by Jess Foley
She passed through into the hall and started up the stairs, and Lily went after her. In the bedroom Mrs Clair stopped beside the bed and looked down at her husband. He lay with his eyes screwed up and his lips drawn back over his teeth. The pain he was feeling was written in every line of his face.
‘It’s bad, is it, darlin’?’ Mrs Clair said, bending low over the bed. Hearing the words, Lily was almost shocked. She had never before heard her speak to her father in such an intimate way. Her stepmother had usually addressed him as Father, sometimes Edwin. Now she was calling him darlin’, and her tone, though matter-of-fact, was tender. They had a life together, Lily realised, and not just as parents, but as lovers.
As Lily stood by, her stepmother poured water into a glass, then took up a medicine bottle from the top of the chest and carefully counted out some drops into it. That done, she put one hand behind Mr Clair’s head. ‘There, my dear, you drink that.’
Lily watched as her father, between breaths, gulped from the glass. When it was drained, Mrs Clair eased him back onto the pillow. ‘There,’ she laid her hand lightly on his shoulder, ‘you’ll be all right now. A few minutes and you’ll feel better. Take that nasty pain away.’
Lily observed the two of them, and their closeness as her stepmother ministered to him both with pragmatism and tenderness. As the minutes passed she watched too as the medicine slowly began to do its work. Gradually the drug took hold, and her father’s tight, drawn-back lips by degrees relaxed, as did his bony-knuckled hands that gripped the coverlet. His eyes closed, and slowly his whole body appeared to relax and settle into the bed.
‘He’ll be all right now. Won’t you, darlin’?’ Mrs Clair reached down and gently touched her husband’s cheek. ‘You’ll be better now. No more pain for a while.’ She remained standing there for some moments, then turned to Lily. ‘You going to sit with him for a bit longer, are you?’
‘Yes, I’d like to.’
‘Good. He’d like that too.’ She gave his shoulder the lightest pat. ‘I’ll just be downstairs, dear. If you need me Lily’ll come and get me. All right?’
‘Yes – all right.’ Mr Clair spoke for the first time following his attack of pain, his voice weak and hoarse. His wife continued to look down at him for a moment longer, then stepped away. In the doorway she turned to Lily and said:
‘I should think you’ll be feeling dry too. I’ll bring you up some tea in a minute.’
Lily was a little taken aback at her mother’s words and the unaccustomed slight softness of tone. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
Mrs Clair stepped out onto the small landing and started down the stairs. Lily remained there for a second then moved to the chair and sat down.
‘How are you now, Father?’ she asked, leaning towards him. ‘Is the pain easing?’
‘Yes,’ he breathed. ‘Yes, it is, thank God.’
He did not speak again for some time, but was still, one hand beneath the covers and the other on top. Lily watched him as he lay with closed eyes. His breathing, though still shallow, now sounded a little more even. He was not sleeping, though, and when she shifted on the seat, causing the chair to creak, he opened his eyes. ‘You’re not going, are you?’ he said.
‘No, of course not. I told you, I’ll be here as long as you want me.’
‘Good.’ The faintest nod of his head on the pillow, the faintest touch of a smile.
As the minutes passed it was evident that his discomfort was diminishing, and with a little water to sooth his dry throat, he appeared to relax even more. A while later Mrs Clair appeared with a mug of tea for Lily, and after addressing a few quiet words to her husband went away again to resume her work downstairs.
Lily sat sipping at her tea while the time crept by. After a while her father began to talk again, in a desultory manner at first, but as the minutes passed his speech began to flow, and she realised that it was due to the laudanum. He spoke of several things: of his work at the factory, and his colleagues there, and then of his childhood amid the hills and fields of Wiltshire. He told of adventures he had had and of people he had met. His voice, more animated, was at times almost passionate, and Lily found herself discovering facets of his life that she had never known. At one time he spoke of an incident that had occurred on his wedding day, and she realised with a little thrill that it was his first marriage he was referring to. When he spoke of Ellen, his bride, Lily leant forward on the chair. ‘Oh, Father, tell me – what was she like?’ she said. ‘You never speak of her.’
