by Roy Lewis
Now it was hate, like that other time, the time he tried to forget, deny had ever happened. Perhaps it showed in his eyes for Lindop raised a stubby finger.
‘Now just you cool it, Andrew boy, just take it easy and you won’t get hurt.’
‘Sara—’
‘I’m telling you, go easy, don’t get excited!’
Andrew struggled to rise, but a foot was planted in his chest, pushing him back to the floor. He began to mouth obscenities, stupid, childish obscenities as Lindop’s red hair seemed to flare in a halo above his head. The light was directly behind him, and Andrew could not see the face of his tormentor but Chuck Lindop’s voice came through, smooth and confident.
‘Up you get now, Andrew, but easy. A walk in the cool night air will maybe sort you out. No damage done, but don’t push your luck, son. You start swinging wild in here, you’ll break things up and I won’t like that. Here—’
A rough fist seized Andrew by the lapel, jerked hard at him and half pulled him from the floor. He put one hand behind him and pushed up, beginning to rise. As he came up, Chuck Lindop kept his fingers tightly wound into Andrew’s jacket. Andrew stood towering above him, four inches taller, but almost like a baby in his hands.
‘Dust yourself down, lad, and take it easy. No hard feelings, if you’ll cool that temper down. Call it the drink, call it—’
With a whoomph the lights above the main gateway went out.
For just one second the two men stood there in surprise. Chuck Lindop was the first to recover. He released his grip on Andrew’s jacket and turned to peer out of the window of the van towards the gates. He began to curse, more fluently and more effectively and with considerably more practice than Andrew.
‘The bloody generator has blown,’ he growled. ‘That’ll be a packet up Jack Forsyth’s shirt. Well, the hell with that, there’s not a thing I can do about that!’
He turned to face Andrew again just as Andrew swung a half-hearted punch at him. It grazed Chuck Lindop’s cheek as the man swayed back instinctively. It certainly did not hurt him, but it brought out Lindop’s temper, removed any self-control he had been exercising up to now, and he moved forward swiftly, crouching. His left fist flashed out, his knuckles thudding into Andrew’s midriff, doubling him up with an explosive grunt. As his head came down and forward Lindop’s blow was transferred into a driving elbow, slicing upwards to meet his face, but catching Andrew just below the chin, painfully in the throat, robbing him of breath and causing him to gasp and choke horribly. Lindop grabbed him by both shoulders and thrust him back against the side of the van. He began to shout but Andrew could not hear the words. There was only the sound, a vague, wild, mouthing of filthy words and names and actions. As his senses cleared some of the words broke through but they were words he did not want to hear and he struggled, trying vainly to strike at the hateful face that was thrust into his, twisted and brutal in its anger.
Lindop took one blow at the back of the neck. He shouted, stepped back, releasing Andrew’s shoulder. As Andrew came forward he grabbed him again, swinging him around and thrusting him against the far wall, face forward. Then, before Andrew realized what was happening, Chuck Lindop slammed one fist upwards between his legs from behind, sending pain searing up through Andrew’s body. But almost worse than the pain was the hysterical laughter that bubbled out of Chuck Lindop’s mouth as the fingers grabbed, took fierce purchase in Andrew’s groin and twisted, lifted, until Andrew was on tiptoe, struggling to maintain balance, held painfully, unable to escape his humiliation as Lindop’s powerful arm lifted him.
‘I’ll teach you to take a swing at me, you schoolboy!’ Lindop shouted. Andrew felt the fingers twisting at him and there were tears in his eyes as he screamed, struggled forward, unable to release himself. Lindop grabbed him by the back of his collar with his free hand and propelled him towards the door, still pulling and twisting at his groin with one hand. ‘Next time you come here to see me, you crawl, you scum!’
Andrew stood poised in the doorway, arms flailing helplessly as Lindop still held him on tiptoe, laughing almost hysterically at his pain and humiliation. Then with a violent push Lindop released his collar and a fraction of a second later, his groin. Andrew went hurtling out of the van to crash down on the wet grass. He fell on his elbows, skidding forward, and then rolled, fetching up some twelve feet from the van. Chuck Lindop’s laughter seemed distant, far away, but the ache in his groin was palpable, insistent, robbing him of any thought but of his body.
