Alone Beneath The Heaven (33 page)
Read Alone Beneath The Heaven Online
Authors: Rita Bradshaw
She said as much, but he stopped her with a raised hand before opening the front door and saying, ‘It’s not anything I’ve bought, so don’t worry, just something I was rather fond of at your age.’
‘It’s yours?’
‘Was.’ He smiled, and then he was gone, and for a moment she felt quite bereft as she stood on the doorstep watching him walk to the car.
She unwrapped the little package once she was in bed and alone, and it revealed a much-thumbed first copy of Rupert Brooke’s
1914 and Other Poems
. The hot milk she had taken up with her grew cold by the side of the bed as she devoured poem after poem, the only sound in the room being the rustling of pages and the odd spark and splutter from the fire, which Peggy had replenished before she had retired to her own quarters.
1914 and Other Poems
. The hot milk she had taken up with her grew cold by the side of the bed as she devoured poem after poem, the only sound in the room being the rustling of pages and the odd spark and splutter from the fire, which Peggy had replenished before she had retired to her own quarters.
Sir Geoffrey’s phone call, Vanessa’s antagonism, the feeling that there was something still left between Rodney and his sister-in-law from the past, it all had faded into insignificance by the time she put the small book down on the coverlet, and sat staring ahead across the room.
The idealistic patriotism of the wartime poetry had touched her, but more than that, she could see Rodney had been moved by it . . . once.
Why had he given her the book now? Was it simply something he thought she would enjoy reading, or - and she felt this was more likely - was it another way of showing her a glimpse of the great divide between them, accentuating the difference in age, outlook, experience, and highlighting the change between what he had been then, at twenty, and what he was now? He couldn’t have guessed how she felt about him, could he? The thought brought her bolt upright in the bed before she relaxed back against the pillows, telling herself not to be so silly. Just because he had given her a book of poems he used to enjoy once, it didn’t mean there was a covert message in his actions. She was reading too much into things here.
She finished the last of the now cold milk and settled down for sleep. It was her new knowledge of her love for him that was making her take two and two and reach five, she told herself firmly. She hadn’t thrown herself at him, or flirted, there had been none of that. The events of the day flashed into her mind, Vanessa’s tall slim body draped languidly across him at lunch as she had repeatedly leant over his chair on the pretext of talking to the woman on the other side of him, and her eyes narrowed. Not by her, anyway.
She felt emotionally and physically exhausted, and suddenly trying to think at all was too much. She would go to sleep and consider everything in the morning, not that all the thinking in the world would alter anything. He didn’t love her. She loved him, and he didn’t love her.
It only took a minute or two for her to fall asleep, but her face was wet with tears none the less.
Chapter Fifteen
Lady Margaret returned to Emery Place on Monday 29th December, and on the Wednesday, the eve of the year nineteen forty-eight, when the hit song ‘They Say It’s Wonderful’ was still reverberating the air waves, Sarah received her first telephone call from Maggie. It was to say that Rebecca was fighting for her life in the Sunderland infirmary, having been beaten to a state of unconsciousness by her husband, who had then apparently either walked into the sea on Hendon beach in an acute state of intoxication, or passed out on the sands. Either way, the result was the same - Willie Dalton was dead, drowned.
‘Willie’s dead?’ Sarah couldn’t believe her ears.
‘Aye, lass, an’ it looks as though Rebecca might be goin’ the same way,’ Maggie said loudly, so loudly that Sarah had to hold the telephone away from her ear, only to hear Maggie trumpet in the next moment, ‘I’m not shoutin’, Florrie, but it’s no use me whisperin’, the lass won’t be able to hear anythin’.’
‘He’s hurt Rebecca?’ Her stomach had come up into her throat. ‘But how did he get past you and Florrie?’
‘She went back to him, lass, the night afore Christmas Eve. We tried to stop her, the good Lord knows we tried, but he played her like a gypsy with a fiddle.’
