The Lifeline

by Margaret Mayhew

  ‘And, of course, there’s the Manor. There’s always something going on there.’

  ‘The Manor?’

  He had her attention now. Manors, Norman castles, ancient abbeys, Roman villas … they seldom failed to attract interest.

  ‘It’s the big house in the village. Dr Harvey’s wife, Ruth, inherited it recently. It’s been in her family for several generations.’

  ‘Dr Harvey’s never mentioned it to me.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose he would.’

  Tom’s surgery was a modern brick-built hut without pretensions, like Tom.

  ‘I’m sure Ruth would be happy to show you round, if you’d like to see it, Mrs Reed. It’s a very fine old place and the gardens are beautiful. Well worth a look.’

  Joyce Reed said unexpectedly, ‘My mother was a very keen gardener.’

  ‘So was Ruth’s late father.’

  ‘I wasn’t interested, myself.’

  ‘Nor was Ruth, but with both her parents gone she hadn’t much choice. She’s done wonders with the Manor gardens, as well as raising plants to sell. I know she’d always be grateful for a little help if you ever felt like dropping in. To pass the time while your husband’s out playing golf. There’s nothing better for the mind and body than gardening, I can promise you. It got Ruth through a very bad patch. And, speaking personally, I’ve found it a lifesaver.’

  He waited to see if the seed had fallen on fertile or stony ground. There was a moment’s silence before she spoke.

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘It feels a bit chilly in here, Johnny. Would you like me to get you a sweater?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t.’

  Sheila Turner’s son was sitting hunched up in his wheelchair, going through one of the motorbike magazines from the pile strewn on the floor beside him. They were all the same. Pictures of brutal and ugly machines hurtling across the pages carrying crouched and helmeted figures. She couldn’t bear to look at them, or understand how he could. How was it possible when one of them had destroyed his life?

  The motorbike obsession had started when Johnny had been ten. He’d bought a model from a toyshop with his saved-up pocket money and taken it everywhere with him – zooming it up and down banisters, across tables and along countertops. Vroom, vroom. Vroom, vroom. The first one had been bright shiny red, she remembered. The next had been black, the one after that dark green. He had gone on to spend many hours poring over magazines full of real, full-size bikes. Bikes, bikes. bikes. Never cars. At sixteen he’d worked at the Co-op during the school holidays, filling shelves and putting the money he’d earned into a post office account. At seventeen, he’d told her that he was taking motorbike lessons. He had passed the test first time, and a month before his eighteenth birthday he had ridden home the second-hand machine that he had bought through an advertisement in one of the magazines.

  Looking back, Sheila blamed herself entirely. She should have stopped him somehow. Warned him of the terrible dangers. Forbidden the lessons, banished the bike, pleaded with him to give it up. Not that anything would have worked, but she would, at least, have tried. If he’d had a father, things might have been different. There would have been more control – two parents to enforce the rules jointly, with joint strength, not one feeble mother. But Johnny’s father was long gone. He’d walked out soon after Johnny had been born and never been heard of since.

  The accident had happened quite soon. Johnny had gone off on the bike without saying where he was going and a few hours later a policeman had come to the door to tell her that he had been taken to hospital. He’d been overtaking a car on a corner and hit an oncoming lorry head-on.

  The police had driven her to the hospital and Johnny had been lying unconscious on a bed with curtains drawn around him. She had sat beside him for hours, holding his hand. Later, a doctor had come to tell her that his spine had been injured in the crash. Seriously injured. He was moved to another hospital – one that specialized in such cases – and she had been present when another doctor had broken the news to Johnny that he would never walk again.

  From that day onward Johnny had retreated into a dark place of his own, somewhere that she could not reach, however hard she tried. There was no comfort or consolation that she could bring him. Or herself. What had happened had happened and nothing on earth could change it.

  She had sold the semi-detached house where they had been living and bought a bungalow in a Dorset village called Frog End, not far from Dorchester. It was in a cul-de-sac called The Close, together with nine other bungalows. It had no character, but nor did it have any stairs, or awkward steps or sills to impede a wheelchair. By the time Johnny eventually came out of hospital, she had made it ready for him.

