Mad Worlds (7 page)

Drawing to a halt outside Elsie's, Newman passed Heather a card. “That's where you can contact me. First number's my direct line.”

She put it in her handbag. “Thanks.”

He switched off the engine and turned to face her. Was he going to make a pass? “If anything happens to your husband, Springwell will contact you. And if you've any queries, or need to go again, ring me. I'll help if I can.”

“Thanks.” She opened the car door.

“Before you go – are you okay?” he asked as he revved up.

“Yes.” She was too played out to feel anything but a dull headache. She forced a smile and waved as he drove off.

Mattie greeted her in a shop packed with customers. He pointed to the back-shop. “Through there, lass.”

She tapped on the door and, as she pushed it open slowly, caught the welcome pungent, unique aroma.

Elsie was removing the full nappy. “She's been a clever girl for Mummy.”

Heather picked up her child and cuddled her. “Becky, my Becky,” she murmured, letting her tears flow.

“I'll deal with this nappy, then make us a cuppa.” Elsie rose.

Nappy change completed, Heather laid Becky in her crib and soon the child was asleep.

Elsie returned with the tea tray, poured two cups and sat down beside her. “You look right weary, m'dear. Do you want to tell me about it?”

The uplift from cuddling Becky went as she started her tale. “It was horrible.” She brushed her eyes.

“There, m'dear, take your time.”

She continued in a low voice with her main worry. “John's dying of pneumonia.” Encouraged by Elsie, she found strength to tell of her fears, and the agonies and frustrations of the visit. When at one point Becky started crying, Heather realised she'd been shouting. Standing up, she lifted the child and cuddled her. “Elsie,” she said quietly. “It's worse than a prison, and I fear for John in there.”

“M'dear, it must be terrible for you.” Elsie's homely face looked strained and her blue eyes shone with compassion.

“I feel helpless. I don't know what I'd have done without you two.”

“M'dear, we'll help you and Becky all we can.” Elsie paused and looked at Becky. “We had a bairn once, but she lived just two hours. And we couldn't have any more.”

“Oh.” She wanted to say something comforting to Elsie about this, an overwhelming tragedy, but didn't know how.

Elsie, her eyes glistening, continued, “Ailsa would've been a grand wee bairn like Becky, then a fine young lass like yourself, but the Lord took her.”

How sad and unfair. She took Elsie's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. She still couldn't find anything to say. A dead baby. The grief must have been unfathomable. Elsie and Mattie would have been great parents. They'd already gone further in helping than any parents – never mind her own – could.

Elsie stood up. “M'dear, I've never talked about that. It was long ago – back in Newcastle, where we both grew up. We came down here just after, kept quiet about it and got on with our work.”

“Thanks for telling me.” And she meant it. Of course she'd told Elsie her deepest fears. But this was different – the older woman, a rock in a crisis and a support-giver, choosing to trust her with a tragic secret from long ago.

The door swung open. “The shop's closed,” Mattie announced. He turned to Heather. “You're fair worked up, lass. Will you and the bairn stay with us the night?”

“You must, m'dear,” said Elsie.

“Yes please.” She didn't want to face the empty house yet.

That evening, though not hungry, she ate egg and chips. Must keep her strength up, for Becky. She yawned. “Sorry, Elsie, I'm exhausted –”

“Your room's ready, m'dear,” said Elsie. “I'll make up a bottle for the bairn.”

The support she needed. She hugged Elsie. “You're brilliant friends,” she told the pair before retiring with Becky to the bedroom.

She downed two aspirins and, after Becky fell asleep, lay on the bed in the darkened room. She dreaded bad news about John. If only she could have stayed with him. That charge nurse said he'd ‘a fair chance'. And they'd let her know if he died? Not good enough. She must find out how he was. Springwell would have a phone. Tomorrow she'd ask about using the shop phone.

What about her and Becky? Particularly if John had got the sack? Surely he hadn't. Yet awful injustices happened. John had known this first-hand – he'd told her how officialdom treated his father after the accident, and she knew from Social Studies.

She didn't want to ask her parents for help, but she must. Tomorrow?