‘Maggie’ - she had to get the facts, and fast, but at a pitch that didn’t make her head ring - ‘tell me exactly what happened, but speak a little more quietly, would you?’
There was a pause, and then Maggie’s voice came saying, ‘Oh, lass, I shouldn’t have broken it to you like that, but it’s this infernal machine.’
‘I know, I know.’ She could just picture poor Maggie standing in the telephone box at the top of the street, yelling her head off, and her heart went out to the old woman. She took a deep breath, her voice as soothing as she could make it through the burning anxiety for Rebecca, and said, ‘Maggie, just speak in your normal voice and tell me how bad she is.’
‘Bad.’
‘And they are sure it was Willie?’
‘Oh aye. Seems the neighbours were disturbed yesterday evenin’ with a bit of carry on, but then it all went quiet. That must’ve bin when he started the drinkin’. Anyway, old Emily, you know the midwife from North Shields, well, she was attendin’ a birth up Rebecca’s way, an’ she noticed the front door was open when she passed, but didn’t think anythin’ of it at the time. Then when she was on her way home, at gone one, it was still open, an’ knowin’ Rebecca from a bairn, she went to see what was what. An’ like she said this mornin’, she near passed out. There was the lass in one of the bedrooms upstairs all trussed up’ - Sarah heard Florrie’s voice cut in in the background, and Maggie saying, ‘I wasn’t goin’ to tell her all of it, Florrie, give me some credit’ - before Maggie continued, ‘Anyway, the room was freezin’, lass, an’ she wouldn’t have lasted till mornin’, not the state she was in.’
Sarah was vaguely aware that Lady Margaret and Eileen were both in the hall, but she didn’t look up, concentrating on Maggie’s voice at the end of the line. ‘And Willie? Where was he?’ She was feeling sick at the picture in her mind but spoke quietly, forcing herself to form the words through the rushing in her head.
‘Well they didn’t know at the time, no one did, an’ they was more concerned with gettin’ the lass sorted than findin’ out where he was, but then one of the fishermen found him at first light washed up on the beach. Appears he was already three parts to the wind when he started drinkin’ in Oldfellows, you know that rough pub on the seafront that’s his local, an’ he was mouthin’ then he’d given his wife a good hidin’. That old biddy across the road, Mrs Macintyre, she’s bin at her sister’s for Christmas but come back this mornin’, and she’s bin tellin’ the constable a right tale about the carryin’ on there was afore she went on Christmas Day mornin’. Willie’s bin drunk more than he’s bin sober from what I can make out, but the rest of ’em, even the ones next door to the lass, are keepin’ their mouths shut. Sanctimonious so-an’-sos, the lot of ’em. Rebecca could’ve died an’ they wouldn’t have lifted a finger as long as it was done quietly. If that’s respectability, give me the other thing, lass.’
Sarah’s mind was spinning, it was all too much to take in, but then as a thought suddenly occurred to her, she said urgently, ‘The baby? Has she lost the baby, Maggie?’
‘Not as I know of, not yet any road, but I can’t see a bairn survivin’ what he put her through, lass, an’ she’s got nigh on three months to go yet.’
‘I’m getting the next train up.’ She raised her eyes to Lady Margaret at this point who nodded energetic approval.
‘Now, lass, think of your job. They’ve been right good to you, but if you start takin’ liberties—’
‘I’m coming up, Maggie. If . . . if she comes round, tell her I’m on my way.’
‘Lass, are you sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘Oh, lass, I won’t pretend I won’t be glad to see you.’ There came the sound of muffled weeping, and then Florrie’s voice came gently saying, ‘Sarah? You’re coming up then? Be - be quick.’
‘Oh, Florrie.’
Sarah was quick, but it was still approaching eleven that night by the time she was shown into a small side room by a starched, prim nurse, who told her she would have to wait for the sister - she couldn’t possibly authorize Sarah seeing Mrs Dalton at this time of night, and did she realize Mrs Dalton was very very ill indeed? Sarah stared at her for a moment before she said flatly that yes, she did know, it was the reason she had rushed up from London that day.
