A Mother's Love (32 page)

At times like these she missed Jamie, even though she had never got on particularly well with him when he was there, since Mother made such a baby of him. Mother missed him too, dreadfully, as the whole household was made to realise. Jamie, however, had quite adjusted to being away, and was now in his second term.

When he did come home, he would throw his young weight about, with the staff, with her, even his father, if something didn’t quite suit him. If he didn’t get his way, he would go whining to his mother. She, doting on him, still wanting to keep him by her, would take his side against all comers, his father included.

Jamie’s leaving again always upset her, and there would be an atmosphere in the house, with Harriet and Matthew arguing, followed by her refusing to speak to him. She never spoke at all to Sara, whether she was in a good mood or not, but Sara had become so used to that it didn’t really worry her. Except perhaps when she was off guard enough to let it.

At this moment she felt very off guard, very lonely. If only she had a close friend. But she hadn’t. Somehow it was so hard to make friends, and she could never say why. Some seemed to manage it well enough. Girls at school all made friends, were all so jolly, light-hearted, flippant. It jangled her nerves for some reason, And they noticed it – held her at arm’s length – she knew they did.

‘I don’t care,’ she said to her plate. But, oh, sometimes, she wished she had a friend, just one.

Sara had retired by the time Matthew returned. She was sitting up in bed reading when a light tapping at her door made her glance up.

‘Who is it?’

‘May I come in?’ She recognised Matthew’s voice.

‘Of course.’ She watched the door open slowly. He stood there in his fawn check driving suit, having left his dust-coat and cap downstairs.

‘Are you all right, Sara?’

‘Yes.’ She put the book aside and sat up further in bed.

‘I felt I should come and see how you were.’ He came and sat with exaggerated care on the edge of her bed. ‘You disappeared so quickly this afternoon. I felt that your mother, or perhaps I had upset you?’

Sara didn’t reply. After a while he prompted, ‘You can tell me.’

She compressed her lips and made a play of studying the cover of the book on the counterpane. ‘She has never loved me,’ she said at last.

She lifted her gaze to see him looking shocked, but he recovered enough to smile at her. ‘How can you say that?’

‘I’ve known it for a long time. Since I was seven, when she told me that she hated me more than anyone she knew.’

‘She must have been angry, Sara. Parents say all sorts of unkind things, without thinking, when they are angry. She was probably sorry she had said it afterwards, but never told you.’

His smile broadened, as though he had solved some eternal enigma, but she didn’t smile; met his without changing her expression.

‘Oh no, she meant it. I think I’ve always known, but until then I hadn’t dared to recognise it. I don’t think I
really
understood then what she was saying, but what she said started something up inside me, and as I began to read the signs better, I came to know that she really didn’t like me – doesn’t like me – hates me.’

‘No, Sara. Not hate.’

‘Yes, Matthew. Hate.’ Her use of his name caused him to frown.

‘Matthew?’ he queried, but she was not abashed.

‘That’s what I call you, to myself. I try not to call you anything when I speak to you. Perhaps you’ve never noticed – but I don’t. You see, not being my real father …’

‘You know that?’ The way he said it, she realised that he genuinely had never thought that she knew. It had never been mentioned.

‘Since I was seven,’ she confessed. ‘Since Mother told me, when she also said how much she hated me. I didn’t know then that she had been married before and that she didn’t love my father. She said she was glad he was dead. She said I reminded her of him, and that was why she hated me.’

Matthew didn’t reply. He remained silent for so long that she felt obliged to say something.

‘Was he so bad?’ she asked. Matthew came to himself with a start.

‘It’s just that some marriages are not happy for one reason or another. Your mother’s marriage was one of those. He died just before you were born. They were married for only a year, so she never had time to find out if she would have grown to love him. You see, she is … She is not one to find it easy to love someone. There
are
people like that.’

‘How did he die, my real father?’

‘An accident. I gather he fell down the stairs and was killed.’

‘And then my mother married you?’

‘Yes. About a year afterwards.’

‘She didn’t mourn for long. She never loved my real father.’

‘As I say, she never was able to display her love for anyone. Even with me it took her a long time to show her feelings.’

‘I want so much for someone to love me.’

