‘Are you staying for Christmas, sir?’
‘No, I’m afraid I can’t. In fact I’ll have to be off very shortly if I’m to catch the train.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘But by the look of things downstairs I feel I’ll be missing something; the jollification seems to have started already.’
‘Noise!’ Mrs Rennie almost snorted the word.
‘Well, you must make allowances, it’s Christmas.’
‘Christmas!’ Again the snort. ‘They’re acting like children. Pantomimes!’
Ignoring Mrs Rennie, Brigie inclined her head towards Dan as she said, ‘This is all because I have expressed a wish to go down to the pantomime tomorrow night.’
‘And quite right too; the noise and excitement could kill you.’
‘Nonsense! Anyway’—Brigie still did not look at Mrs Rennie—‘what better way to die? And by doing it that way I would be likely to achieve something, for I’m sure I should be the first one to have fulfilled the expression “died laughing”.’
In open admiration Dan looked at her. She wouldn’t die tomorrow, not if she could help it. If will was anything to go by she’d live for many a year yet. But unfortunately will wasn’t all; she had a heart, and her breathlessness pointed to its weakening.
When Mrs Rennie had left the room Brigie asked, ‘What are you going to do with yourself over the holidays?’
‘Oh, I shall find plenty to do.’
‘I mean for relaxation and entertainment.’
‘For that, Brigie, I shall go as usual to Ruthie’s.’
‘How is your daughter?’
‘Well’—Dan cast his glance ceilingwards—‘the last thing I heard of her she had broken off her fifth engagement.’
‘She sounds a very flighty girl.’
‘She may sound it but she’s not; she’s very like her mother. To my mind she’s being sensible, she’s looking round. As Ruthie says, when she meets the first man who’ll make her lose her temper that’ll be the one she’ll marry. Up till now she’s just laughed at them.’
Dan looked at his watch again and there was a moment’s silence between them before Brigie asked, ‘What will Barbara be doing?’
‘Oh.’ Now his gaze was directed towards the floor, first to one side of him and then to the other, and he answered softly, ‘Same as usual.’
‘She must be desperately lonely, Dan.’
‘That’s her fault.’
‘If only she’d come and see me. I…I long to see her, just once again. Couldn’t you ask her?’ Brigie’s voice was trembling now.
‘I did. I did, Brigie. I told you, and I told you the response I got. She just stared at me as if I were an imbecile.’
‘Did you…did you make it plain to her, I mean in both ways’—she moved her fingers—‘that she needn’t see Ben?’
‘I made it all very explicit, Brigie, very explicit, and…and I did it kindly.’
Brigie drooped her head now, and shook it slowly; the tremor in her voice increased and her tongue flicked in and out of her mouth in the pattern of the aged before she muttered, ‘She didn’t even answer my letter.’
‘You mustn’t worry, Brigie. You have done your utmost, you can do no more. What…what I think you’ve got to realise is that she’s as sick in her mind as Ben, I mean as Ben was, in fact more so, for there’s hope for Ben, but I can’t see any for her.’
Brigie raised her head now and there was a faint blue mist of tears in her eyes as she said, ‘Love is a terrible thing, Dan. No-one should ever say that love is beautiful, it’s a crucifixion.’
‘Yes, I agree with you there, Brigie. Oh yes, I agree with you there. It’s a crucifixion all right.’
Four
‘Won’t you try and show willing?’
‘And fall…fall down the stairs? It’s “Sleeping Beauty”…you tell me. We…we don’t want to—to turn it into…“Humpty Dumpty”, do we?’
‘You won’t fall down the stairs; Nurse Byng and Sister will be with you.’
‘Where will you be?’
‘I’ll be off duty. I’m really off till Boxing Day.’
‘What…what will you be doing till then?’
‘Well, there’s one thing I won’t be doing and that’s sitting in my room; there’ll be lots going on.’
‘Enjoy yourself.’ He now reached over and took an envelope from the table and handed it to her, saying, ‘A Merry Christmas and…and my thanks.’
‘Thank you.’ A little puzzled she slit the envelope open; it was too soft to hold a card. She drew out the double sheet of blank paper and a cheque which read, ‘Pay Hannah Pettit the sum of twenty pounds’, and she looked at it for a moment; then folding it up, she returned it to the envelope and slowly handed it back to him, saying, ‘It’s very kind of you, Captain Bensham, but I’m afraid I can’t accept it.’
‘Why…not?’
‘Well, because…because it’s money and I…’
‘And you don’t take mon…money from strange men?’ There was a shadow of a smile on his face.
‘No, it isn’t that either. And at the same time, yes it is. But you’re not a strange man, and although it’s very kind of you I’m sorry I can’t accept it. If it had been some little gift now, a box of chocolates or…’
‘I’m sorry…I’m sorry I couldn’t get out this week to…to get you any chocolates.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ Her voice had an edge to it now. ‘You know what I mean. Anyway, thank you all the same, I appreciate the gesture. No hard feelings?’
‘No…no hard feelings, Nurse.’
‘Well, I’m off. Happy Christmas.’
‘Happy Christmas.’
