by Angela Huth
Henry shifted violently. For one delirious moment he imagined his wish had been granted. There was a scratching at his shoulder, soft as he required from the Leopard. Then the terrible unfairness of life twisted him into a position of physical agony. He groaned out loud and his pillow fell to the floor. Rosie’s repellant foot, icy cold and scaly skinned, rubbed at his leg. She whimpered, pressing her vile hand deeper into the flesh of his shoulder.
‘What’s the matter, love?’ she cried.
‘Bugger off, woman,’ he shouted back. ‘And don’t ever lay your hands on me again.’
He rolled as far as he could to his side of the bed, pulling the sheet and blankets with him. When Rosie began to sob he blocked his ears with a pillow, and decided to send off for travel brochures tomorrow. Soon as he got details of tropical cruises he’d set about making his arrangements.
My Leopard, we’re nearly there. Leave it to me.
He fell asleep and dreamed that he went with a works outing from the brickworks on a cruise to the Caribbean. Just one condition had to be adhered to: all men should bring the ladies of their dreams, and leave their wives at home.
With some peculiar deference to Christmas, Evans decided to go back to his parents’ house when the party was over. He dropped Brenda back at the flat first. She made no objection. A mixture of ginger wine and whisky had made her sleepy.
Brenda would have liked to have gone into Lark’s room and told her about the party, as she used to in the old days before the room at Wroughton House, but there was no light under Lark’s door and Brenda imagined she was asleep. She herself got into bed quickly, and slept at once.
She was woken by the sound of moaning from Lark’s room. Hurrying there, icy floor beneath her feet, she found Lark on top of the bedclothes, doubled up, both arms clutched round her ribs. Her face was blanched, and shone with sweat. When Brenda, alarmed, asked if this was a bad attack of indigestion, Lark could only groan in reply.
It didn’t look like indigestion to Brenda. She ran to the coin box on the landing and dialled the ambulance. Then she pulled on some clothes and returned to Lark’s room. She sat on her bed dabbing at her forehead with a wet sponge. Lark’s groaning was horrible. She kept opening her mouth so wide Brenda could see all her back teeth, black with fillings. Through the curtains loomed a foggy dawn.
The ambulance men took one look at Lark and returned for their stretcher. With great skill and speed they carried her downstairs. In her terror, Brenda felt their efficiency to be the only thing she could count upon as reality. She had never witnessed a real crisis before, and found to her shame she trembled.
‘I’m coming too,’ she said, when they had put Lark into the ambulance.
‘You a relation?’
‘No, but she’s my friend.’
She and one of the men sat on the bunk opposite Lark, who groaned more loudly when the vehicle moved. Her body made a small ripple under the scarlet blanket, no larger than a child’s. Pity she can’t see the colour of the blanket, thought Brenda. She would have liked that. Then the ambulance siren gave a great scream, making her own heart jump. It wailed continually as they drove fast down the roads. Brenda longed to ask the man what was the matter with Lark, but he was holding Lark’s hand, letting her clutch it with her bony fingers, and Brenda’s voice failed her. She reached into her pocket for a packet of Woodbines, but when she brough them out the man shook his head and she put them back again.
At the hospital Lark was rushed on a trolley along green passages rank with disinfectant and lit by strips of neon. She was pushed into a cubicle. There, someone pulled a curtain, barring Brenda’s entrance. She stood for a moment, helpless, listening to Lark’s noise through the curtain. The material was covered with sunflowers, larger than life, a hideous yellow in the neon lighting. Brenda had never seen such ugly flowers. She sat on an upright plastic chair, one of a small row against a wall, and wondered how many people had sat on that very chair waiting for verdicts from behind the sunflowers. She was aware of the smell of her own nervous sweat.
Two nurses appeared. They took no notice of her. Their faces were brightly made up, as if they were going to a party. The wall clock said five to four. Who were their made-up faces for? Night-time casualties, or the puny doctor who followed them into the cubicle? Brenda listened to their voices but could decipher nothing against the torrent of Lark’s groans. Then, suddenly, silence. The small starched noises of hands against aprons, the dull tap of shoes on muted linoleum. The doctor’s voice, quite clear.