Gradually, seconds, long seconds later the pain began to subside. Andrew became aware that he was still lying on his face. The grass was wet under his cheek. He spread his fingers wide, dug them into the soft earth, and felt something other than pain again. He raised his head.
The camp was dark. The vans were quiet, no lights showing except in one van, his van, down by the trees. The lights at the entrance gate had gone out and he could see nothing of the gravel path, or the other vans, or the grass more than fifteen feet away. There was no moon, the wind was soft and light on his face.
He sat up, half turning. Chuck Lindop was standing in the doorway of his van, thick and burly against the gaslight. He had donned a donkey jacket and there was a flashlight in his hand. He was about to go up to the generator. He flicked on the flashlight and the beam leapt out into the darkness, playing over Andrew’s tear-streaked face, pinpointing his humiliation.
‘Get back to your little woman,’ Lindop said harshly, ‘before I mark your face with something more permanent than a bit of dirt!’
He stepped down from the van, half pulling the door closed behind him. The light from the doorway was cut off, the flashlight played crazily across the grass as Lindop turned away. He was some seven feet from Andrew as Andrew’s right hand, levering him upwards from the turf, felt the cold iron against his fingers. The fingers clutched at it, became aware of its weight, cold and hard as the hate in his chest.
He stood up, swaying. Lindop stopped, half turned to look over his shoulder as Andrew moved forward with the heavy iron bar in his hand.
Suddenly, the breeze had died.
* * *
If you stood at the top of the site just inside the gateway, in the darkness, you could see a faint warm stain in the night sky that was Stowford, lit up with carnival fever. Above the glow the sky darkened, blue and black as the trees and the hedge where the furry things rustled their secrets to each other and to the earth that hid them. The soft, wet hush of the grass, the crunch of gravel, the sound of blood pumping in his heart, the cold feel of metal against his cheek. He was becoming aware of the world again, aware of the night and the darkness and the touch of a strip of metal that ran along the side of his van. He had polished that strip in the sunlight until it shone, but that had been an age, a century, a millennium ago.
Someone was crying.
He took a deep breath, tried to stop the sound. He couldn’t. He knotted a fist, pressed it hard against his chest, leaned his forehead against the side of the van but the sobs continued.
They were not his sobs.
Andrew stood rigid in the darkness for one long moment, heard the sobbing change to a groan then a subdued, bitten-off shriek, and rushed around to the other side of the van. He threw open the door and almost fell inside. The living area was empty, the gaslight flaring bleakly against closed orange curtains. He pushed against the closed door of the bedroom.
‘Sara?’
She was lying on the double bed, in the darkness, on her side. Her right leg was extended, her left drawn up under her and her body was bowed as though she was trying to relieve the weight of her stomach. As he entered she turned her face; it was a pale blur of pain and fear and anxiety. She turned away again.
‘Sara—’
She gave a shuddering sob and then relaxed slightly as he knelt beside the bed. He put out a hand and tentatively she grasped it; her grip became firmer after a moment as though she found strength in his touch. It was a long time since he had felt such r
eliance coming from her at his touch.
‘What is it, Sara?’
‘I think it’s coming,’ she whispered.
Andrew was taken aback. ‘You . . . are you sure? I mean, it’s five weeks yet!’
She was shivering. The spasm of pain had gone and she was relaxing, but she was shivering as though she were cold. Andrew rose, closed the outside door of the van, lit the gaslight inside the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed.
‘How . . . how often is the pain coming?’ As though by way of answer he saw her eyes widen in fear again, felt the tension rise in her body and saw her mouth open as the pain reached up, clawed at her and she cried out.
‘Andrew . . . I don’t know . . . it’s not regular, it comes at intervals, but it’s so sharp . . .’