‘Be a good lad until I see you again, Boxing Day.’ He didn’t answer but watched her go as usual behind the screen for her cloak, come out, pause, smile towards him, say, ‘Take plenty of water with it, mind,’ then go out.
He had never known a woman to refuse money before.
And there had seemed to be no exceptions here. Nurse Byng hadn’t turned her nose up at the envelope, nor had Sister; nor did he think would the night staff.
He reached out for the envelope again, took out the cheque, looked at it, tore it up, then began to tremble.
Happy Christmas. Happy Christmas. Happy Christmas. Boxing Day. Boxing Day. Boxing Day. And all the days ahead, never-ending, never-ending. Oh Christ! He was off again, going back to the edge of the earth. Murphy…Murphy. Our Father, who art in Heaven…Don’t forget to take water with it. Nurse. Nurse. Nurse.
Five
When 1917 dawned England had a new Prime Minister, Lloyd George. But would he, people asked, make a better job of it than Asquith?
There was trouble on the labour front; the coal industry had been nationalised for the duration of the war; and coal wasn’t the only thing that was short: the food queues grew longer. Looking back to 1914 it appeared to almost everyone that the war had been on for endless years, nor did there seem any prospect of it ending until mankind was wiped out; that is, all except the occupants of High Banks Hall, for here life went on most days as it had done since 1915. Patients left, more came; more and more came, and it was said that they needed another Bunker. Yet there remained in the house a feeling of permanency and peace, engendered no doubt by a certain discipline and continued routine.
Many of the men leaving expressed the sincere desire to remain, for there was the secret fear in them that the way things were going they might once again be sent to France.
It was now April, and the weather had been as other Aprils, sunshine and showers; but during this, the third week of the month, there had been three days of uninterrupted sunshine, which had brought patients out of the Hall and into the grounds and encouraged them to turn their faces upwards.
Ben, having taken ten paces from the bottom of the terrace steps, stopped abruptly and, his head down, his gaze directed towards his feet, he muttered thickly, ‘They’re betting on me again.’
‘Well, some of them have lost their bets this
morning, haven’t they?’
‘That’s questionable, I can’t go any further.’
‘You want to go back?’
‘Yes, please.’
They walked back up the steps into the main hall, up the staircase, along the corridor and into the end room without exchanging further words.
It wasn’t until Ben lowered himself into the chair that he spoke. Drawing his hand tightly down over his face, he said, ‘It’s still there, the drop. If…if I was to walk a hundred miles it would open up. I’ll never be able to span it.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense. It used to be at every step you took outside the room, and now just look what you’ve done in these last few months. You’ve left this room, you’ve gone down the stairs, out onto the terrace, then down to the drive…And now this morning…ten steps.’
‘I’m…I’m still afraid, Petty.’ He looked at her pleadingly.
‘Of course you are.’ She came and stood in front of him. ‘But you’re not half so afraid as you used to be, are you now? Now are you?’
He smiled wryly. ‘You’d flog a dead horse, wouldn’t you?’
‘Well, I’ve known a lot of dead horses that have got up and walked out of this place, and you’re far from being a dead horse, let me tell you. I told you yesterday if you ever hope to carry out your plan about the cottage and Lawrence, you’ve got to face up to it. Look that gap straight in the eye and say, all right, I’ve come to the edge of the earth but I’m not going to slip off, I’m going to walk down it.’
‘And into what?’ Ben’s pallid face looked childishly pathetic for a moment. ‘That’s…that’s what I’m afraid of, into what? If when the fear’s on me I force myself against it, will…will I drop back into what I was? That’s what terrifies me.’
‘You won’t, you won’t go back. I’ll tell you something.’ She bent towards him. ‘I’ve got a bet on you an’ all.’
‘You?’ His tone was now indignant.
‘Yes, me.’
‘And what have I to do to win your bet?’
‘Get to Byng’s wedding on June 20th.’
He now relaxed against the back of the chair and laughed. ‘That’s a long shot, Petty.’
‘I’m good on long shots. I told her she could get Captain Collins up to scratch if she tried, and she’s done it. And you can an’ all.’
Slowly now he reached out and took her hand; then he lifted it, not to his lips, but to his cheek, and he pressed it there for a moment. And when he let it go she turned from him and went behind the screen for her cape.
The action meant nothing to either of them; they both understood this. It was merely a gesture between a grateful patient and his nurse.
He looked towards the screen. ‘Where you going on your day off?’
Her answer was brief, ‘Home.’
‘Oh, that’s nice.’
She came from behind the screen.
‘You think so?’ Her face was straight as she looked at him. ‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong, so don’t sit there envying me a warm homecoming. You have your burden, I have mine. I’ll have to tell you about it some day.’
Of a sudden her voice had turned bitter, and as she tugged the strings of her cape around her waist it was as if she were wrestling with herself. And she was, for she was having to prevent herself from blurting out, ‘Your mother’s causing hell on earth in our house. It’s getting worse. I don’t want to go home, and I never see my father on his own now. What kind of a woman is she anyway?’
The look on his face now caused her to bow her head and mutter, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘So am I,’ he said. ‘So am I.’
