The Silence Before Thunder

by Kathy Shuker

  ‘Really? I’d have to check that then.’ She began to move back towards the house. ‘Must go, Vincent. I need to get off to the hospital.’ On an afterthought, she stopped and faced him again. ‘By the way, I remember Eleanor telling me that these gardens at the back were off limits to everyone during the workshops. She wanted to keep some privacy. It was important to her.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m family, Joselyn.’

  ‘I believe we should keep to the rules Eleanor set, don’t you?’ she said pleasantly. ‘That’s the way I want it while she’s not here. Can’t afford exceptions, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I really don’t think you should go throwing your weight about, Joselyn.’ He came closer. Too close, the smile now thin and fixed. ‘You might overbalance. Look what happened to poor old Eleanor.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Oh my dear, it’s just an observation.’

  He left through the arch again and was soon out of sight.

  ‘Slimeball,’ she muttered, and glanced round one last time.

  There was no sign of Eleanor’s phone here either. It probably fell and smashed on the rocks below. She headed back to the house. She planned to see Lawrence before she left and tell him her decision: she would keep the workshops and festival running, just as Eleanor had intended.

  *

  Eleanor continued to breathe for herself. They said she was stable. Day to day, Jo saw no perceptible change, which was presumably what they meant. The results of the tests had come back and showed no hidden illness. On the Wednesday, the doctors said she could be moved to the neurosurgical ward when a suitable bed was available and when Jo turned up at the hospital on the Thursday morning, her aunt was already there, in a side room off the main ward, close to the nurses’ station. She still had the feeding tube down her nose and the drip in her arm but there was no cardiac monitor now. The room was eerily silent. Was this progress or had they just decided they couldn’t do any more for her? Jo felt a twinge of apprehension. All around her, she sensed the negativity of other people’s expectations. Someone had to stay positive and focussed.

  She sat in the chair at the side of the bed and studied Eleanor’s face. The bruises were already starting to turn yellow; the scratches had healed over; shiny white bristles had begun to peak through her scalp. Jo cast about for something new to say.

  ‘When your hair grows back we’ll have to get the hairdresser in to do your colour, Eleanor. Will you go for something different this time? I know you like to change it now and then and this is a great opportunity.’

  Why was she talking to her as if she were stupid? If Eleanor could hear her, she must be screaming inside.

  ‘Better to be here, on an ordinary ward, isn’t it?’ Jo remarked brightly. ‘A bit more going on.’ A patient call bell started its insistent beeping at the nurses’ station. Drawn curtains covered the window out to the ward passage but footsteps and the squeal of wheels could regularly be heard passing by. A man was shouting unintelligibly and insistently from one of the main wards. ‘Maybe not so great for sleeping at night,’ she added. ‘But think what material you might get for a novel.’

  She dropped her voice and murmured to herself. ‘Or maybe you think it’s some sort of hell.’

  Arriving back at Skymeet, she sought out Lawrence in his office and told him about Eleanor’s move.

  ‘I was wondering if she would be better in a private hospital now. It’s very noisy there and she’s such a private person. And I’m concerned about journalists tracking her down. The nurses promised me they’d keep an eye out at visiting times but they’ve got enough to do.’

  ‘I doubt it’ll be a problem,’ he replied dismissively, barely looking up. ‘The press seem to have lost interest already, haven’t you noticed? She’s not a movie star, after all. Anyway, these side wards are pretty secluded. They can close the door, can’t they? Eleanor doesn’t like special treatment or fuss; she’s a big supporter of the NHS.’

  ‘I know. So am I and the staff have been wonderful. But she seems kind of lost there and I’m scared she’ll be forgotten. She could afford to be moved, couldn’t she?’

  Finally he pulled his gaze from his computer screen and rested it languidly on her.

  ‘Eleanor’s not as wealthy as you seem to think. Sales of books aren’t what they were, you know. These are tough times. Anyway, a lot of Eleanor’s money is tied up - invested - and interest rates are abysmal these days. Private care is bloody expensive. Whatever, I think you’re worrying unnecessarily.’