Her hand was gripping his, her fingernails driving into his palm but he hardly felt the pain. He was only aware of the size of her as she lay there, a tall, strong girl, pregnant and frightened. He felt a strength arising in him, a strength he had not felt for years if ever before, but with the strength there was a helpless weakness too. She needed him, wanted his touch — but he was at a loss how to help her.
‘Sara, is there anything you need? A hot drink—’
She shook her head. She was calmer, but he could see sweat glistening on her forehead. She still held tightly to his hand.
‘It’s started, Andrew, I’m sure of it. And I’m scared. I didn’t think I’d be scared but I am. Andrew, the pain . . . But wait, let me think, for God’s sake let me think straight.’ She was silent for a moment, staring at him earnestly and yet not seeing him. Her eyes held a strange quality, a knowledge he had never seen before. Perhaps its message was one of experience — she was discovering herself, discovering her body for the first time. But her eyes were scarred with cataracts of fear and he knew of no way in which to remove them. ‘The phone . . . the phone,’ she said.
Andrew’s mouth was dry. He tried to speak and could not. Her grip tightened on his hand. ‘You’ll have to phone the hospital,’ she said, and stiffened again. ‘You’ll have to—’
The words were bitten off by a spasm of pain. Andrew leapt upright, squeezing her hand desperately.
‘The phone in Lindop’s van — it’s out of order! I can’t go there! I’ll have to go up to the road, to Hartley’s bungalow, perhaps, but I can’t leave you here like this, Sara, I can’t leave you, something might happen, something—’
She moaned again, twisting on the bed, and the sound of her agony razored across his consciousness so that he began to shake as though in pain himself. She moaned, rolled on the bed, opened her mouth wide and with one arm fast against her forehead she thrashed around on the coverlet.
‘Andrew, for God’s sake make it stop . . . Andrew . . . !’
Her pain made him distraught. He pressed her hand, tried to comfort her, but his own panic was communicated to Sara and she stared wildly at him.
‘For God’s sake, Andrew, do something!’ Next moment he was saved, as the door to the van was pulled open.
‘What’s happening?’
It was Ruby.
It was strange how he noticed small things about her. She was wearing a blouse and skirt and the frill at her throat was torn slightly, the blouse loose at the waist. Her hair was disarranged, as though the breeze on the site had pulled at it as she came running down at the sound of Sara’s cries. Her face was pale in spite of heavy makeup and her eyes seemed to be sunk in her head, dark marks appearing above her cheekbones like bruises of discontent. She was dressed to go out and yet she appeared drab; she was busy, committed to Sara’s pain and yet she seemed to be waiting for something or someone. It was as though she were going through an act, with people watching her, waiting for her to fall from the tightrope, and all the time she was conscious of some danger that would reach for her out of the darkness to pull her down. She was concerned about Sara, yet she was concerned about herself too — on edge, trembling, anxious.
But efficient. She busied herself in soothing Sara, got Andrew out of the way to make coffee for the three of them, and then plunged into the back of the small built-in wardrobe to drag out the case and start packing it. When the coffee was almost ready Sara cried out in agony again and Ruby, her eyes sparkling anxiously, came out of the bedroom, grabbed the saucepan from Andrew and almost thrust him out of the door.
‘Leave that now. She’s in trouble right enough. Phone the hospital.’
She slammed the door in his face. For just one second Andrew stood there, nonplussed. Then he turned, began to walk towards the gravel path and Sara cried out again. Andrew broke into a run as much to get away from the fear in the sound as to fetch help, for his mind was not yet working sensibly. He was stunned, unable to grasp the situation completely, but he ran, crossed the gravel path and hurried up towards the darkened entrance to the caravan site.
When he reached the lane the breath was already harsh in his chest and he slowed. Fifty yards ahead, where the lane met the main road, an engine roared, the rear lights of a car winked redly as the vehicle pulled away, turning right and driving quickly away, but Andrew paid no attention to it. There was a light in the kitchen window of the solitary bungalow that stood on the corner and he ran for it.
Hartley had a phone. He could phone the hospital from there.
He banged and banged on the door, but for several minutes there was no response. It was as though he was knocking at the door of an empty house, the sound had that echoing note which suggested space, emptiness, a lack of furniture, but eventually he heard a querulous voice calling and the door opened, with the sound of a bolt being withdrawn.