‘I see.’ The nurse was small and plump and pretty, with a round face and wisps of fluffy blond hair showing from beneath her cap - the sort of person Sarah had always thought jolly - but her officious manner didn’t soften in the slightest when she said, ‘And you did say you are just a friend? You aren’t family, related in any way?’
‘Mrs Dalton and I were brought up together as children, and neither of us have family of our own, so it’s not a case of “just friends”,’ Sarah said as calmly as she could. ‘We’re like sisters.’
‘But you aren’t actually related?’
‘No.’
‘Ah.’
When the door closed behind the important little figure, Sarah sat down very suddenly on one of the four polished wooden chairs that, together with a low table holding one or two dog-eared magazines, made up the sum total of furniture in the green-painted room. She felt better now she was here. The journey had been a nightmare of anxiety and the train had seemed to crawl along. She was determined she was going to see Rebecca, she had to see how bad her friend’s injuries were for herself, and more than that, try and let Rebecca know she was here. She would will her to live, that’s what she’d do. She couldn’t die, she was too young to die . . .
The sister was very tall, with the sort of severe face and tightly scraped-back hair that was intimidating in itself, but as she took Sarah’s hand, she smiled, and her voice was sympathetic when she said, ‘I understand you have come all the way from London to see your friend?’
‘She’s more than a friend, she’s . . .’ How could she explain to a stranger what Rebecca meant to her? ‘We were brought up in a children’s home together.’ She couldn’t go on, but the sister seemed to understand anyway.
‘Come this way, Miss . . . ?’
‘Brown, Sarah Brown.’
‘Ah yes, Mrs McLevy spoke of you this afternoon. We sent her and the other lady home earlier, they were both exhausted.’ Once in the corridor outside the room, the sister put her hand on Sarah’s shoulder, bringing her to a halt as she said, ‘You might find your friend’s appearance a little distressing, Miss Brown, although most of her injuries are on the bottom half of her body. You understand she has been badly beaten and abused?’
Sarah nodded, her heart thudding.
‘She hasn’t regained consciousness since she was brought in earlier this morning, but that is quite to be expected in the circumstances.’
‘Maggie, Mrs McLevy, said - she indicated there’s no hope . . . ?’
‘There is always hope, Miss Brown, even in the direst of cases, and sometimes the patients who are the most ill on admittance make the best recoveries. However . . .’ The brisk voice softened. ‘Your friend is very poorly, and it would be as well for you and the other ladies to be prepared.’
‘And the baby?’
‘Mrs Dalton was having mild contractions when she was admitted, but that seems to have subsided for the moment.’
‘If . . . if Rebecca did recover, and she didn’t miscarry, would the baby be all right? When it was born, I mean?’
‘Let’s cope with this one day at a time, shall we, Miss Brown? There had been an - implement used, which might suggest some complications internally, so speculation as to the consequences for the baby would be just that. Speculation. Now, if you’re ready . . .’
The sister drew her forward towards a room just a few feet away down the left of the corridor, and as she opened the door, Sarah’s gaze moved past her to the waxwork figure in the bed. ‘Rebecca, oh, Rebecca.’ She wasn’t aware she had spoken out loud, but as the sister touched her arm and she turned dazedly to look at her, the woman said, ‘You understand she could be unconscious for some time yet, but it may help if you talk to her. There is a new school of thought that suggests the subconscious mind can respond even when in a coma.’
Coma. The word hit Sarah full in the chest. She walked over to the bed slowly and as she looked down at the alabaster face on the pillow, she wondered for a moment if Rebecca had already gone. The skin was a sickly white colour, except round one eye and her mouth where it was a livid red, and black stitches stood out in the swollen flesh under the eyebrow like grotesque black maggots. Only Rebecca’s head and neck were visible, her body, in spite of her pregnancy, making only the slightest mound beneath the thin hospital blankets.
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