  ‘Still, I’d like to see her accounts, Lawrence. Can you arrange that?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Is there a problem with that?’

  ‘She has an accountant to organise most of it. He keeps all the records.’

  ‘Perhaps I’ll go to see him then. Can you give me his name?’

  ‘Of course. But he won’t show you. The accounts are confidential. You’d need to go to court if you want to take control of your aunt’s financial affairs and jump through all sorts of hoops. And, even if the criteria are met, I believe it takes ages.’ He paused, still regarding her coolly. ‘And perhaps would be inappropriate at this time.’

  He was good at this, Jo had to admit: stone-walling, keeping her at arm’s length.

  ‘So what happens about Eleanor’s household bills?’ she persisted. ‘How does she pay the gardeners for instance?’

  ‘By Direct Debit. Most of the bills are paid that way. I get cash out for small items and one-offs. Why?’

  ‘You’ve got her debit card then? I’d assumed it was in her handbag in her bedroom. I’ve been thinking I ought to start sorting things out.’

  ‘There’s nothing to sort out. Eleanor opened a current account in our joint names so I could use it too. We both have a card. She thought it made life easier that way.’ He raised his eyebrows patronisingly. ‘I have it all under control.’

  I’ll bet you do, she thought.

  ‘Eleanor can have visitors now,’ she said, meeting his steely gaze. ‘Perhaps you should go and see her in her new ward and experience just how secluded she is.’

  *

  Frank stood at the end of the bed and surveyed the room: the bedside locker with an array of cards and a vase of flowers on it; the cot sides to the bed; the disgusting pink mouthwash in a plastic tumbler on the movable table, pushed to one side. And Eleanor: the tube rammed up her nose, the drip in her arm, the catheter showing under the edge of the covers, draining urine into a bag hooked on the side of the bed.

  It was nearly a week since her fall. Jo had come to the den the night before to tell them all that her aunt had been moved and could now receive visitors. She had warned them about the tubes and Eleanor’s continuing unresponsiveness. Even so, what he saw now shocked him. She was very white. Deathly. She was breathing for herself, lying half-turned onto one side but she didn’t look good and nothing like the woman he knew. Perhaps it was the shaved head. And the multi-coloured bruising. Or her flaccidity. Even when she had been asleep, she had never been like this: limp-limbed, mouth sagging, vulnerable. He didn’t want to look at her yet couldn’t pull his eyes away.

  A nurse passed the open door, paused and stepped inside.

  ‘There’s a chair behind the door,’ she said kindly. ‘Do sit with her if you like. Let her know you’re here.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She started to move away and he stepped after her. ‘Excuse me? Do you think she can hear me? Is there anything…?’ He shrugged, reluctant to say it.

  ‘She might hear you. Try talking to her.’

  He grabbed the chair, pushed the door to, and sat by the bed on the side Eleanor was facing. He opened his mouth to speak then closed it again. What do you say to someone you’ve had a love affair with when it’s all over? Especially now, in a situation like this. He was a man of words - they were his life and his means of support - but this was different. His words had all deserted him.

 
‘Ellie?’ he murmured.

  He reached out a hand and took hers. It was cold. He had to force himself to keep holding it.

  ‘Ellie? It’s Frank.’

  This was harder than he had expected. He frowned and released a deep sigh, odd scenes of the past flicking through his brain. Laughter, passion, rows. Once she had started throwing things at him when they were arguing; he had thrown things back. They had both apologised, both suddenly spent with anger and full of remorse. They had laughed about it. Soon after they’d made love on the sitting room floor, wildly, violently, as if they had so much to prove.

  And was it all come to this: this hospital bed and her life ebbing away? The tube rammed up her nose came from a machine at the side of the bed which seemed to be administering something white into her. Of course she couldn’t eat. She couldn’t do anything. His eyes explored every inch of her face. The years had dropped off her somehow and, now he looked at her properly, he thought she looked surprisingly beautiful, serenely smooth-skinned, the neat lines of her facial bones clearly etched. He remembered saying once that she should cut her hair really short - like Mari - because she had the bone structure for it. He’d got hold of her hair, pulled it back off her face and pushed her to the mirror.