‘Oh, she was a fine-looking young woman,’ he said. ‘One of the prettiest girls in the village.’ He paused, looking directly at Lily. ‘And you’re the spit of her, you know. Sometimes I see her in you so clearly.’
The words pleased Lily so much, and she hoped to hear more, but he frowned and briefly closed his eyes and murmured, ‘Ah, but that’s in the past,’ and went on to talk of other things. Before long, however, his words began to slow, and his eyelids flickered and drooped. Soon he was asleep, his breathing regular and his hand relaxed on the coverlet. Through the partly open door came the faint sound of footfalls on the stair, and a few moments later Mrs Clair appeared.
‘He’s sleeping,’ Lily said softly as her stepmother came into the room.
Mrs Clair gave a nod. ‘Good. He sleeps a lot these days.’ She stood looking down at him. ‘We can leave him now for a while. He’ll be all right – and we’ll listen out. Come on downstairs. Have something to eat.’
Lily was aware once again of her stepmother speaking to her in a softer tone than she had used in the past, and was so glad of it. Perhaps, the notion crossed her mind, it had to do with her having been away for so long. She was older now. She had gone away a mere girl, and had come back a woman. She could no longer be seen as the child she had been.
In the kitchen she sat at the table and ate a small slice of cold pork pie with a piece of cheese. Her stepmother ate nothing. The afternoon sky was dark with cloud, and one of the lamps had been lit. Now that the two women were away from the sickroom and face to face, alone, an awkwardness and a tension descended between them. ‘So,’ Mrs Clair said into the hush of the room, ‘how have things been with you? You’ve been staying on in Sherrell, you wrote, and working at becoming a governess.’
‘Yes, I have, Mother,’ Lily replied, ‘and now I’ve been offered a position.’
‘A position? A position as governess?’
‘Yes. With a family in Little Patten.’
‘Well – that’s something, I’m sure. Have you told your father?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sure he was very pleased to know.’
‘Yes, he was.’
‘Indeed, and why not? He’s always wanted the best for you. So, when do you begin with this new position?’
‘A week Monday. On the second.’
‘Oh – so soon.’
‘Yes.’ Lily, a little carried away with the prospect of her forthcoming employment, went on enthusiastically, ‘I was there for an interview yesterday. And I met the children, twin girls, Alice and Rose. They seem such a very nice little pair. I’m sure I’m going to love it. Mrs Acland is a charming lady, and the house is –’
She got no further, for Mrs Clair was giving a sniff, and saying, ‘Oh – very grand indeed, eh?’ and glancing at the clock. ‘Look at the time,’ she said. ‘Dora will be in from school any minute.’
With her stepmother’s words, Lily realised that nothing more of her life or progress was to be spoken of. She would not pursue it further. ‘How is Dora?’ she said. ‘How is she taking Father’s illness?’
‘Oh, I don’t like her to see her father the way he is,’ Mrs Clair replied. ‘She insists he’s going to get better, and I encourage her to believe it, but I know she knows the truth. It’ll be bad enough for her when it finally happens, and it won’t be long, going by what the doctor says.’
‘When did you say the doctor is coming again?’ Lily asked. ‘Does he come every day?’
&nb
sp; ‘Almost. He’ll be here again tomorrow. Though of course I can send for him any time if there’s an emergency. Though what he’d be able to do, I don’t know.’
‘Mother,’ Lily said, ‘I wish you had let me know sooner that Father was so ill. I should have been here days ago.’
‘Well, I’m sorry, but I haven’t had a minute,’ Mrs Clair said. ‘Caring for a sick man – you can’t imagine what it’s like. You don’t get a moment to yourself.’
‘What about Tom? Have you written to tell him Father’s ill? He should be here at a time like this.’
‘Oh, really,’ Mrs Clair said in a tired, defensive tone. ‘Well, it might help matters if we knew where he was.’
