Cast the First Stone (13 page)

‘We'll make short work of this, won't we, Dave?' laughed Andy. ‘Come on; let's scoff these crisps before she changes her mind . . . I'm really sorry you're feeling poorly though, Fiona,' he added. ‘We've all had such a good time together, haven't we?'

Fiona nodded. ‘Yes, it's been terrific . . . until I've gone and put a damper on it all.'

‘Don't worry,' said Dave, taking hold of her hand as they made their way back to the coach. ‘We'll soon be home. You'll be glad to get back, won't you?'

Fiona nodded again. ‘Yes, I certainly will. I'm sorry it's ended like this, Dave.'

‘It's not ended,' he whispered, squeezing her hand. ‘Not for you and me. Just try to get better soon, eh?'

She dozed on and off for a good part of the journey. She had never felt more relieved in her life when the coach, at long last, drew up outside the church back in Leeds. A crowd of parents waited outside the gates. Tears came into Fiona's eyes as she caught sight of her mother; her father, of course, would still be at work at four thirty in the afternoon. She hastily brushed her tears away – how silly she would look if she started to cry – but she felt a surge of affection for her mother, something she had not always felt of late. Mum would look after her now. She was, indeed, very glad to be home.

‘I'm afraid Fiona's not feeling very well, Mrs Dalton,' Diane said to Fiona's mother as they got off the coach. Her own mother was further along the pavement. ‘Hi, Mum,' she called. ‘Be with you in a minute.'

‘Oh deary me! Whatever's the matter?' Fiona felt her mother's arm around her shoulders, but she didn't want a big fuss making about her illness.

‘I'll be alright, Mum,' she said dismissively, although she was feeling far from alright. ‘Just a cold, I think. Don't get too close to me or you might catch it.'

‘Never mind that,' said her mother. To Fiona's embarrassment she kissed her cheek. ‘It's you I'm concerned about.'

‘I'm sorry about this, Mrs Dalton,' said Sheila Wilkes, joining the little group. ‘We've all had such a lovely time, haven't we, Fiona? It's a pity this has happened, but I'm sure you'll soon be well again. Take care now, dear. See you soon, I hope.'

‘Thank you for looking after her, Mrs Wilkes,' said Fiona's mum, ‘and you as well, Diane. Come along now, love. Let's get you home.'

There was scarcely time for Fiona to exchange a fleeting glance and a half smile with Dave before her mother led her away. Now was certainly not the time to effect an introduction. It passed through Fiona's mind that she would probably never do so, despite her brave words to Dave that she would tell her parents about him.

It was only five minutes' walk from the church to the terraced house where the Dalton family lived.

‘Now, I think you'd better get straight to bed,' said her mother as they shut the front door. ‘There's no place like home, is there, love? And no bed like your own bed. So off you go and get undressed and I'll bring you a hot drink. What would you like? A nice cup of tea?'

Fiona smiled. ‘Yes, I think so. Your answer to all ailments, isn't it, Mum?'

‘I'll have one with you,' said Mary. ‘And you can tell me all about the exciting time you've had in London; that is, if you feel like talking. I could tell from the chattering going on that you've all had a good time. Such a shame that you're feeling poorly. Pop along then, love, and I'll be with you in a few minutes.'

Fiona undressed quickly and got into bed. The cool sheets felt very comforting as she slid between them. As Mum said, there was no bed like your own, and maybe a good sleep would work wonders.

First, though, she must try to talk a little to her mother. She was being so kind and caring that Fiona was almost forgetting the less than charitable thoughts that she sometimes harboured about both her parents. A spasm of guilt seized her as she realized that she could by no means tell her mother ‘all' about the trip. She felt herself going hot, even hotter than she was already feeling, and there was a sickness in the pit of her stomach as she remembered what had happened.

She sat up and sipped at her tea as she told her mother a little about the Festival exhibition and all the wonderful new inventions, the sightseeing trip around London, and the Battersea Pleasure Gardens.

‘They let you go round on your own, did they?' asked Mary with a touch of anxiety. ‘You were with Diane, I expect?'