The door was held on a chain; a suspicious, mean face peered out.
‘What do you want? Who are you?’
‘Phone—’ Andrew gasped. ‘My wife — she’s having a baby — phone the hospital.’
The face registered surprise, consternation, suspicion in a mixture of emotions that did nothing to persuade him to release the chain. Andrew raised a fist and thudded it against the door in a sudden angry frustration and the man’s mouth opened anxiously.
‘What the hell you doing? All right, all right, I’ll let you in!’
He fumbled at the chain, opened the door and Andrew entered in a rush. He looked around wildly and the little man pointed towards the hall table. Andrew picked up the phone, dialled for emergency services. They answered almost immediately, and the girl’s calm, ordered tone brought Andrew to his senses. He wasted no explanations. He gave the address, mentioned the maternity hospital, and asked for an ambulance. It was all over in a matter of seconds.
Andrew put the phone down and looked at the owner of the bungalow.
‘I’m sorry if I . . . disturbed you.’
The man called Hartley just looked at him for a moment. He was small in stature, lean, with a lined, wizened face and knowledgeable eyes. His hair was thin and receding, his manner careful and withdrawn. He was about fifty years old, but he looked older. His skin was pallid, his clothes ill-cut. He wore bedroom slippers that looked fairly new.
‘That’s all right. You from the site, then?’
‘Yes. My wife’s pregnant. It’s on the way. The phone on the site is out of order.’
The two men stood looking at each other.
Andrew felt a reluctance to move, to return to the site even though he knew his duty lay there. He wanted to return, but in a sense he was afraid to. Ruby was there, capable; he would be in the way, ordered about, made to feel foolish, a man in a woman’s world. He willed Hartley to offer him a drink. The little man made no move.
‘The ambulance shouldn’t be long, son. They get out pretty quickly.’ ‘Yes.’
Hartley was standing in the narrow hallway with his back to the living-room door. It was closed, but Hartley gave the impression that any attempt to open it would be resisted with force. There was a nervous aggressiveness about the way he held himself, a determination to repel boarders almost — Andrew considered himself to b
e getting light-headed at the thought. He was being fanciful, and Sara was in pain at the site.
‘I’ll get on back then. Thanks for the use of the phone.’
‘Yes. They shouldn’t be long now.’
Andrew nodded. Almost instinctively, he glanced at his watch. The hands showed him it was twenty minutes past ten. He frowned. He shook his hand, put the watch to his ear. It had stopped.
‘Can you tell me the time?’
Hartley frowned. He opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it. He consulted his own wristwatch. With an odd reluctance he muttered that it had just turned eleven. Andrew thanked him, adjusted his own watch, shook it, and left the bungalow.
He heard the chain being applied to the door behind him.
* * *
The ambulance came rushing out through Stowford with blue light flashing and klaxon sounding. It was held up at the crossroads by the gipsy vans that had been parked on the verge contrary to police instructions, but once that particular bottleneck had been passed there was only the narrow country lane to contend with for a couple of miles before the ambulance gained the straight road that would run past the caravan site.
The driver put his foot down when he reached it. He regarded it as a matter of pride that he should maintain a proper timing on all such runs. Stowford was seven minutes; this camp site, he had swiftly calculated as he left the hospital, should take another ten minutes beyond. Certainly no more than that. But schedules could easily be out. He put his foot down and the ambulance sped on, its blue light casting eerie reflections on the trees that lined the highway.
His headlights picked up the painted sign, exactly seven minutes later. He was over time slightly, but it was only a small miscalculation. There was the sign — Lovesome Hill Caravan Park — good name for a pregnant circumstance. He slowed, signalled, turned right into the lane, and the ambulance bumped its way down the narrow lane towards the park entrance on the left.
‘No bloody lights,’ he grumbled. A rabbit scuttered away with gleaming eyes as he manoeuvred the ambulance into the entrance. The headlights danced down the gravel path. No one seemed to be about; the caravan park was deserted.