‘But he told me he’d written to you,’ Lily said. ‘He told me himself.’
Mrs Clair put her cup down sharply in the saucer. ‘Oh, did he indeed? Well, I’m sorry, but we never heard a word from him.’
‘He’s got to be told, Mother,’ Lily said. ‘I know where he is, and I’ll write to him at once. I’ll tell him he must come home as soon as he can.’
‘As you wish. I’ve got work to get on with.’
As Mrs Clair went out to the scullery with the china and cutlery, Lily brought the writing slope to the table and opened it up. Then she sat down and wrote a brief letter to Tom, telling him that their father was very ill, and that he should come to see him as soon as possible. When the letter was finished she went into the scullery where her stepmother stood at the sink. ‘I’ve written to Thomas,’ she said. ‘If I go and post it now he might get it tomorrow.’
It took Lily twenty minutes to walk to the post office, and the November wind was cold in her face, but she was barely aware of it. She paid the postmistress for a stamp and left the letter in the woman’s hands. Tom would receive it tomorrow or the day after, though his coming to his father in time was a hope she hardly dared entertain.
On her return home she found Dora there, having just come back from school. It had been over a year since the two had last met and Lily could see a change in her young half-sister. Dora was eight years old now. She had grown considerably taller and was becoming very attractive, with a bright smile and a warm, easy nature. After she and Lily had greeted one another they sat side by side on the settee where Lily asked Dora about her progress at school and told a little of her own life during the time they had been apart. Of Lily’s situation with the birth of her son, nothing of course was said, and she realised that Dora knew nothing of it.
Later, at the bidding of her stepmother, Dora went upstairs to see her father and spend a few minutes at his bedside. While the girl was gone, Mrs Clair, having set the table ready for the evening meal, got out her mending basket and sat with it beside the range. Lily sat in the chair opposite, her father’s chair, taking some of the mending into her own hands, and the two women faced one another before the fire, their needles moving and glinting in the light from the lamps. Neither spoke. It was only when Dora came back into the room that the silence was broken.
After the meal was consumed – with none of the three exhibiting much appetite – Mrs Clair went upstairs to sit with her husband, while Lily and Dora remained below and cleared the table and washed the dishes. Later, after Mrs Clair had come back downstairs, Lily went up to the bedroom, taking some of the mending work with her. The room was lit by two softly glowing lamps, one on the chest beside the bed, and the other on a table near the window. The curtains had been closed against the night.
She sat down in the chair next to the bed, looking down at the sleeping man, and she could see that his pain was not that far below the surface. Occasionally his breath faltered, hitching for the briefest moment, and he would wince slightly before he sank back into his slumber. Apart from his harsh breathing, hardly a sound broke the quiet.
That night, as in days past, Lily slept in the same bed as Dora. Dora, who had gone up to the bedroom earlier, was sound asleep when Lily crept in. Lily had agreed with her stepmother that they would share the vigil over the sick man, and in the early hours of the morning she was awakened by a touch on her shoulder and opened her eyes to see her stepmother standing at the bedside, an old coat over her nightdress. A lighted candle had been placed on the chair. As gently as possible, Lily climbed out of bed, while in the same moment her stepmother took off the coat. Lily took it from her and slipped it on over her nightdress. ‘How is he?’ she whispered.
‘I gave him his drops earlier and he’s sleeping again now,’ Mrs Clair replied. ‘He should be all right for a while.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Two o’clock.’ Mrs Clair sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off a pair of men’s woollen stockings. She held them up to Lily. ‘Here – put these on. It’s not so warm in there – they’ll keep you a bit more comfortable.’
As Lily pulled on the stockings, Mrs Clair climbed into the bed. Dora, momentarily disturbed by the movement, muttered in her sleep and moved her head on the pillow. Mrs Clair laid a soothing hand on the girl’s shoulder. ‘It’s all right, my dear,’ she murmured. ‘Go back to sleep now. Your mama’s here.’ She turned back to Lily. ‘Wake me at six o’clock.’
