Harriet (17 page)

    ‘I must go,’ said Noel, detaching herself gently. ‘Careful, or you’ll ladder my tights.’

    ‘Oh, Mummy, Mummy,’ whispered the choked little voice. ‘I can’t bear it. When will you come back?’

    ‘I can’t say, bebé. You must make the best of it.’

    She didn’t say another word to Cory, but as she climbed into the huge Rolls-Royce, she turned to Harriet. ‘Goodbye, I’ll certainly tell Simon I’ve seen you.’

    Chattie began to howl in earnest as soon as Noel had
^gone.
’Hush darling,’ said Harriet, picking her up. ‘You’ll see her again soon.’

    Cory went into his study and slammed the door behind him.

    I wish I could comfort him as easily as Chattie, thought Harriet.

    Kit left soon after Noel. He handed her his telephone number and address in London. ‘If you get into any difficulties, ring me. I’m worried about Cory, but you’re a warm, lovely girl and I’ve a feeling you’re going to one to get hurt the most.’

    Cory refused any supper, and Harriet, feeling exhausted, went to bed early, but found she couldn’t sleep. She tried to work out exactly what she felt about Simon. B
^ut
he seemed to have become a shadowy figure, straying back to Cory, and the hell he must be going through.

    Oh, why can’t I fall for straight-forward men who fall it love with me, she thought miserably.

    About midnight, the storm broke. Lightning brighter than day, followed immediately by great poundings of thunder. Wandering down the landing to see if the children were all right, Harriet heard the sound of crying coming from Jonah’s room. She went in and turned on the light.

    ‘It’s only thunder, darling,’ she said taking him in her arms. He was such a reserved child that it took several minutes before she discovered it wasn’t the storm that was upsetting him. He was sick with misery about Noel and Cory.

    ‘I know it’s beastly,’ said Harriet. ‘Of course, it doesn’t matter a scrap about crying. Everyone cries about things like this, and you’ve been terribly brave up till now,’

    Jonah gave a sniff. ‘You think so?’

    ‘Yes, I do. You’re like your father. He’s very brave, too.’

    ‘Then why does my mother want to marry that awful man? What’s my father done wrong that my mother doesn’t like him any more?’

    ‘He hasn’t done anything wrong. People just stop loving people sometimes, like you cooling off people you’ve been very friendly with the term before at school, and now you can’t see what you saw in them.’

    Jonah looked dubious. ‘Is it the same?’

    ‘In a way. It happened to me with William’s father. I loved him so much, but he still stopped loving me. But not because I’d done anything wrong.’

    ‘You won’t go away, will you?’ said Jonah.

    Harriet shook her head.

    ‘Perhaps you could marry Daddy, like Chattie suggested,’ he added hopefully.

    ‘He doesn’t want to, and the same thing would probably happen all over again. People should only marry people they love.’

    A shadow fell across the bed. Harriet looked up in embarrassment to see Cory standing there.

    ‘Hullo,’ said Jonah.

    ‘I’ll go and get some hot chocolate to make you sleep,’ said Harriet, fleeing from the room. When she got back upstairs, Jonah was nearly asleep.

    ‘Don’t go,’ he muttered drowsily. ‘Both stay, Harriet’s not very happy either, Daddy. I think you should look after her.’

    Harriet suddenly felt the tears trickling down her cheeks. She sat down on the bed, and turned her face away so Jonah shouldn’t see her. Then she felt Cory’s hand, warm and dry, over hers.

    She didn’t move, breathlessly aware of how close he was to her. And she was filled with a brazen, shameless longing to be closer still. She looked away, dumb and stricken, afraid that he might read the lust in her eyes.

    ‘He’s asleep,’ said Cory.

    Harriet got clumsily to her feet and, without speaking, went out of the room. Cory caught up with her outside his bedroom, put his hand on her shoulder and pulled her round to face him. The light from the bedroom lit up his face, and Harriet noticed how old and tired he looked suddenly.

    Oh, poor, poor Cory, she thought.

    ‘It’s so bloody for you,’ she said in a choked voice.

    ‘And for you, too,’ he said gently and, quite naturally he pulled her into his arms.

    ‘Don’t cry, little Harriet.’

    She melted.

    ‘Don’t cry,’ he went on. ‘It’s crazy to go on like this, when we both need each other. Come on, little one. You’ll see, I’ll make everything all right for you.’

    And Harriet knew with a sudden, blinding intensity of grief how much she loved him.

    But I can’t take it again, she told herself in panic. It’s no good falling again for a man who doesn’t love me, who this time, is absolutely mad about someone else.

    For a second she trembled violently in his arms, then she moved away.

    ‘It’s no good,’ she gasped, ‘You can’t just take me like aspirin to deaden your pain for a few hours. It’ll come back worse than ever afterwards.’

    ‘Not always. Sometimes you wake up and find the pain’s gone altogether.’

    But she bolted down the passage to her room, and cried until dawn, because she realized she’d failed him when he needed her most, and that being Cory he’d never lower his guard again.