  Dr Harvey visited from his surgery in the village and a district nurse came in daily to help with the lifting and the bathing and the dressing; otherwise she managed on her own. As the hospital doctor had pointed out, Johnny was luckier than many – he still had the use of his upper body and arms. He could sit upright, feed himself, reach things, hold things, move the chair around by rotating the wheels himself with his hands.

  When the weather was fine, she would take him outside on to The Close pavement, pushing him along past the other bungalows with fanciful names – Journey’s End, The Nook, Tree Tops, Shangri-La – and then on up the slope as far as the village green with its old cottages and view of the Norman church. To begin with she had found it very hard work, but her arms were gradually growing stronger.

  She knew that Johnny hated the outings. He hated being wheeled along like a baby, and most especially hated it when people stopped to talk to her over the top of his head, as though he had lost his wits as well as the use of his legs. How is he today, Mrs Turner? Enjoying the sunshine? Nice to get him out.

  But it seemed to her that anything was better for him than just sitting indoors, staring at the horrible bike magazines or at mindless programmes on television.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want a sweater, dear? It’s no trouble to fetch it.’

  ‘I just told you, Mum. I don’t need one.’

  Once she had tried to tuck a rug around his wasted legs and he had wrenched it off angrily, flung it to the floor and told her never to do that again.

  ‘Well, I’ll just go and make us some tea, shall I?’

  He turned another page of the magazine without answering.

  She went to make the tea and brought it in on a tray – teapot, milk jug, cups and saucers and the kind of cake he had once liked but never touched now. She moved the wheelchair closer to the table and he sat, still looking at the magazine and saying nothing, while she drank her tea and ate a piece of cake that she could hardly swallow.

  Things would get better, the district nurse had assured her. It took time for people to adjust to and accept such a traumatic change in their lives.

  As far as she could see, all the time in the world would make no difference. No difference at all. Johnny had gone away into the dark place and he would never come back to her again.

  THREE

  The Colonel struck lucky at the reclamation junkyard. Among the rotting benches, piles of tiles, stacks of bricks, rusty railings and garden gates, he found several ancient stone sinks of various shapes and sizes. The one that appealed to him most was large and round with a hump in the middle.

  ‘It’s not a sink,’ the reclamation man informed him kindly. ‘It’s a pig trough. The hump keeps the food round the edges, see, so they can all get a fair look-in, not just the greedy ones. Are you thinking of keeping pigs?’

  He explained that, no, he wanted it for growing herbs.

  ‘Very nice,’ the man said. ‘Mind you, it’s heavy. But I can deliver it kerbside for you, if you like.’

  The price was agreed and delivery the next day arranged. Pond Cottage actually had no kerbside but the trough would be deposited near the front gate. Beyond that, it would be the Colonel’s responsibility. He went by the Manor and found Ruth busy in one of the
greenhouses.

  ‘I called on Mrs Reed for you.’

  ‘That was kind of you, Hugh. How did it go?’

  ‘Not a great success. She’s going to think about giving you a hand, now and then.’

  ‘Well, it was worth a try. Thank you, Hugh. I’ve never met her, you know. What’s she like?’

  ‘A golf widow with nothing very good to say about her absentee husband but there’s a cabinet of his trophies on prominent display. She was definitely interested in seeing the Manor, by the way. Apparently, her mother was a keen gardener. I told her you’d be happy to show her round.’

  ‘Any time. Tom says she thinks she’s got a slipped disc at the moment so we’ll have to wait while that’s sorted out.’

  ‘Let me know if I can do anything more.’

  ‘I will. Thanks.’

  He said, ‘I was wondering if Jacob could help me with some heavy lifting tomorrow if he has a spare moment?’

  ‘He’s being a bit tricky at the moment, Hugh. What are you trying to lift?’

  He explained about the pig trough.

  ‘I’m sure he will, as it’s you,’ Ruth said. ‘Which reminds me, I’ve got some herbs put by. The rosemary you wanted, and some thyme and parsley. Will you take them with you?’