‘Yes . . . there was a crowd of us all together,' answered Fiona evasively. ‘Mr and Mrs Wilkes made sure we were back by half past ten, though.'

‘That's what I would expect,' said Mary. ‘I knew you would be in safe hands with Colin and Sheila. Now, you settle yourself down and try to have a sleep. I was wondering about calling the doctor, but we'll see how you are in the morning, shall we?'

‘Yes; I'll probably be feeling much better by tomorrow,' said Fiona. ‘I just want to go to sleep now.'

By the next morning, though, it was clear that she was no better. When she sat up in bed her throat was hurting more than ever and she could tell that her neck was swollen. She was unable to swallow anything apart from a drink of tea and a few mouthfuls of sweet creamy porridge that her mother insisted she try.

‘You're burning up,' said Mary, feeling her forehead. ‘We can't wait any longer; I must ring for the doctor. You snuggle down again and I'll go and call him. You'll be alright, won't you, love, while I just nip along to the phone box?'

Dr Mackintosh had known Fiona ever since she was a baby. He was a Scot, a kindly and sympathetic family practitioner. He was at the house in less than an hour.

‘Now, let's have a wee look at you, young lady,' he said as Mary hovered in the background. Fiona sat up, coming round from another half sleep. She opened her mouth obediently and said ‘ah' as requested. Dr Mackintosh frowned and nodded.

‘Ah yes, I see. There's a nasty white coating over your tonsils. I expect your throat is very sore, isn't it?'

Fiona nodded. ‘Dreadfully,' she agreed.

‘What is it, doctor?' asked Mary. ‘Is it tonsillitis? I wondered if she should have had her tonsils out when she was little. I know a lot of her friends did, but I didn't want her to have to go through that.'

‘No, you were probably right,' answered the doctor. ‘There was rather too much of that done at the time. But I don't think it's tonsillitis.' He felt at Fiona's neck and she winced a little. ‘Sorry, my dear. That hurts, doesn't it? Your lymph glands are swollen. I suspect that what you have is glandular fever. No wonder you're feeling so poorly.'

‘Glandular fever!' gasped Mary. ‘Whatever is that? It sounds serious.'

‘Probably not as drastic as it sounds, Mrs Dalton,' he replied. ‘I'll just take a wee sample of blood to make sure I've got the diagnosis right . . . I would love a cup of tea, please, if you feel like making one,' he added as Mary continued to hover.

‘Certainly doctor,' she said, leaving the room reluctantly.

‘Best not to have Mum around, eh?' The doctor smiled understandingly at Fiona. ‘Now, just hold your arm straight out, my dear; and I promise that this won't hurt, no more than a tiny bit.'

Nor did it, and Fiona felt herself relaxing a little. ‘Now, tell me what you've been doing,' said the doctor. ‘Your mum tells me you're just back from a little holiday.'

‘Yes, I've been to London with a group from church to see the Festival of Britain,' she answered. She told him about it whilst her mother made the tea, and he listened with keen interest. He had what her gran called ‘a good bedside manner'. She felt she would be able to trust him with anything, should the need arise.

‘The only real cure is bed rest,' he told her mother as he drank his tea. ‘The trouble is she seems to have a sniffly cold as well, which is not helping things. I'll prescribe some painkillers for your painful throat,' he told Fiona. ‘You must have plenty of drinks, of course, and a little food that is easy to swallow when you feel like it. Soup or scrambled egg or porridge; your mum will know what to give you. And stay where you are for a few days. This fever is highly infectious, I'm afraid. So no visitors just yet. I'll come back in a day or two to see how you're going on. Cheerio for now, dear. I'm leaving you in good hands.'

He gave Mary a prescription to take to the chemist. ‘Start her on these as soon as possible. I can see that she's in a good deal of pain, and these will ease it. But it will be a wee while before she feels really well again, and she'll be very tired.'

‘But she will get better, won't she?' asked Mary. ‘She's very precious to us, you know, doctor.'

‘Yes, indeed.' Dr Mackintosh nodded. ‘It will take a while, as I've said, but she will be fine again in a few week's time.' He had taken a blood sample, though. The symptoms could mean something more drastic, such as leukaemia. He did not think so but it was best to be sure.