Lily, the lighted candle in her hand, silently crossed the narrow landing to her parents’ room where her father lay in his morphine-induced sleep. No movement came from the figure in the bed. Only one lamp was burning now. She blew out the candle and set it down on the chest then settled back into the old armchair and pulled over her body the warm rug that her stepmother had left. Lifting her stockinged feet, she tucked them under her in the chair and leant her head against the wing.
The minutes and the hours crept by. Later, she looked at her father’s watch and saw that it was after six o’clock, well after the hour at which her stepmother had asked to be wakened. Her father was still sleeping soundly. She sat back in the chair and adjusted the rug, necessary against the chill morning air. She would let her stepmother sleep on; with all she had to deal with she must be in need of her rest and a little oblivion.
Over the rest of the day Lily and her stepmother took turns in watching over the sick man. Dr Helligan called late in the morning, but could offer no comfort. As the day wore on Lily kept hoping that Tom might appear, for surely he would have received her letter that morning. There was no sign of him, though.
She slept beside Dora again that night, taking turns with her stepmother in sitting at her father’s bedside. After breakfast, Dora went off to school, leaving her mother and Lily working in the house and watching over the sick man. He was in much greater discomfort this morning, and Mrs Clair had had to give him his drops earlier than usual. Even so, when the doctor appeared just after eleven, the effects of the drug were wearing off and Mr Clair was twitching and grimacing with the growing pain.
Dr Helligan took from his bag a hypodermic syringe. Neither Lily nor her stepmother had seen such an instrument before, and they watched, wincing, as the doctor rolled up Mr Clair’s sleeve and injected his upper arm. As the doctor pulled the patient’s sleeve down again, he turned to Mrs Clair and said quietly:
‘He won’t have any pain now. This is so much more effective than the drops.’ He looked back down at the dying man. ‘I’m afraid it’s not going to be very long now. His organs are just – just shutting down. The best we can do is try to keep him free of pain.’
After the doctor had gone, Lily and Mrs Clair remained standing at the bedside. Mr Clair was breathing more and more deeply, giving out a harsh, sonorous sound, his body unmoving beneath the covers. There was a difference now in the quality of his insensitivity. Whereas before he had appeared at times to be merely sleeping, now he seemed to be in the very deepest stupor.
Just before eight-thirty that evening Lily sat alone at the bedside while her stepmother went down to the kitchen to fetch some water. Dora was already in bed. All day Lily had hoped that Tom would come, but still he had not, and now she knew that any appearance by him would be too late, for her father would never be conscious again, would never
wake to recognise a familiar face.
As she sat there she became aware that her father’s breathing had grown even louder, sounding more laboured, alarmingly harsh and stertorous. He lay with his mouth slightly open, his head a little on one side, and as she gazed at him the sound of his breathing changed again, his harsh indrawn breaths beginning to bubble like liquid in his lungs. Suddenly his body convulsed and his eyes opened wide as his head twitched and turned to the side. Lily rose up and bent to him, and as she did so his mouth opened and a stream of dark brown bile poured out over his lips and ran down his chin. She realised that the room had become suddenly silent. His breathing had ceased. Looking into his face she saw that his eyes were dull and the spark of life had gone.
Chapter Eighteen
Eight days later, the church clock was striking eleven, and Lily stood with hands clasped at her waist as the coffin was lowered into the earth. She wore a heavy black cloak that she had borrowed from her stepmother and her hat had been trimmed with black crêpe. The day was bleak and grey and cold, with a dampness in the air that clung to the evergreen leaves of the yew that spread its branches over the wet grass. Her stepmother stood next to Lily at the graveside with head bowed, her broad-brimmed hat and dark veil obscuring her face. There were few other mourners, just three neighbours from the lane – an old man and two middle-aged women – and a stranger: a man who had worked with Mr Clair at the factory. The Clairs had tended to keep to themselves over the years, not encouraging any casual closeness with those living nearby; consequently there were few who felt it incumbent upon them to mark Mr Clair’s passing with any show of grieving respect on such an unwelcoming day.