The words coming out of their own accord before she could stop them, she felt suddenly very sad, wanted to be held close by someone, as if they really loved her – if only to feel what it was like. There was only Matthew. She folded back the coverlet and put her bare legs on to the floor. Moving along the bed edge until she was beside him, she laid her head on his shoulder. He put an arm around her.

‘I too,’ he said and his voice sounded hoarse.

Sitting together in father–daughter embrace, Matthew listened as she began talking: how she wished she had a friend; about having no one at school eager to befriend her; about how the girls there would prattle on and on, hardly ever including her; about how she had never really felt herself to be one of them.

‘I feel so much older than them. I sometimes wish I could leave and do something else. I’d like to work. I’d like to come and work with you on your journal. I’d feel wanted there. Needed.’

‘Would you like that?’ he whispered. His arm tightened about her shoulders. Against his cheek her loose flowing hair felt warm. Its youthful fragrance, reminiscent of peaches, filled his nostrils. He felt the movement of her head as she nodded to his question.

‘Perhaps on Saturdays,’ he whispered. His throat had closed up as though he were choking. Hardly knowing what he was doing, he gently brought his hand up and touched her cheek. His purpose had been to comfort her, but its smooth warmth brought an unexpected surge of intense longing for something more. He fought the sensation.

‘On Saturdays,’ he repeated with an effort, ‘you could spend a few hours there. And perhaps … perhaps …’

‘I’d like that,’ she said. She hadn’t drawn away from him, in her childish innocence unaware of the feelings she’d evoked in him.

‘Sara …’ Her name spilled from his lips like a sigh. ‘I too need … affection – to be loved. Like you, I … I need …’ Unable to help himself, he bent and brushed his lips against her cheek.

It was so warm, her skin. He hadn’t realised he had closed his eyes. Opening them, he drew back, ashamed of what thoughts had really been behind that kiss, to see her looking up at him, her large, deep blue eyes, full not of fear but of wonder and trust. Shocked for even dreaming of abusing that trust, he guided her back into bed and replaced the coverlet over her. Leaning over her, he kissed her again, this time as a father should.

Her dark lashes slowly drooping, for some time he watched as she slept. How lovely she looked, a smile of contentment on her lips that he’d never seen before. His heart ached from the trust she had in him, yet why should she not trust him? He had taken on the role of father to her. How could he ever dare misuse that, even in thought? But he so needed love. Not carnal love, but gentle love, the love in the sharing of comfort, the mutual affection of one to the other.

Her breathing had regulated into a gentle in and out sigh. Getting up carefully so as not to awaken her, Matthew crept away, closing the door softly behind him. He did not feel ashamed now. There had been nothing of which to be ashamed. What had transpired had been but the expression of a tender mutual need of comfort so long denied to them both. This was what he told himself to assuage a tiny dark seed of wrongdoing buried so deep inside him that he almost believed it not there. He even vowed never again to put himself in the same situation, yet he knew he would visit her again – for the comfort he, both of them, had derived this night.

‘How could they? My own children.’

Mary Wilson’s voice was weak with shock at the letter she had received with the afternoon post.

In the parlour, dull from an overcast March afternoon, she sank down on to the leather sofa, the single sheet of stiff notepaper from Tompson, Greave & Sillitoe, Solicitors, still clutched convulsively in her hand, while Sarah and Harriet each supported an elbow as they sat with her.

The social visit by Harriet and Matthew had been made suddenly unpleasant by the arrival of the letter. They had each read it with shocked disbelief before handing it back to Mary, and now Matthew came to crouch in front of her, taking it from her again to return it to its envelope.

Without warning, the slight body began to sag. Their grip on her elbows tightened in response, but the small, lined face had gone oddly rigid and greyish, the eyes glazed and staring. She made an attempt to speak.

‘They … could …’

The mumbling died away, and Matthew caught the shoulders as they fell towards him, the head lolling. He held on.

‘I think she’s ill! Let her lie flat!’

Harriet was already getting into a fluster. Seeing her mother in this unreal and frightening state, she was giving useless little cries of fear despite her aunt’s urgent demand for her to pull herself together and help her mother lie down.

Sarah herself was very much in control of the situation, and took over without fuss.

