Crack! Richard’s skull hit the granite path.
A collective gasp and the courtyard fell silent, as though a flock of birds had ceased their warbling on hearing a sudden gunshot. For an instant everything and everyone was perfectly still.
Cally, her hair neatly looped, stepped out of the coach-house staring curiously at the silent tableau. Faces aghast, they were riveted to their seats.
At the far end of the granite path a lone figure swayed uncertainly, arms outstretched. At his feet was the crumpled body of a small boy dressed in blue.
27
The screaming wouldn’t stop. It pierced Cally’s brain, drilling into the fibre of her soul. Why didn’t someone stop the screaming, help the person who was so obviously in agony? Someone pulled at her arms, trying to lift her. She struggled, not wanting to let go of the soft, warm bundle.
‘Lift her up,’ commanded a voice, harsh and broken. Cally recognised it as Gilmore’s. Suddenly, with clarity, she knew who was screaming; she was. And the soft bundle she cradled in her arms was Richard. Without letting go of him she forced herself to her feet. Hands reached out to help her. She shook them off impatiently and staggered up the path to the coach-house clutching the inert, small body to her bosom. Inside, she laid her son gently on the settee and knelt beside it.
‘Sykes has sent for the doctor,’ said Mary, kneeling with her. ‘He should be here any minute.’
People moved restlessly about the crowded room. Cally paid them no heed. She gazed at Richard. He looked as though he was sleeping, tiny blue veins tracing the lids of his closed eyes, his cherub’s mouth and cheeks pink and healthy. Only the huge, blue tinged swelling on his forehead marred his perfection.
‘Where’s Red?’ Cally asked.
‘Here.’ She turned to look in the direction of his voice. He was leaning on Sybil’s arm, a glass of whisky in his hand.
‘Where were you when this happened?’ she asked, her words razor sharp. She felt the need to blame him to assuage her own guilt. Vanity had caused her to neglect her son. She’d been fiddling with her hair whilst that fool, Barty, did his worst.
‘I don’t know,’ Red mumbled. ‘I didn’t see it happen. I’d have stopped him if I had.’
‘Where is he now?’ she asked curtly.
‘Gone,’ growled Gilmore, his tone implying they were well rid of him.
‘I don’t know what all the fuss is about,’ commented Sybil. ‘It’s only a bump on the head. He’ll come round in a minute and be as right as rain.’
Cally’s hackles rose. ‘He’s been unconscious for too long already,’ she shrieked. ‘I don’t know why we’re hanging about here. He needs to go to the infirmary.’
Mary laid a restraining hand on Cally’s arm. ‘The doctor will know what to do when he comes. It might not be wise to put him in the car and drive all that way, and anyway you’ll need a doctor’s letter before they’ll look at him.’
Red refilled his glass then went back to Sybil. She placed an arm about his shoulders and he slumped against her. The old man at the mill had been right, he thought, Richard might never grow old and it’s my fault. I failed to protect him. He tossed back the whisky and blundered from the room, Sybil dogging his heels.
‘The doctor’s here.’ Sykes ushered the elderly GP into the room. He listened to the details of the accident then examined Richard. Cally held her breath.
‘He’s concussed,’ the doctor said, peremptorily. ‘He’ll come round in his own good time. He’s better left where he is. Give him drinks when he comes to, no solids until tomorrow.’ Taking a pad from his pocket he scribbled something on it then handed it to Cally. In a hurry to depart he nodded at the assembled company and left.
They waited and watched.
As the sun set over Stand Edge, Cally could bear the agony no longer. ‘He should have come round by now. I’m not waiting another minute. I’m taking him to the infirmary.’ She lifted Richard’s lifeless body from the sofa. A flurry of panic ensued. Only when she was in the back seat of the car, Richard cradled on her lap, Sykes at the wheel and Mary sitting beside him, did she realise Red wasn’t with them.
*
The room smelled of disinfectant, the pale blue walls coldly austere. Cally perched on a hard chair at the bedside holding Richard’s hand, only the faint warmth of it and his shallow breathing letting her know he still lived.