  ‘See,’ he’d said. ‘Look at those cheek bones. You could carry it off. Don’t be so conventional.’

  ‘Me? Conventional?’ she’d said in disgust, shaking him off. ‘How dare you?’

  She was though. The rest of it was just an act. He knew her better than anyone. She had never forgiven him for not asking her to marry him. ‘It would have been nice to have been asked,’ she had said once, ‘to show you cared that much.’

  ‘How would that prove anything?’ he’d retaliated.

  ‘It’s a promise. A commitment. You’re scared of them. But life’s meaningless without them.’

  Why couldn’t she see? He had been committed in his own way. So much of his poetry had been written for her. He cared. So why did she drive him away, always being so contrary? And now this.

  It was true that he had asked Louisa to marry him, after just a few short months. But Louisa was…different. She needed him in a way Eleanor never had and he liked that. He wanted to be needed. Eleanor was so bloody independent. And pig-headed. It always had to be on her terms.

  He sighed. What an unholy mess.

  ‘Oh Ellie,’ he murmured. ‘I’m so sorry. I should...’

  The nurse appeared in the doorway; a second one stood behind her.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you but we need to turn her,’ the first nurse said.

  ‘That’s fine. I have to go anyway.’

  Frank gave Eleanor’s hand a last squeeze and made his escape. He couldn’t afford to spend too long there. It was important Louisa didn’t find out he had been sitting holding the hand of his ex-lover.

  *

  It was July already and Jo’s first full weekend at the house since Eleanor’s fall. Without the presence of Charlotte and Lawrence, the house felt cavernous, sepulchral. Sidney’s company was a pleasant distraction but Jo hungered for conversation or sound or activity, anything to break the silent monotony. Even arguing with Lawrence would be better than nothing. She had spent most of the day with Eleanor, had been there while Imogen and Mari had called in for a few minutes, bringing flowers and chatting awkwardly then looking desperate to get away. Otherwise it had been the usual vigil of inconsequential remarks and silence.

  She wandered to the piano at the back of the sitting room, lifted the lid and ran her fingers in a scale up the keys. The notes vibrated listlessly in the air and only emphasised the stillness. She closed the lid again and glanced back towards the patio doors and the sunshine beyond. A few minutes later, in shorts, T-shirt and canvas shoes, she was in the garden, carefully negotiating the steps down to the beach.

  It was a tiny cove with a shore of pebbles and shells and a heavy deposit of seaweed at the top where flies now swarmed and settled in the sun. Private and peaceful, Jo had loved it here from her first visit, an oasis of calm after her life at home with her mother. She released a slow breath, trying to unwind, glancing round. There was no sign of Eleanor’s phone. But if it had fallen onto the rocks it would have broken up and been washed away on the tide. She looked closer towards the rocks near the cliff. There was a cigarette butt there though. That was odd. Eleanor hadn’t smoked in decades and Frank had given it up years ago too.

  She glanced back up the cliff, frowning, then walked slowly out to where the sea lapped the shore, disturbing a pied wagtail which fluttered to bob further along the beach. The tide was still ebbing but couldn’t have far to go. Waves edged and hissed over a fine gritty sand which was only visible for a short while either side of low tide.

  Her thoughts drifted. All those times she had come here to visit and her mother had never come. The sisters didn’t get on. Candida would drive her here, but drop her off by the gate. Her mother had once visited the other house Eleanor lived in, the one near Dartmouth, but that time she’d had no choice. Jo, still little more than a child, had taken money from her mother’s secret savings pot and spent all her saved pocket money to bolt there and was refusing to go home. In any case, Eleanor had summoned her. The two sisters had fought one of their more spectacular arguments while Jo listened outside the door.

  ‘It’s hardly surprising she doesn’t want to go home, Candida,’ she had heard Eleanor say. ‘I gather your latest lover has wandering hands. Jo was terrified. Beyond terrified: repulsed, disgusted, ashamed… Luckily she had the sense to get away and she had somewhere to go. But what the hell were you thinking: letting a man like that near your daughter?’