The crying was insistent. She switched on the bedside lamp. Nearly 3am. Must have drifted off. She picked Becky up, nuzzled her and changed the nappy.

Tiptoeing out to the bathroom, she heard snoring from Mattie and Elsie's room. En route to her bed, she stopped outside their door and listened. Yes, they both snored.

Back in the room, she wondered if she snored. John never mentioned it, but then he wouldn't. He was too nice – or had been. When he lay on his back, he snored like a crackling loudspeaker. On honeymoon, she'd told him he sounded like a tiger. He growled, “I am a tiger,” and sprang to crouch over her. This led to heavenly sex. Everything was great then.

Some weeks ago – she was clear of depression, and John's brow had started to furrow – he awoke and sat up in bed after snoring. She said, “Tiger, go for it,” and tried to hug him. He grunted “Let go,” and got out of bed. No magic sex. She hadn't called him ‘tiger' since. Would she ever hear her tiger snore again?

She swallowed two more aspirins, then lay meditating on what Elsie told her. Tragic. At least she had Becky. Her child's welfare was all-important.

Bells. Church bells. It was light, almost ten a.m. She'd dozed off. And the crib was empty. Panic. But no, Elsie would have Becky safe.

Heather dressed hastily and followed the smell of frying bacon. There indeed was Becky, cradled on Elsie's arm.

*

After breakfast, Mattie opened up the back-shop for Heather and got Springwell's number from Directory Enquiries.

“I'll be in the shop looking at the shelves, lassie. When you finish on the phone, just give me a shout.”

“Thanks, Mattie.” She dialled the number.

“We do not give out information about inmates, Madam,” said Springwell's switchboard operator.

“But I have a right to know. I am his wife.”

“Madam, we do
not
give out information about inmates.”

She inhaled deeply, and yelled, “Did you hear me?”

“Perfectly, Madam. There's no need to shout.” He wasn't going to shift.

Stay cool, Heather
. “Listen then, please. My husband is at death's door in your infirmary. The nurse in charge, Mr Macnamara, said to ring.” Untrue, but…

A sigh? “I'll see then, madam. What is your husband's name?”

She told him again and the line seemed to go dead. She hung on for ages. And then she heard the Irish brogue. “Macnamara, Mrs Chisholm. I have good news. Our physician Doc Burn just popped in. Your husband's on the mend.”

Thank God.
“Is he conscious?”

“Still a tad delirious, but he's responding to the penicillin. Sure and he'll live.”

“When can I see him?”

“That's not up to me. Visiting's once a month, except for emergencies. Could you ring back in a few days?” Then, “Excuse me, I must go.” The phone went dead.

A relief, though still worrying. Sufficiently reassuring to risk being away at her parents' a few days. But she'd stay on here a couple of days– in case Springwell rang.

Ringing her parents was something of a long shot as they were often abroad on holiday. Heather never felt that close to them or experienced the warm affection she got from Granny. Mother's “You can do better, Heather,” contrasted with Granny's “Well done, Heather.” Why did Granny have to die?

Her parents had supported her in schoolwork and hobbies. And despite the coolness over John, she'd still got Christmas cards and postcards – all addressed to ‘Heather and Becky' – from her parents' exotic holiday destinations. And they unfailingly remembered her birthday with a welcome cheque.

She waited till noon to ring as they might have gone to church earlier.

“This is Bolsall 516.” Mother's voice, a cultured Edinburgh accent.

“Mother – it's Heather.”

“Heather. What a surprise. Darling, how nice to hear from you.” A pause. “So you have a phone now?”

“No. Our friends at the shop across the road let me use theirs.”

“Not Becky – is she all right?” Mother sounded anxious.

“Becky's fine, Mother.”

Sounded like a sigh. Mother used to sigh a lot. “What's wrong then? Do you need money?”

She swallowed. Mother was always direct in her comment, and this hurt. No real concern – but an assumption she'd get in touch only about money. Mother was spot on, though – the last time she'd phoned her parents was for a top-up to help eke out her student grant. “Well, yes Mother. But it's not as simple as that.”