Fiona was surprised at how much she slept. She was tired all the time and when she was out of bed for a visit to the bathroom she was relieved to get back. After a day or two she could manage foods such as soups, rice pudding, custard and ice-cream, which was very soothing to her still quite painful throat The doctor called again confirming that is was, certainly, glandular fever that she had contracted. How or where was a mystery, and it was just a matter of time before she would be fully recovered.

Her mother told her that Diane had called. She had brought her some magazines and an Agatha Christie book, the sort that both girls enjoyed. ‘But I couldn't let her see you,' said her mother. She cast a disparaging glance at the somewhat lurid covers of the
True Romance
and
Love Story
magazines, and at the murder mystery. ‘She's sent you these, though they certainly wouldn't be my choice,' she added with a sniff of disapproval.

Mum's back to her old self
, thought Fiona,
now that I'm feeling a bit better
. Out loud she said, ‘Oh, Mum, I'd love to have seen her. It's miserable up here on my own. Why didn't you let her come up?'

‘Because you're still infectious,' said her mother. ‘Dr Mackintosh says so. Perhaps next time. We'll see how you go on.'

Fiona had now been in bed for almost a week. They had returned from London on Thursday and it was now the following Wednesday. She was feeling a little less tired and her throat did not hurt as much, but she was starting to feel very depressed. The doctor said it was one of the symptoms of her illness, and he assured her that it would pass.

She sat up in bed, leafing through the pages of
True Romance
; stories of unrequited love, or of couples reunited, or parents' opposition to teenage lovers. Her thoughts flew to Dave. She hoped he would have the good sense not to call and see how she was, but she was sure that Diane would have told him about her illness.

She was unable to concentrate on a love story, and she was not in the mood to start reading a murder mystery. Apart from feeling out of sorts and miserable there was something else that was worrying her. She should have started her period on Monday. She was now two days late . . .

She tried to tell herself not to be so stupid. What was two days? It must be her imagination working overtime because of what she had done . . . what she and Dave had done. Her guilt and shame lay heavy on her conscience, and there was no one in whom she could confide. Her mother was refusing to let her see Diane, insisting that she was still infectious and must stay in bed for a few more days. And, besides, how could she possibly tell Diane? Her friend would be horrified. She had warned her to be careful, and she, Fiona, had taken no notice.

The days went by – Thursday, Friday, Saturday – and still there was no sign of what Fiona was longing to see. It was almost a full week, and she feared that by this time there really was cause for concern. She had started her periods at thirteen, and ever since that day she had been as regular as clockwork. She could time her monthly cycle to the exact day, almost the exact hour. And so could her mother . . .

Mary was the kind of mother who watched her daughter like a hawk. It was Mary who bought the necessary items each month and made sure that Fiona had an adequate supply in her dressing table drawer. Fiona wished that she wouldn't fuss so and would let her look after her own concerns a bit more. But it was Mary's way to interfere in this manner, although she saw it as helping. Fiona doubted that she would ever change. She had often thought longingly of a time when she might escape from her mother's control. Maybe next year when she went away to training college. Fiona had decided that she would like to train to be a teacher – or was it really her mother who had made the decision? – and that meant she would be starting her training in just over a year's time. She had already made up her mind that she would stand firm and refuse to go to the training college in Headingley. Even if she were to live in there, it was far too near to her home.

But her future plans had become a little less important since she had become friendly with Dave. And now, with this great black cloud hanging over her she didn't dare to look into the future at all.

Her mother, of course, had noticed that she was a week late. Mary had come to the conclusion, however, that it was because Fiona was ill.

‘Illness can play all sorts of tricks with your body,' she told her daughter. Fiona had no idea whether this was true or not, but her mother spoke with conviction. ‘Maybe when you start you will feel better all round. You're certainly down in the dumps now, aren't you? I do wish you would try to cheer up a bit, love. I'm doing my best for you, you know, and I'm only doing what Dr Mackintosh advised. He said you must stay in bed for a while and not have any visitors. Perhaps next week you may be able to get up for part of the day. He did say, though, that the glandular fever might leave you feeling depressed.'