‘Riddled with it, if you ask me,’ he said. ‘Tests in the morning.’
The words meant nothing to Brenda, though she felt her heart turn wild with instinctive fear. The foul sunflowers were snapped back, shrinking their petals into ugly folds. The white-coated doctor held a clipboard. Brenda stood up. She could see Lark lying on her side, apparently asleep.
‘I’m her friend,’ she said. ‘Is she all right?’
The doctor was suspicious.
‘No relation?’
‘Just her friend.’ Friends, in a crisis, were apparently of little use. The doctor licked his pencil. Ominously, Brenda thought. ‘We share a flat. I rang for the ambulance.’
‘Can you tell me her name?’
‘Lark.’
‘What was that?’
‘Lark.’ She spelt it. The doctor looked impatient. His pencil hovered, incredulous, above the clipboard.
‘I mean her real name.’
‘That is her real name.’
‘Funny sort of name.’ It had never occurred to Brenda before that Lark was a funny sort of name. The idea seeped across her mind now, sluggish as oil. She felt the weakness of disloyalty. Behind the doctor the two nurses stood like a small chorus each side of Lark’s bed, their party faces smeared with patience. ‘Lark what?’
Brenda paused.
‘Jackson,’ she said eventually.
‘And her nearest relative? Where can her nearest relative be contacted?’
As Lark rang her mother in Westgate-on-Sea twice a week Brenda knew the number by heart. She answered the rest of the doctor’s questions, sensing the hostility between them. Then, he wanted to get rid of her. But Brenda stood her ground.
‘What’s the matter with her?’ she asked. ‘Will she be all right?’
The doctor chewed the pink worm of his bottom lip, denting it. Tact was a reflex action.
‘We’ve given her something to make her comfortable,’ he said. ‘If you like to come back later on in the day we should have more news. We’ll be doing tests in the morning.’ He hurried away, clipboard under his arm, no kind words about not worrying.
Brenda returned along the green corridors without looking back at Lark. She had wanted to touch her, the small mound of a foot under the blanket, but had not liked to in front of the nurses. She walked through the swing doors into an opal dawn. The hospital grounds were divided by tarmac drives. A suspicion of disinfectant in the smell of wet earth from the mean flower beds. Dead plants, mournful laurels. Two bicycles propped up against a pavement with that ludicrous, urgent look that waiting bicycles have, as if charging themselves for a race. A long time ago Lark had suggested they might follow the Tour de France for their holiday. Brenda had been very scathing and Lark had not mentioned it again.
Infirm of purpose, Brenda found herself walking through the town towards Wroughton. She had no clear idea what best to do, or how to pass the hours until she could return to Lark. She walked the three miles fast, hot and sweating, uncooled by the dankness of the air. She reached the farm, went to the chicken shed. Unlocked the padlock on the door. It seemed natural to her the birds should be the first to know.
They were surprised by her early arrival, started a speculative clucking. They were not due to be fed until tomorrow but Brenda decided on a premature meal: it would give her something to do and her hands, running through the mash, would be forced to stop trembling.
It was almost dark in the shed but Brenda had no heart t
o turn on the light. She emptied a bag of mash into a mixing trough, then added three scoops of maize. She mixed the stuff with her hands, slowly, even in her fear liking the familiar sensation of fine grain scurrying through her fingers. Some time ago Wilberforce had come to her with a fancy idea about adding a new-fangled chemical to the mash, which deepened the colour of the egg yolks. But she had been adamant. No, Wilberforce, she had said: we’re just a small farm here. Only three hundred hens. For God’s sake, let’s stick to the maize and paler yolks. The birds have a bloody enough life as it is. Don’t take away what might be their only pleasure. Wilberforce had agreed, not really interested.
Brenda fed the birds. In the half-light their eyes were indignant at the shift in their routine. They conveyed no sympathy, only irritation. Hard-hearted buggers. ‘Lark’s ill,’ Brenda suddenly shouted out loud, startling them: but immediately they continued their impervious chatter. For the first time, this morning, she hated them. She noticed that Priscilla, a bossy bird, had something wrong with her comb: it hung to one side, pale and swollen, the obscene shape of the hand of a foetus. Brenda didn’t care. It reminded her that all the birds were fifteen months old. Six weeks, two months perhaps, and they’d be killed, their use over. Within hours they’d be replaced by the birds now in the rearing pens. But Brenda knew quite clearly she could not face a new generation, all the bother of finding a new queen, and new names. No. When this lot went – sold off cheaply as boiling fowls – she would go too. Her notice, this time, would be final.