Another sigh. “Just a moment.” She heard, “Who is it?” in the background, and Mother whispering “Heather.” “Does she want money? Has she left that rascal?” Definitely Father. Mother again: “Carry on, Heather. What's not so simple?”

“Well, it's John. He's very ill in hospital and might be there for ages. He's got pneumonia and nearly died.”

Another sigh. Then Father whispering, “What does she want us to do?” “I'm sorry,” said Mother. If only she meant it. “What do you want from us?”

“Can Becky and I come to see you and stay a few days?”

“I'm sure… Here, speak with your father a minute.”

“Heather.” Father's voice, but quieter than she remembered – almost strained. He'd always sounded like he was addressing a meeting. “I'm sorry to hear John's ill.” Hypocrite. “We'd be glad to have you and Becky over here.”

“Thanks.”

“Which hospital's John in? We'll send a card.”

“Actually,” she hesitated. She hated reinforcing their negative view of John. But she had to tell them. “He's in the infirmary at Springwell.”

“Whew.” A whispered aside (Father to Mother): “He's gone off his rocker.” Then, “Right, we'll get details when we see you. When do you want to come?”

“I'd like to come on Tuesday, if that's okay?”

“Yes. We'd be happy to come and collect you on Tuesday evening.”

Collect – like a parcel? However, she hadn't fancied a journey that would mean catching one bus then changing to another. “Yes. Thanks.”

“Good. See you both on Tuesday.”

“Oh, hang on a minute, Father.” With a hand firmly over the mouthpiece, she shouted to Elsie. She did not want her parents going into her house in its present state.

After a quick consultation with Elsie, she added, “We'll be here across the road, at number 81. It's the flat above the shop.”

“Right-ho. 'Bye.”

Not entirely a comfortable experience, but not bad, and a good result. Her parents sounded disposed to help her and Becky.

As Springwell hadn't rung, Heather felt okay about going to her parents
.
Three or four days should be long enough – to get help, also check on how they were doing.

Just after six p.m., they arrived in their Riley, a grand red car, ageing but shining like new. They tooted, and Heather went out with Becky asleep in the crib, followed by Mattie with her bag and Elsie the pushchair. Her parents got out of the car to embrace her and shook hands with the older couple, but declined a cup of tea.

As Father revved up, she wound down the car window, shouted “'Bye,” and waved to the pair. Elsie's eyes glistened.

She brushed her wet face with her hand and closed the window.

Mother twisted round from the front and whispered, “Mustn't waken Becky.”

The journey passed in silence. Mother's brow was more lined. Father's black hair was snowy-white. Just getting older? Or were they under pressure? There was of course a big age gap – they were both forty-two when she was born. Funny, she'd never thought of her parents as vulnerable. Both always presented a strong front. Father's words to her some time in her childhood – “Stiff upper lip, young Heather; some things are sent to try us” – epitomised their approach to any kind of setback.

Not that much seemed to get in the way of their affluent lifestyle. Even in the war, Father continued as a bank manager and Mother as a medical secretary at the hospital – leaving her in the care of Granny (who lived in the ‘granny flat').

Yes, cared for by her wonderful granny until that fateful day. Her tenth birthday party over, friends gone, she'd kissed Granny goodnight. Next morning, Father stood in her bedroom doorway. “Granny's ill, Heather.”

She'd never known Granny to be ill. Tiptoeing through to Granny's, she slipped past Mother and crawled onto the bed. Mother yelled, “Come back, darling.”

And there Granny lay – mouth open, eyes staring from her lifeless face.

Aching with grief for ages after, she'd got no comfort from Mother's repeated “I gave up a good job for you, Heather.” Sacrifice and an eternal grudge. Mother's switch to part-time work in the typing pool had meant a slump in status and pay.

The car was slowing. They were near her parents' home. Throughout the journey, she'd hardly given John a thought. From deep in her core, she began to experience again the anguish threatening to overwhelm her.

She didn't want to face talking to her parents this evening. She fed Becky, then, pleading fatigue, went up to bed, to seek the rest she craved.