  ‘Only if I pay you for them now.’

  ‘It’s a deal.’

  She gave him the herb plants, potted up and sitting neatly in a cardboard box.

  ‘Lawrence Deacon did these. He’s gradually getting the hang of things. I thought I’d see if he could manage a bit of path sweeping, if he feels up to it. Just to make a change of scene. Potting up can get pretty boring. Did you hear about my other gardening volunteer?’

  Naomi must be losing her touch or the village grapevine was wilting.

  ‘No, I hadn’t heard.’

  ‘Tanya Carberry from the Hall. A real widow this time, left alone with too much time on her hands. She asked me herself if she could come and do some work in the gardens. She’s a patient of Tom’s and, of course, he’s all for it. In his view, gardening is one of the best medicines there is – far better than any pills.’

  ‘That’s more or less what I told Mrs Reed.’

  ‘Let’s hope she was paying you attention.’

  Ruth put another pot into the box.

  ‘Here’s something else for you, Hugh. Not a herb, though, and this one’s a present – no arguing. Let me introduce you to Miss Jekyll. A variety of nigella or Love-in-a-mist by its common name. She’ll grow to about eighteen inches and have lovely blue flowers. She likes the sun, by the way.’

  ‘I promise I’ll do my best to make her feel at home.’

  Jacob could be seen in the distance, at work on one of the borders, jerking his scarecrow’s arms.

  Ruth said, ‘I’ll go and ask him about the lifting, Hugh. It’s better if you stay here.’

  The Colonel waited, watching as she talked to Jacob. He was well used to the young man’s ways – the painful shyness, the inarticulacy, the oddness – but it looked as though things had become considerably worse. Jacob’s back was turned to Ruth like a sulky child, and there seemed to be little or no response.

  Ruth returned. ‘He says he’ll come over in the late afternoon tomorrow.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s all right?’

  ‘It is with me, but you might find him a bit difficult. I don’t exactly know what the problem is, but I don’t think he likes having the patients here. He was bad enough with Lawrence and worse when Tanya turned up. I’ve explained that they’re not proper gardeners – just here to help them feel better – but he doesn’t seem to understand. If Mrs Reed decides to join us, heaven knows how he’ll react. Tom reckons he’ll settle down once he realizes they’re not after his job.’

  ‘Very probably.’

  ‘Would you say something to him, if you get the chance, Hugh? He’ll listen to you.’

  People always seemed to have faith in him doing or saying the right thing. They often confided in him or asked for advice which he rarely felt qualified to give.

  As in the case of the plant that Ruth had optimistically entrusted to his care, he promised to do his best.

  The pig trough was duly delivered the next day. Returning from his regular stint of churchyard grass cutting, the Colonel discovered it parked outside his front gate. He admired it again. A fine old thing, bearing the scars of use and time. A great many pigs must have grunted and snuffled round it over the years, jostling snouts and trotters for position, the greediest ones frustrated by the hump in the middle.

  ‘Good gracious, Colonel! Whatever is that?’

  He had failed to hear Freda Butler’s soft-footed approach. She was standing a few feet away, hat on head and handbag over her arm.

  ‘It’s a pig trough.’

  ‘Really? How interesting.’

  He could see that she was none the wiser. ‘I found it at the reclamation yard. They were good enough to deliver it for me.’

  ‘I did happen to notice a truck arrive a while ago.’

  She would have observed it closely through the U-boat commander’s binoculars, monitored the kerbside delivery and wondered.

  ‘The food stays round the edge, you see, so that they all get a fair chance.’

  ‘Are you going to keep pigs, Colonel?’

  He smiled at her. ‘No, don’t worry, Miss Butler. I’m only going to plant herbs in it. Jacob is coming over later to help me move it into the back garden.’

  ‘Well, it certainly does look very heavy.’

  ‘You must come and see it when it’s planted up. It will look better then.’

  Her cheeks went a little pink. ‘How kind of you, Colonel, I’m sure it will.’ She fumbled with the clasp of her handbag. ‘As a matter of fact, I called by to ask you something.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I wondered if you would be interested in buying some raffle tickets. It’s for such a good cause.’