Through the skylight the paling light indicated real morning. At seven Brenda would go to the Evanses’ house and break the news. Meantime she began to collect the eggs: not in her usual manner, walking down the rows putting them in a basket, but one at a time. She picked up a single egg, weighed it in her hand and walked with it slowly to the box at the end of the shed where it would lie prior to sorting. Thus she strung out the job to last a long time, forcing herself to concentrate wholly on the shape of each egg, perfect in her hand, so that there should be no room in her mind for the vision of Lark twisted and screaming under the scarlet blanket.
Within a few days Lark was quite absumed by her illness. She lay back on the pillows, too weak to sit up, geranium nails spread out on the white sheet, unmoving. They had given her many pills and injections, and the pain now was a faraway thing like the shuffle of a distant train. She could see it rather than feel it, sense its approach. When its rattle became noisier she would tell a passing nurse and they would bring her more pills. She was allowed her gin: Brenda had made sure of that. A bottle of Gordon’s and a glass stood on a tray at her bedside. Sometimes she swallowed the pills with the gin and for a few moments felt quite energetic as if, given the chance, she could stand up and sing.
The ward was a cheerful place: walls and high ceilings the colour of sand dunes, all strung about with streamers and balloons. For stretches of time Lark observed the other inmates clearly – mostly old people with moussy arms hanging from bright nightdresses: early daffodils and Get Better Soon cards by their bed. Sometimes they forgot to put their teeth in before they smiled, and clapped their hands over their gums in shame. They slept a lot, their skin less yellow in sleep. There was one younger one, long red hair, who thrashed about and moaned one night, and whose sunflower curtains were quickly drawn round her bed. She was no longer there next morning. Then there was a night when a few of the patients, great burly visitors round their beds, had struck up a chorus of Auld Lang Syne. New Year’s Eve, they said it was, and the dreadful singing made Lark sad. All out of tune. She wanted to lead them: the notes were clear in her head waiting to be struck, but when she opened her mouth the strangest whimper emerged, far from the sound she aimed for. She felt tears on her cheeks and reached for her glass of gin. A nurse, hurrying by, said there, there, dear, don’t upset yourself: everyone cries on New Year’s Eve.
At other times a mist seemed to separate Lark from reality. Whether it was a mist of sleep, or some kind of actual vapour, she could never be sure: but it confused time, bringing cocoa and darkness when she had expected morning, or visitors when she thought it to be night. The Christmas decorations seemed to hang unsupported. Lark would move her eyes to see where they were fixed, but could see no place on the walls. There was a feeling of underwater living, dreamlike, never still. Everything was insubstantial. Solid forms melted. Faces became misshapen, voices obscure. Then the mist would clear, and the line of a window or the iron end of her bed would freeze into such sharpness that it hurt her eyes.
One thing Lark was clearly aware of: her illness had, curiously, brought good luck to her friends. A strange irony that she could not fathom, but a positive fact. They had all come to her with good news, and while they spoke their pleasure caused tangible happiness to seep through her veins, giving strength.
Mrs Browne, for instance, who brought mince pies, seemed no longer sad at leaving Wroughton House. With amazing cheerfulness she spoke of her new life in London: how she was looking forward to it, how she intended to start work again. She also said, when Lark was better, she would arrange for her to record a tape of her songs, and she then would take it to a friend in the music world. With a voice like hers, there was no reason Lark could not become famous overnight. Lark felt infinite faith in Mrs Browne’s influence. She imagined a picture of herself, in the fluttery grey dress, on the sleeve of a record. She tried to smile. But her mouth was without saliva, and her lips tight as an elastic band across her teeth. Later, she dreamed the record had reached the charts.
Rosie Evans, who took off her meringue-like hat but kept on her woolly gloves, had news that the damaged Morris Minor had been sold. She and Henry had decided – after a long discussion, she said – they no longer needed a car and could do with the money instead. Only yesterday they had received £75 in cash, which Rosie had hidden under a tin of apricots in the larder.