  ‘I didn’t know, did I? I didn’t know he was doing anything to her. I didn’t.’

  ‘Perhaps if you spent more time thinking about her and less about yourself, you’d have noticed.’

  ‘Thank you for the instruction in mothering, Eleanor,’ Candida retorted witheringly. ‘Of course, you’re such an expert. How many children is it you’ve had? Oh, that’s right: none. If you’d actually had any children, you’d know how difficult it is to have any social life of your own, let alone a love life.’

  ‘Is that your excuse? Because you seem to manage just fine. Jo has told me about the parties.’

  There’d been a pause from her mother, a regrouping.

  ‘She exaggerates,’ said Candida. ‘Look, Eleanor, I promise I’ll be more careful in future. I’ve already kicked him out. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘You’re bloody right it won’t happen again. If it does I swear I’ll tell Social Services myself and she can come and live here permanently.’

  Driving Jo home, Candida had apologised extravagantly. She always apologised when she made a mistake and she always meant it. And no man came near Jo again. But nothing else changed much. Her mother’s life was like a car with the brakes gone: it went too fast and bounced and bucked as it bowled along until it finally crashed.

  Now a gull mewed overhead, breaking Jo’s reverie, and she looked up, shielding her eyes against the sun. She needed to buy some sunglasses; she hadn’t thought to pack any. A movement at the edge of her vision caught her attention, over to her right by the headland, and she turned her head, struggling to focus. That part of the beach was in shade.

  A youth had been standing, or maybe sitting, over on the lowest rocks below the cliff face, watching her. Now he’d started picking his way over the rocks away from her.

  ‘Hey,’ she shouted, walking towards him. ‘Wait a minute. I want to speak to you.’

  He hesitated, looking round, furtive.

  She shouted again and he stayed where he was as she approached, standing a little straighter, lifting his chin defiantly. He was younger than she had first thought, wearing baggy shorts, a reversed baseball cap and huge trainers, all of which looked too big for him. Close up, he looked forlorn, not a man but not a child either.

  ‘I haven’t done nothing,’ he mumbled.r />
  ‘You mean you haven’t done anything.’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  She let it go. ‘This beach is private. It belongs to my aunt. How did you get here?’ She glanced round but could see no boat or surfboard.

  ‘I swam.’

  ‘Uhuh. Dressed like that?’

  ‘What difference does it make?’

  ‘Because if you came through the estate…’ She pointed up towards the gardens and house. ‘…and down onto the beach that way, I’d want to know what you were doing up there and how you got in.’

  ‘I didn’t.’ He was defensive now. ‘Some rocks broke off from the cliffs in the storms a few months ago. You can climb round from the other beach when the tide gets low enough. Other people don’t know that.’

  ‘I see.’ She nodded thoughtfully. ‘Sounds like a risky thing to do though. Especially if the cliff’s unstable.’

  ‘I’m careful.’

  The tide had turned and a penetrating wave had the lad jumping down onto a flat rock higher up the beach and Jo scurrying back up the shingle to avoid getting wet. The boy saw an empty crab shell in a rock pool and bent over to pick it up. A way to avoid looking at her.

  ‘OK so why?’ said Jo. ‘Why do you climb all the way round the headland to this private beach when there’s a great beach with more sand on the other side?’ He didn’t reply. ‘Just to show you can?’

  He shrugged but still didn’t answer, examining the crab shell more minutely.

  ‘Where are you from?’

  He frowned and looked up sharply. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Are you on holiday here?’

  ‘No. I live in the village.’

  ‘I see. And do your parents know you come here?’

  He flicked her a malevolent look and scoffed. ‘Yeah, right. Anyway, there’s only my dad. I suppose you’re going to tell him, aren’t you? Hey, why not - I’m always in trouble with him anyway.’

  She shrugged. ‘If you don’t do any harm, I’d have no reason to tell him. How old are you?’

  He hesitated, watching her warily. ‘Seventeen,’ he said eventually. He raised his eyebrows with a cheeky grin. ‘How old are you?’