  Miss Butler, as he knew to his cost, supported a number of good causes. He had contributed to them all and had even gone round the village door-to-door with a collecting tin. In addition to Save the Donkeys, he had also turned out to help Save the Gorillas who were apparently teetering on the brink of extinction. Described as gentle giants and pictured swinging from branches and cuddling their babies like humans, they were being hunted by poachers with snares and would soon only exist in zoos. People, he had discovered, reacted unpredictably to door-to-door collections, ranging from smiling welcome and generosity, to hiding behind curtains and sofas. On the whole, the donkeys had done better than the gorillas.

  Buying some raffle tickets would be much simpler. He reached for his wallet.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It’s in aid of the Greenfields Animal Shelter,’ Miss Butler told him. ‘They do wonderful work, saving abandoned baby animals. Kittens, puppies, rabbits, guinea pigs – all sorts. People buy them as pets for their children and then they get tired of looking after them and just leave them somewhere. Ditches, lay-bys, doorways … it’s quite shocking. The shelter takes care of them until they can find them a new home. It gives them a second chance at life, you see.’

  He did see. Another indisputably worthy cause.

  Miss Butler had found a book of raffle tickets at the bottom of her bag and was holding them out to him. He could see a picture of a sad and frightened kitten. He wondered if Thursday had ever looked like that; somehow he thought not. He knew nothing about the cat’s previous life, but he did know that Thursday was a survivor to his claw tips and, like Kipling’s cat, the wildest of all wild animals, had most probably always preferred to walk by himself. All places would have been alike to him, until advancing age must have finally made a more permanent billet seem like a good idea. The only hurdle would have been finding some soft-hearted mug to take him in. As the Colonel recalled, Thursday had simply walked uninvited through the open door of Pond Cottage and made himself at home.

  Miss Butler said enthusiastically, �
�The tickets cost one pound each. There are six tickets in half a book which will help provide food and warmth for an abandoned animal. A whole book of twelve tickets will go towards any medicines and veterinary treatment needed. And, of course, there are the prizes.’

  ‘Prizes?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Rather good ones, I thought. First prize is a week’s holiday for two people in a luxury hotel in Barcelona, Spain.’ Her cheeks flushed deeper. ‘But, of course, I don’t suppose you would care for that, Colonel.’

  ‘I don’t think we need worry about it, Miss Butler. I have never won anything with a raffle ticket in my life.’

  ‘Nor have I. But one never knows.’ She read from the ticket. ‘The second prize is a crate of sparkling wine from an English vineyard. I understand that it’s just as good as champagne, whatever the French say. And the third prize is a hand-woven willow casket of specially selected sun-ripened fruits.’

  ‘I’ll take a whole book,’ he said, handing over the money.

  ‘That’s most generous of you, Colonel.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s a very worthy cause.’

  ‘Indeed it is.’ The handbag snapped shut, Miss Butler prepared to move on, then paused.

  ‘I hear dear Ruth has a second volunteer to help her in the gardens now. Mrs Carberry, the widow in Flat 4 at the Hall, you know. She’s also a patient of Dr Harvey’s, like Mr Deacon. Gardening is becoming quite the new therapy, I understand. It’s an inspiring idea, don’t you think, Colonel? With Mrs Carberry missing her husband so much and both her children far away in America, I’m sure it will do her a lot of good. It’s always better to keep busy, isn’t it?’

  Miss Butler, as he well knew, was fully occupied. When she was not tracking village activities from the window of Lupin Cottage through her swastika-stamped binoculars, she was attending meetings, taking minutes, delivering parish magazines, collecting for charities, and involved in innumerable other worthy community causes.

  She put most other villagers, even the likes of Naomi and Marjorie Cuthbertson, to shame, let alone himself. He did his bit but he was not sure that Miss Butler would approve of the time he spent sitting and listening to records and sometimes just sitting. There was little doubt that she was aware of it. His sitting-room window was directly across the village green from hers and with his curtains drawn back open and the binoculars turned up to maximum she would be able to keep him under close surveillance.