The only other furniture in the room was a trolley on which there was a kidney dish, a pile of white gauze squares, a pair of large tweezers and a bottle containing a colourless liquid. Cally gazed at it, hopelessly. It held no miraculous medicines, no lifesaving equipment to help her little boy.
They’d whisked him from her as soon as they arrived at the infirmary, wresting him from her arms insensitively. Cally had waited in a cheerless reception area, Mary and Sykes with her until she had forced them to return to Copley House. ‘Find Red; tell him he should be here with me,’ Cally said, as the Balmforths left to welcome a party of ramblers expected at Copley House later that evening. Someone had to be there.
Eventually a nurse came to fetch Cally, ushering her down a corridor into the small room. Two doctors, both surprisingly young, stood by the bed on which Richard now lay. They spoke in subdued voices. Words floated in and out of Cally’s ears: meninges, lesions, swelling to the brain. She started to cry, sobs leaping from her chest. The nurse comforted her. The doctors and the nurse exchanged whispered words then left Cally alone with Richard.
After a while, thirsty and desolate, she crept from the room and along the corridor she found a place where she could buy a cup of tea; only she hadn’t any money. The volunteer serving tea smiled sympathetically. ‘I’m used to it,’ she said, as Cally drained the cup in one draught. ‘In an emergency people don’t think to pick up their purses. You can settle up with me later.’
Cally asked where she might make a telephone call. The woman directed her to a small office. The clerk gave her a welcoming smile.
‘I need to telephone my husband,’ Cally told her. ‘Our little boy has had an accident.’ Tears spilled onto her cheeks.
‘What number do you want to call?’
The connection made, it was Mary who answered.
‘Get Red,’ blurted Cally. There was a long silence and she called. ‘Mary, Mary? Are you still there?’
‘Yes, I’m here,’ replied Mary, her voice low with concern, ‘but Red isn’t. We don’t know where he is. When we got back he’d gone. I think he’s with Sybil. I rang the Blackstones but they hadn’t seen him. Then I rang Sybil’s husband. He doesn’t know where they are either. I’m sorry, Cally. How’s Richard, is there any change? Marianne’s fine, although she keeps asking for him.’
Cally told Mary what the doctors had said. The clerk was eyeing her kindly but impatiently. ‘It’s needed for incoming calls,’ she explained.
‘Shall I send Sykes?’ Mary asked. ‘You shouldn’t be there on your own.’
‘No,’ shouted Cally, ‘I don’t want Sykes. I want Red. Find him and tell him to get here straight away.’
Afraid she had been absent from the room for too long, Cally hared back down the corridor, slowing only as she entered the room. Richard lay just as she had left him. She flopped onto the chair and buried her face in her hands, crying until she could cry no more.
Throughout the night doctors came and went. They spoke but rarely and then only to one another. When she urged them to tell her what they whispered to each other they answered as they had before: swelling of the brain, wait until morning, see what happens then.
*
The cold light of day pierced the window of the small room. It wakened Cally. Guilt washed over her. She hadn’t meant to sleep. What if Richard had wakened and needed her? She gazed into his face. Pale and still, he looked like a cherub carved from alabaster. The swelling on his forehead had diminished, its blueness faded. Cally’s heart leapt.
She stood up, too quickly, and staggered dizzily to the door, opened it and looked out in
to the corridor. It was empty. Returning to the bedside, hope surging through her veins, she prayed for someone to come soon and tell her there had been an improvement in Richard’s condition; that he was going to be all right.
Some time later, the nurse who had comforted her the day before appeared. ‘Are you still here?’ she asked, surprised. ‘Did you sit here all night?’
When Cally told her she had, the nurse advised, ‘Go home, get something to eat and come back later.’
Cally refused. ‘Do you think Richard is any better?’ she asked.
‘It’s up to the doctor to make that decision,’ the nurse replied briskly. She swiftly checked Richard’s temperature and pulse, wrote notes in a folder and left.
Too embarrassed to beg another cup of tea, Cally sat throughout the morning, oblivious to hunger but raging with thirst. The doctors came. There was no hope of recovery: the words spoken as kindly as possible. After they had gone Cally sat stunned. Richard was dying and there was nothing she, or anyone else, could do. Laying her head on the bed, her cheek next to his, Cally prayed for a miracle.