CHAPTER TWENTY

    The atmosphere in the house was so highly charged that it was almost a relief when Cory got a cable next day from MGM to fly out to the States at once. Tadpole drooped when he saw the suitcases coming out, and went and sat in one of them looking utterly miserable. Harriet knew how he felt. At least Cory was unlikely to be gone more than a fortnight, as he wanted to get back in time to ride Python in the point-to-point.

    Once he’d gone, Harriet missed him terribly. She had got so used to having him around, to turn to for help and advice; she felt completely lost. For the millionth time, she kicked herself for rejecting him.

    Chattie soon cheered up after Noel had left. Cory had finally relented and bought her a bicycle, and all her energies were employed in learning to ride it. Jonah on the other hand seemed very pulled down; he refused to eat, and complained of headaches.

    The day after he left was Mrs. Bottomley’s day off.

    ‘I must put something in the Craven Herald,’ she said, walking into the kitchen in her purple turban and musquash coat.

    ‘Whatever for?’ said Harriet listlessly.

    ‘It’s ten years now since Mr. Bottomley passed on,’.,aid Mrs. Bottomley solemnly. ‘I always put something in the In Memoriam column. It seems fitting.’

    ‘Of course,’ thought Harriet. ‘Loving remembrances to dear Gran, who certainly wasn’t an also ran, from Dad and Mum and all the family.’’Mr. Cory usually writes it for me,’ grumbled Mrs. Bot- tomley, ‘but he went off in such a hurry.’

    ‘Is Mr. Bottomley staying in God’s spare room now?’ in- quired Chattie, who was very interested in death.

    ‘I expect so,’ said Harriet hastily.

    ‘Lucky thing. He’ll have biscuits in a tin by his bed. Do you think one has to clean one’s teeth in heaven?’

    ‘Perhaps you could put in the same verse you used last year,’ said Harriet.

    ‘Folk would notice,’ said Mrs. Bottomley, ‘I’ll have to think up something myself. Cheerio everyone,’ and, hum- ming Rock of Ages, she set out for the bus stop.

    Harriet picked up a pile of ironing and went upstairs.

    She’d have to get William up in a minute. Suddenly she heard a terrible moaning from Jonah’s room. Dropping the ironing and rushing in, she found him lying on the bed, white faced, clutching his head.

    ‘I’ve got these terrible, terrible pains,’ he moaned.

    Harriet took his temperature. It was 103, he was pouring with sweat.

    The doctor came at lunchtime and said there was a lot of

    ‘flu about, and prescribed antibiotics.

    ‘Sponge him down if he gets too hot. He should be better tomorrow.’

    Jonah, in fact, seemed better by the afternoon. His head- ache had gone and he was hungry. He wolfed all the boiled chicken, mashed potato and ice-cream Harriet brought him.

    ‘You wouldn’t, no I’m sure you wouldn’t,’ he said as she took the tray away.

    ‘What?’ said Harriet.

    ‘Play a game of Monopoly.’

    ‘Sevenoaks has eaten Old Kent Road and Mayfair.’

    ‘I’ll make some new cards,’ said Jonah. ‘Can we play for 10p?’

    Then, just as they were about to start playing, Jonah was violently sick. By the time Harriet had cleaned up and changed the sheets, he was much worse; his temperature had shot up to 106; he was burning hot and screaming about the pain in his head.

    At that moment William chose to wake up from his afternoon rest, and Chattie, as usual wandering round without shoes, stubbed her toe on the corner of Jonah’s bed, and burst into noisy sobs.

    ‘Oh please be quiet, all of you,’ screamed Harriet, her nerves already in shreds.

    She rushed downstairs to ring the doctor. Dr. Burnett was on his rounds, said the recording machine; if she left a message they would get in touch with her as soon as possible. She tried Dr. Rowbotham and got the same answer. It was such a lovely day, they were probably both out playing golf.

    She waited half-an-hour; no one rang back. William was bellowing to be fed. Chattie charged about trying to be helpful and getting in the way. Sevenoaks, having decided it was time for a walk, lay across the landing moaning piteously. Jonah was thrashing on the bed now groaning in anguish, chattering, deliriously, about coachmen and the horses not being ready in time.

    In despair Harriet rang Elizabeth Pemberton. She could hear bridge party noises in the background. She could imagine them all stuffing themselves with chocolate cake, and tearing everyone to shreds.

    ‘Yes,’ said Elizabeth unhelpfully.

    ‘Cory’s gone to the States. Mrs. Bottomley’s out. I think Jonah’s very ill. He’s complaining of pains in his head. I can’t get hold of Dr. Rowbotham or Dr. Burnett. Can you suggest anyone else?’

    ‘I’ll have a think,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I’m awfully tied up at the moment, Harriet.’

    ‘Bugger you,’ she was saying thought Harriet.

    ‘Try Dr. Melhuish in Gargrave,’ said Elizabeth. ‘He’s old-fashioned but very reliable. Ring back later if you need any help.’

    Dr. Melhuish was also on his rounds. She could hear Jonah screaming with pain. Harriet took a deep breath and dialled 999.