‘Get a cover!’ she ordered her niece. ‘From her bedroom upstairs. Anything will do. Call young Violet to run for the doctor, fast as she can. Matthew – a glass of water from the kitchen downstairs. Quickly!’

This last command was uttered sharply as Mary sighed and tried to sit up, but fell back like an old rag. She tried to speak, but the sounds that emerged seemed slurred and inarticulate. She was having difficulty in forming any words at all. It was then that her sister grasped the full horror of the situation.

‘She’s had a seizure. Oh, my God! A stroke!’

Harriet had clattered back down the narrow flight of stairs to the parlour, so laden with a voluminous eiderdown cover that she could hardly see where she was going. She burst back into the room, the cry already on her lips: ‘Is she all right? What’s wrong with her?’

Her aunt whisked the cover from her without replying, apart from a puff of exasperation at the unnecessary bulkiness of the article, and began wrapping it about the small form as Matthew returned with the water.

It was hopeless trying to administer a sip, for the lips were too stiff to receive it. The tiny amount of liquid merely ran sideways across her chin. Sarah bent close as Matthew retrieved the cup.

‘Can you say something to me, Mary? Say your name!’

‘Mmmmmmm …’ came the drawn-out sound. ‘Mary …’ The eyes stared imploringly from pallid features. The mouth worked lopsidedly. Her sister laid a thin hand gently against the mouth.

‘It doesn’t matter, dear. You rest. We’re getting the doctor.’

She turned to look at the other two, now standing uselessly by. Her face bleak, she whispered, ‘I think it’s definitely a stroke.’ Her lips thinned and her eyes began to glitter with rage. ‘It is them! Those ungrateful daughters of hers. Nagging at her. Worrying her with letters like this.’

She swept the letter up off the floor where it had fallen, and waved it under Harriet and Matthew’s noses as though they too were guilty.

‘Sending things like this. It’s enough to give anyone a heart attack. She’s never done them any harm. This is how they serve her, their own mother – for a few pennies. I shall never forgive them – never!’

Harriet was still in tears. ‘I never took part in it.’

‘I know you didn’t, dear. Matthew, I feel proud of you both for staying aloof from this sordid … Has that girl gone for the doctor?’

‘Yes, Aunt,’ Harriet hiccupped. ‘She went straight out of the door after I called her. Didn’t even wait for her coat.’

‘He should be on his way now. He’s only up the next road.’

She turned back to Mary, who was waving her hand, trying to attract their attention. The left hand lay inert at her side, a dead thing.

Sarah turned to her, her attitude changing to one of gentleness. At that moment the front door opened to admit the doctor. Puffing from his race along the road and up the flight of steps to the door, he came on into the parlour without ceremony, dropped his bag on the floor and yanked open its top to withdraw his stethoscope.

All three stood back as he made his examination, the housemaid, Violet, standing in the doorway watching silently, an anxious hand to her young mouth. Ignoring them all, he spoke gently to his patient, asking questions which she seemed incapable of answering.

‘Is it a stroke, doctor?’ Sarah taxed bluntly as he straightened.

He gave her a slow, penetrating look. ‘Yes, I’m afraid Mrs Wilson has had a small stroke. A mild one, thank goodness. In time she’ll recover some of her faculties, though no one can say to what extent. Her speech will return, I’m sure. It could have been worse. These things …’

‘It’s that letter,’ Sarah burst in and began relaying its content, but he waved away her explanation.

‘It need not necessarily be due to any one thing in particular, Mrs Morris. These things come quite out of the blue.’

‘But the shock …’

‘I’d lay no great store by that, were I you, Mrs Morris. It is possible, admittedly, that an upset may raise the blood pressure enough to …’

‘I knew it! I said as much. It’s them …’

‘No blame ought to be laid at anyone’s door. A moment of merriment could equally have brought this on. Or nothing at all. I have known victims to be merely beating a carpet or dusting when seized by …’

He gestured towards the prostrate woman, knowing that even if her speech was affected, she could hear adequately enough. Raising his tone for her benefit, he added, ‘It is quite mild, I assure you. She has a left hemiplegia, but often recovery is as near complete to allow a patient to return to normal everyday life. Just keep her quiet and try to prevent any stress. As she recovers, let her carry on as if normal. There may be some depression for a while, of course …’