Through a haze of urgent pleas to the Almighty mixed with regrets for her own negligence, Cally heard the door open. She didn’t look round. When neither of the doctors or the nurse appeared at the bedside she sat up and turned, staring uncomprehendingly at Albert Blackstone, Red’s older brother. She stood up, her legs wobbling under her after sitting so long in such an awkward position. Albert reached to support her and Cally flinched at his touch. He stepped back, nervous.
‘Red asked me to come. He wants to know how things are with Richard.’
An angry red blur clouded Cally’s vision, all the pent-up agony turning to hatred. She lashed out, striking Albert’s face with her fist. He reeled from the blow, shock and pain contorting his features.
‘Red sent you to ask about Richard?’ Cally screamed. ‘Why? Why isn’t he here himself? I sat all night praying for a miracle, praying for him to come and he sends you. Well, I don’t want you. What bloody use are you at a time like this? Get out. Go and find your precious, bloody brother. Tell him his son’s dying.’
Albert didn’t move. Cally lunged forward, pummelling his chest. He stood his ground, letting her beat him. Eventually she sagged against him and he held her gently as she wept inconsolably. The nurse returned.
‘Ah, I see your husband’s arrived, Mrs Blackstone,’ she remarked cheerfully.
Cally spun away from Albert. ‘He’s not my bloody husband,’ she shrieked.
Firmly but kindly the nurse calmed Cally, and suggested it would be better if Albert left. He needed no second bidding, and once the nurse was sure it was safe to leave Cally she too hurried off, returning moments later with a cup of strong, sweet tea.
The doctor came again. No doubt the nurse had informed him of the situation. Cally had resumed her position by Richard’s side, his hand between both of her own. The doctor sat next to her, talking softly and seriously. ‘Richard’s brain was severely damaged in the fall. Even if he were to survive he would not be the bright, bouncing little boy you knew and loved.’
The doctor’s voice droned on, Cally’s own will to live ebbing with every word. ‘I’m so sorry,’ the doctor said, his voice shaking with emotion.
After that they sat in silence, each lost in thought until a hesitant tap on the door roused them. The doctor rose. Cally stayed seated, turning her head to see who was there as the doctor opened the door.
Red dithered for a moment then stepped inside, his face flushed and his eyes bloodshot. ‘This is my son,’ he mumbled, ‘I’m his father.’
Cally gazed long and hard at Red, her eyes swamped with sadness and the lines around her mouth so bitter he began to shake, frightened by the contempt he saw there. Slowly, Cally’s lip curled as though she saw something extremely unpleasant then, shaking her head disdainfully she returned her attention to Richard.
For what seemed an age Red stared at his wife and son, then he dropped his head to his chest and began to sob. The doctor patted Red’s shoulder and repeated the words he had spoken to Cally less than half an hour before.
After checking Richard’s pulse, listening to his heartbeat and moving his hands over the little boy’s brow, the doctor said tenderly, ‘It won’t be long now. I’ll leave you for a while.’ He backed out of the door, his expression one of defeat and ultimate sadness.
When they were alone Red sat in the chair the doctor had vacated. ‘I’m sorry, Cally,’ he mumbled, ‘I’m sorry.’
He reached for her free hand but she snatched it away. ‘Get away from me! Don’t come anywhere near me. Leave me alone with my son,’ she hissed.
Red was shocked by her steely gaze; eyes as hard and black as jet and her brow and mouth puckered with bitter lines. He withdrew his hand, and when he attempted to speak again Cally silenced him with a glare.
She lay with her head close to Richard’s, listening for the faint beat of his heart as she caressed his chubby hand, rubbing her fingers over knuckles grazed earlier that week when he’d stumbled whilst playing ball with Marianne. He’d never run and play again. There would be no more trips to Tunnel End for him. Marianne had lost her playmate and she, Cally, had lost the love of her life. How would she survive without his sweet smile, his boyish chatter, the questions he asked, the bedtime stories, the soft, warm arms clinging to her neck, the scent of him, the goodnight kisses? He was going to where she could not reach him, see him or tell him how much she loved him. And she could not bear the pain.