    ‘I’m stuck in the house with a baby and two children, and the boy’s seriously ill. I think he’s got brain damage or something. Please can you help?’

    She was trying so hard not to cry, she had great trouble telling them the address.

    ‘Don’t worry, luv,’ came the reassuring Yorkshire accent,

    ‘we’ll be over in a minute.’

    She was just getting down Jonah’s suitcase, trying to dress William, comfort Chattie and not fall over Sevenoaks, when the telephone rang again.

    It was Sammy.

    ‘What’s happening?’

    ‘Jonah’s ill. I’ve rung for an ambulance.’

    ‘Good for you. I’ll come straight over. We’ll take Chattie and William. Yes, of course we can. We’ll manage. You must go with Jonah.’

    ‘What will Elizabeth say?’

    ‘She can stuff herself,’ said Sammy. ‘She won’t be looking after them anyway. Keep smiling. I’ll be right over.’

    Harriet charged round gathering up pyjamas, toothpaste, an old teddy bear, Jonah’s favourite Just William book. She wanted to write a note to Mrs. Bottomley, but she couldn’t find a biro. Cory always whipped them all to write with.

    Sammy arrived with the ambulance, her round face full of concern.

    ‘I got away as soon as I could, the unfeeling bitch and her bridge parties. I’ll sort out the bottles, the nappies, and Mrs.

    Bottomley. Don’t you worry about a thing.’

    Two ambulance men, who had camp voices and left-of- centre partings, came down the stairs with Jonah on a stret- cher.

    He was quieter now. Sammy smiled down at his white pain-racked face.

    ‘Poor old love, you do look poorly. Never mind, the nurses’ll make you better. I’ll bring you a present tomorrow.’

    ‘Can I sleep in the same bed as Georgie?’ said Chattie.

    ‘How old is Cory?’ said the doctor at the hospital. ‘Thirty-four,’ said Harriet.

    The doctor raised his eyebrows.

    ‘Oh I’m sorry. Cory’s only his first name. We call him Jonah. He’s eight.’

    The doctor underlined the word Jonah with a fountain pen and went on to ask her a lot of questions - when did Jonah first sit up and walk? Had he had all his injections? - none of which she could answer.

    Then they were taken down endless passages into a room with one bed. Everything was covered in cellophane; the nurses came in in masks.

    ‘Just a precaution until we find out what it is,’ said one of the nurses.

    It was a nice little room. On the blind was painted a village street with dogs and cats and people buying from a market stall. The church clock stood at three o’clock; a chimney sweep was cleaning an immaculate chimney; children looked out of the window. Harriet gazed mindlessly at it as she waited for the results of Jonah’s lumbar puncture.

    Thoughts of typhoid, smallpox, polio chased themselves relentlessly round her head. Oh God, don’t let him die.

    Jonah’s blond hair was dark with sweat but he seemed calmer. Harriet bent over him, sponging his forehead.

    ‘Your tits are too low in that blouse,’ he said with a weak grin.

    ‘I didn’t have time to put on a bra,’ said Harriet.

    Half an hour later, the nurses took off their gowns and masks. Much later a specialist arrived. He was a tall man with untidy grey hair, scurf all over his collar, who stank of body odour.

    ‘We think it’s early meningitis,’ he said. ‘We’ve found far too many white corpuscles in the fluid, but that’s not too much to worry about unless there’s a growth. But I think you should notify the boy’s parents.’

    Then followed the hassle of trying to find where Cory was in America.

    Harriet tried very hard not to show Jonah how panicky she felt. The only thing that sustained her was the thought of talking to Cory on the telephone. Never had she needed him so badly.

    She was frustrated, however, at every turn. Cory’s agent in London had closed his office for the weekend and couldn’tbe found at home. She hadn’t enough money to dial the number Cory left her in New York. Noel’s agent said she’d gone to Paris for the weekend, was due back on Tuesday but had left no forwarding address. A queue of large swollen ladies in quilted dressing-gowns from the Maternity Ward were waiting to use the telephone and starting to mutter. In desperation she rung Elizabeth Pemberton, who promised rather unwillingly to see what she could do. Afterwards Harriet had a word with Chattie. Her heart was wrung listening to the choked little voice:

    ‘Elizabeth asked me if I used a dry brush or a wet brush to do my teeth. I wasn’t thinking. I said dry. It was horrid. Everyone’s gone away, Daddy, Mummy, Jonah, you. I do miss you, Harriet.’

    As the night-nurses came in Jonah grew increasingly worse; his temperature shot up to 106 again. He couldn’t keep any of the antibiotics down. He kept asking for water, but every time he drank he was violently sick. Soon he became delirious, crying for Noel, for Cory, shouting out about the black coachman who was coming to get him. Harriet kept hoping he’d gone to sleep, then his eyes would open and he’d groan. On other occasions he’d drop off, then wake up, be all right for a few seconds, and the pain would take over.

    Harriet clung on to his hot dry hand and wondered how she’d get through the night.