She went hurriedly out, asking herself what had come over her. Why had she to turn on him like that? He wasn’t to blame but he had known to whom she was referring when she had spoken of a burden. Blast that woman! Blast her! For one person to cause such havoc! Look at the lives she has ruined. She wished she was dead. She did. She did.
Six
It was on a Thursday in the middle of May. Barbara shivered as she pushed open the wooden gate of the cottage garden. She noticed that the grass hadn’t been cut, which meant that the gardener hadn’t been for a week or more. This was surprising because Mr Brown was very regular in his attendance; he had looked after the small garden for years.
She opened the door and went inside, and the smell of must came at her like a wave from a bog. The place was damp. Yet what could you expect when it was only opened once a week for a few hours.
Before taking off her coat and hat she went into the bedroom and lit the gas fire. She did the same in the small sitting room. Then she lit the oil stove in the kitchen, after which she put the kettle on the gas ring and made herself some tea.
The cottage had changed with the years. It was now comfortably furnished. In 1904, Michael had bought it from Mrs Turner. He then had water piped in and gas laid on. It was when the innovations were complete he had suggested again that she come and live there, and again she had realised how little Michael knew of her and her needs.
It was true that she had been born in a cottage, and in the main brought up there, but it was an eight-roomed cottage and the smallest room would have encompassed both the bedroom and sitting room of this place. Moreover, what he had forgotten, and what she didn’t remind him of, was that she had spent most of her young days in the Hall; in fact it could be said she had been brought up in the Hall and in both the cottage and the Hall she had been accustomed to being waited on by servants.
And he had suggested that she should sit in this tiny cottage and see to its requirements while waiting for his coming once a week—and sometimes not that!
She hadn’t seen him now for three weeks, and if he didn’t come today—well, she didn’t know what would be the outcome. There was something building up inside her that was frightening her. It had been growing with the years, but since Christmas it had become like a great live thing gnawing at the inside of both her body and mind, and she was afraid of it, afraid that something would happen to cause it to break out.
It had nearly broken free at Christmas.
Christmas.
She had been alone at Christmas, alone with the great buzzing silence inside her head. Really alone; no Jonathan, no Harry, not even Dan. If she had been aware of his presence in the house on Christmas Day it might have helped a little. It was strange that on that particular day she had needed to know he was there, as he had always been. It was strange too that she had been thinking a lot about him lately. His face would keep intruding on that of Michael’s; even when he wasn’t there she’d see his face imposed on Michael’s. And her thoughts too were changing in the most troublesome way for they were putting her in the wrong, and when she asked them what could she have done, loving Michael as she did, they gave her no answer, and their silence was condemning.
She was lonely. Oh dear Lord, how lonely she was. She covered her eyes for a moment with her hand. If Michael didn’t come today…But he would come today, he must come today. There was no letter in the box and that was a good sign. Last week and the week before a letter had awaited her; he’d had a cold and been forced to take to his bed, but he was better, much better and would be with her soon.
She took the tea into the sitting room and, pulling a chair close to the fire she sat down. She had removed her hat but not her coat; the place was like death. But would death be cold? Lately, she had thought a lot about death. She would go into death happily if it wasn’t for Michael. Yet at times it was as if Michael were already dead; it was as if he had been and gone. She had to make herself cling to the thought that she still had him, and would always have him until they died. Yes, but where and when would she have him? She was fifty-three years old, and there would come a time when neither of them, particularly herself, could make the journey to this place. What then? And what of Dan then, too? Before that time should come, would Dan leave her? She often wondered why he stayed. But then it was his home and she was the intruder; and she remained o
nly for the comfort it gave her and the prestige it afforded her. She was Mrs Bensham, she could still be waited on by maids, she could still ride in a carriage. Yet, after all, these were only compensations, poor compensations. If she’d had Michael to herself every day and every night she would not have needed compensation and this cottage would have been a palace.
She did not hear the door open. She knew nothing until he was standing in front of her. And then she sprang up like a young girl on the verge of love and threw herself on him, and they held each other tightly and kissed long and hard. And to an outsider it would have appeared that the liaison was starting but that very day.
‘Oh Michael! Michael!’
‘You’re cold.’
‘No, I’m not, not now. Oh, let me look at you.’ Her voice came to him in a high cracked sound almost like a whine, and he said slowly, ‘How are you?’
‘I’m…I’m all right now. Oh yes, I’m all right now.’
She took his coat from him, then took her own off and hung them on a peg in the passageway between the two rooms, and, putting her head around the door, she said, ‘I’ve made some tea, it’s still hot.’
He followed her into the kitchen and stood with his arm about her shoulders as she poured out the tea. When they returned to the sitting room and sat closely side by side on the couch he drew his head back from her and said, ‘Aren’t you feeling well?’
‘I’m…I’m never well when I’m away from you, you know that.’
They leant together again, but he did not kiss her, he just laid his cheek against hers, and the expression on his face was sad.
When of a sudden he yawned she exclaimed, ‘You’re tired,’ and he nodded at her and spelled out on his hands, ‘I’ve been up most of the night. A cow had trouble calving. She lost it, but she’s all right.’
The Mallen Litter Page 28