Red watched silently, his heart breaking. He felt as though he were made of clay. Here were two of the people he loved most in the world and he could do nothing to help either of them. He couldn’t even explain why he’d done what he did after the accident.
Sybil had taken him to the Rotary Club, saying he was worrying needlessly; it was only a bump, nothing to fuss about. Afraid Cally would blame him for Barty’s drunken behaviour, he’d put off facing her. He’d fully intended going back to the coach-house after a couple of drinks, but one led to another. He didn’t remember going back to Sybil’s house. He’d been shocked to waken that morning and find himself there.
When Sybil told him she’d asked Albert to make a detour on his way to the cattle market and call at the infirmary on Red’s behalf, he’d been grateful. Now all he felt was shame and remorse. He didn’t think he would ever forgive himself and if he couldn’t do that, how could he expect Richard and Cally to forgive him?
And so they sat; one immersed in guilt, the other wishing to go with her son to wherever that might be.
Richard Blackstone died as the last, red rays of the evening sun gleamed into the ice-blue room, softening the walls to dove-grey and lighting Richard’s face with an ethereal glow.
28
No words of consolation penetrated the abyss into which Cally plunged. All her hopes and dreams for Richard were buried in the darkness of her grief. She didn’t know how to behave any more; life had lost its meaning. At night she prayed she too would die so that she didn’t have to face another bleak and meaningless day without him. Awake, she felt guilty and selfish; Marianne still needed her. She was the only reason Cally dragged herself out of bed each morning.
George came as soon as he heard, shattered by the loss of the grandson he had grown to love and equally concerned for the sanity of his daughter. He did his best to comfort her, at the same time mourning for the lad.
‘By, but I’ll miss the bairn,’ he said, holding Cally close as they sat in the funeral parlour. He took a deep breath, his thoughts turning to Ada. ‘But you have to bear up, lass. Don’t go down the road I did when your mam went; it only brings more misery. You have Marianne; live for her, she needs you.’ Cally nodded perfunctorily, her eyes dark pools of grief.
One day they walked the moor, each lost in their own thoughts until George broke the silence. ‘I’ll always think of ’im when I’m up by the ash pits. He loved playing hide-and-seek up there, pretending t’slag heaps were giant volcanoes.
He had a grand little life, Cally, so think on t’good times, lass, they’ll get you through.’ Cally made no response, George wondering why it was that those we love most are snatched away. He had no answers.
He did, however, on the day of his departure offer a solution. ‘What do you think to our Daisy comin’ to stay for a bit? She can mind Marianne. It’ll give you time to get yourself together.’
Mary agreed with him; she feared for Cally’s sanity. Mary also was suffering, for Richard had been her ‘grandchild’ in all but name. Her health had rapidly deteriorated since Richard’s death and another pair of hands in the house might alleviate the strain. Sykes, worried about the physical and mental well-being of both ‘his girls’, greeted the suggestion eagerly.
Daisy arrived three days later, overjoyed to escape her humdrum existence in Calthorpe and Annie’s constant carping. She was like a breath of fresh air in the grieving house. Marianne immediately took to her. Similar in appearance to Cally, Daisy had the same sense of fun her half sister had had before the tragedy.
Cally was glad of Daisy’s presence. Now, when she felt the need to go to a quiet place and grieve, she no longer felt anxious. Marianne was in good hands and she didn’t have to worry about neglecting her. She loved her daughter passionately but the very sight and sound of the little girl brought memories of Richard surging back; memories so poignant they overwhelmed her with despair. At times like this she couldn’t function normally, could not speak or move without the pain of loss ravaging her body and her soul.
‘You come wi’ me, Marianne, while your mam has a lie down.’ Daisy took the child by the hand. ‘We’ve tidied your house so we’ll go an’ give ’em a hand over there.’
They walked over to Copley House’s kitchen, Daisy unperturbed by Sally’s cool welcome. ‘You can wash them,’ Sally snapped, pointing to a mountain of greasy pans. Wary of Daisy’s chatty, over-confident demeanour, Sally and Susan often gave her the most unpleasant tasks.
The Child from the Ash Pits Page 23