reverse gear, but decide to stick to going forwards. Usually a reasonable plan.
I turn the throttle more firmly and the machine leaps forward. I shriek, let go, and roll to a stop. Practice time over I turn the throttle gently, and the machine slides forward. It’s smooth, more or less. I turn my attention to steering. The gate glides open as I lurch towards it—good work, Rosie—and I’m soon progressing down the lane at a cool thirty miles an hour, more turbo-charged tortoise now than drunken kangaroo. The quad can do a lot more than thirty, the unleashed power is throbbing under me, but I know my limitations. I do intend to have another go, though, when I get a chance. This is really rather good…
In a couple of minutes I’m at the bottom of the lane, at the junction with the B road linking us to Lancashire. I circle in the road, and come to a stop facing back up towards Black Combe. With no reverse gear—at least not one that I can find—I don’t intend to try any fancy manoeuvres.
I use Tom’s phone to check back in. There’s been no change. I sit and wait.
It seems like hours but in reality has only been exactly eleven and a half minutes when I catch sight of a blue light in the distance, flashing between the trees about two miles away. I watch carefully—there it is again. And it’s definitely coming my way. I leap off the quad and stand in the middle of the road, ready to flag the ambulance down. Less than five minutes later, after a brief conversation with a rather youthful but no doubt eminently well-qualified female paramedic, the ambulance is turning slowly into our lane and heading up to Black Combe. I clamber back onto the quad and follow.
By the time I’ve parked the quad in front of the house, pocketed the keys, dumped the helmet and run back upstairs, the two paramedics—the young woman I spoke to at the bottom of the lane and her older companion, a grey-haired but incredibly energetic woman whose name badge announces that she’s called Liz—are kneeling beside Grace. Their medi-bags are open and a pile of useful-looking stuff such as a stethoscope, thermometer and a pack of syringes has appeared. Liz is shining a little torch into Grace’s eyes.
Tom and Rosie are standing back, just watching the action now. She’s clutching his hand tightly, her little face wet with tears. She’s clearly terrified and without thinking, acting on instinct now, I go over to her and pull her into my arms. She comes to me without hesitation, clinging to me for comfort. I hold her, whispering reassurance, quietly hoping I’m right and that all this is indeed going to turn out okay.
“Has she said anything?” The younger paramedic looks up at us sharply.
Tom answers, “No. She’s been unconscious since we found her. Since Eva and Rosie found her, that is.”
“Any idea how long she’s been unconscious?” Everyone is looking at me, and I do the best I can. “No, not really. Rosie and I went out at half nine this morning—she was fine then. We got back about half an hour ago…” I glance at my watch, realise it’s now almost one. “We found her at about half twelve so it could be as much as three and a half hours, I guess…”
“Okay. Well, it looks like she’s had a fall, and from the angle she’s lying at it’s possible she’s broken her hip. Might be a head injury there, too. We’ll do some pain relief here then we need to get her down to Airedale General. They’ll do the X-rays and we’ll soon know. Is anyone coming with her?”
“Eva will.” Tom’s voice is solid. Authoritative. “I’ll follow in Grace’s car with Rosie. You can drop me off later.”
“Right, right, fine. I’ll come in the ambulance then.”
And so it’s settled, and a few minutes later I’m perched in the back of the ambul
ance as we whizz along the country lanes, the younger paramedic busily topping up Grace’s drip and smiling reassurance at me.
“Her pulse is strong and steady. She’s concussed but showing signs of coming round. The morphine I’ve given her’s keeping her under now, and that’s probably best until they get her nice and settled in the hospital.”
I nod wisely, as if my opinion counts. It does all sound very promising, though. The rest of the journey passes in a blur, but mercifully with no deterioration in Grace’s condition. The paramedic is monitoring her dials and displays and seems content enough, and that’ll do for me. We arrive at the Accident and Emergency department and the cool efficiency of the NHS in a crisis swishes into place as Grace is wheeled from the back of the ambulance into a cubicle to be assessed. I hover by the curtain around her bed, useless and superfluous until a kindly nurse shoves a chair behind me and I sit down to wait. And watch.
And an hour later Tom and Rosie have also arrived and all three of us are perched on a row of hard plastic chairs in the A & E waiting area at Airedale General Hospital, exchanging platitudes and waiting for an update. We don’t have long to wait—this is a nice quiet Tuesday afternoon, not a rowdy Saturday night after chucking out time, so waiting times are down to less than an hour. The casualty charge nurse comes bustling over with the good news.
“We’ve got the X-rays back. It’s a fractured hip, but no other damage. We’ll need to set it. That means surgery. But not until tomorrow. She’s going to be admitted to Ward 14. Do you want a word before we send her up?”
“Is she awake then?”
“Oh yes. And chirpy with it. She’s asking about a ‘Rosie’.”
“That’s me!” Rosie bounces up from her chair. “That’s me. Can I see my nana now?”
The charge nurse bends to look Rosie in the eye. He’s obviously well used to dealing with excitable little girls. “You can come in and say hello, just for a minute. And you’ll have to be brave because sometimes it seems a bit scary in here. Your nana has a lot of tubes all around her, and machines that make funny noises. But all those things are to help her feel better. It looks really odd but you mustn’t worry about any of the things in the room.” He glances up at Tom and I. “Are you relatives, too?”