‘I wouldn’t tell that to anyone else, Lark dear, but you,’ she said, and Lark, who was aware of the distant hum of the train, felt a small sense of honour. ‘You’re a person anyone can trust, so I’ll tell you another thing. I’m saving up that money for a holiday. France. The French. Just Henry and me, first time for years. We went to a French restaurant, the other night, you know, and that’s what gave me the inspiration. Only you mustn’t say anything to Henry because I don’t want him to know till it’s all arranged. So you won’t say a word, will you?’ Lark shook her head. ‘Well, I must be off. Don’t want to tire you with all my silly plans, do I? Silly old romantic me, you know. Always have been. Anyhow, dear, you’ve got a lovely colour in your cheeks today. Much better. You’ll be up and about in no time, and I’ll feed you up with some of my puddings.’
She replaced her summery hat, patted Lark’s knee and walked back down the ward, sniffing slightly at every bed as if each patient was some kind of food.
Her visit tired Lark. She slept awhile, and woke to find Henry Evans by her side. There seemed to be no visiting hours in this ward: people came and went as they pleased, even in the middle of the night, sometimes. Lark felt herself lucky to be in such a hospital.
Henry Evans looked awkward, ill-placed on the upright chair. His face was drawn, the skin of his nose and cheeks purple with broken veins. Lark had not remembered his hair to be so white, or his hands so shaky.
‘Just on my way back from the Star,’ he said. ‘Thought I might as well pop in. The others told me you were better.’ Lark tried to smile at him and he quickly looked away from her face. ‘Anyhow, there’s one bit of good news, that I will say. You remember I told you, that time we were coming down from the woods, I was planning this visit to Cambridge? Well, it’s all fixed up. Spring. Definite. Down to the last detail.’ He moved his lips in a way that indicated the beginnings of a smile. But realising the rashness of this, he quickly dropped them back into their customary downward curve. ‘There are also indications,’ he went on, so low Lark could scarcely hear, ‘the Cambridge trip might be preceded by a visit of a more adventurous n
ature – namely, to tropical places. I have in mind a cruise. The South Seas.’ He paused, then added: ‘With a companion, of course. Don’t know why, but I thought you might like to know that.’
Lark moved her head on the pillow. She had never heard Henry Evans speak so many words at one time. They had exhausted her, so many confidences, flattering though they were: and they looked as if they had exhausted him, too. He stood up, one foot sliding on the floor, cap in hands, eyes full of hope.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘there’s the good news, Miss Lark, and you’ll be riding out the storm, I’ve no doubt.’ He turned from her and left. Unlike his wife he looked neither right nor left as he drifted uncertainly down the aisle between the beds, head hung between hunched shoulders.
Brenda came often. Lark lost count of the times. She would frequently wake to find her friend sitting there, staring at Lark’s nails rather than her face. Several times she repainted the nails, apologising for her lack of skill, and she brought constant half-bottles of gin. One day, a clear time, Lark noticed Brenda looked tearful: eyes swollen, lashes damp.
‘What’s the matter?’ she whispered. Definite tears came to Brenda’s eyes. She remained silent for a long time. Then she said, ‘Oh, Lark. It’s my father. The good news, it’s too much for me. He is an Admiral, you know. I always knew he was, didn’t I? I saw his picture in the paper, shaking hands with the Duke of Edinburgh. I know it was him. No doubt.’ Lark felt her own tears reflect Brenda’s pleasure. She wanted to ask many questions, but could only muster strength for one.
‘The paper?’ she whispered.
Again Brenda paused. Then she said:
‘The Daily Telegraph.’
Lark nodded. If the picture was in the Telegraph that somehow confirmed everything. That was the paper Lark liked to read on the days she felt like reading at all. That was the sort of paper that would be helpful at tracing the admiral in the photograph, and Brenda’s joy would be complete. She had no energy left to say all these things, but reached for Brenda’s hand, and grasped it. Then she indicated that they should share the gin in the glass by the bed: with so much good news she knew without saying that Brenda would understand it to be a celebration drink.