Magda's Daughter (4 page)

 ‘I know you do.' She dropped her tights on top of her skirt.

‘So you wore them in the hope that I'd undress you?'

‘You bought me twelve pairs for my birthday, remember? And threw all my others out.'

‘So I did.' He tugged her silk panties downwards. ‘You look fabulous in them, but even more fabulous out.'

‘At this rate we'll never get the house finished.'

He tossed the last of his clothes on top of hers. ‘What house?' Then he pulled her to the floor on top of him.

‘This is the last, Father O'Brien.' Magda carried a large flat box of sausage rolls from the shop.

‘I'm glad to hear it. The car is full, as the Sunday school scholars will be after eating all these baked goods.' The priest loaded the box carefully on top of the others on the back seat of his car.

‘I'll see to the doors then I'll be with you.' Magda took her keys from the pocket of her cardigan, then found herself struggling with the lock. The keyhole suddenly seemed to be too small for the key. And even after she managed to insert it she found it difficult to turn. She checked and double-checked the door, as well as the separate entrance to the flat, while Father O'Brien sat waiting for her in his Morris 1000. Finally, sensing his impatience, she opened the passenger door and sank down beside him.

‘Are you all right, Magda?' the priest asked in concern when she held her head in her hands.

‘It's just a headache. I get them from time to time. I'll be fine once I take a pill.'

‘It's the stress you've been under lately, on top of working in the shop. Getting in a state over Helena's examinations, when everyone said she'd graduate with honours, which is exactly what the girl did. Not to mention panicking as to whether or not she'd get a job and look how well she's done for herself there. Now you've her wedding to fret about. And I haven't exactly helped, asking you to organise this Sunday school tea party.'

‘I enjoyed it, Father. It gave me something to think about besides Helena. And you were right telling me not to worry. Everything couldn't have turned out better.' Magda opened her handbag and looked for the bottle of aspirins she carried.

‘You've done a brilliant job of bringing her up, Magda. Helena has turned out to be a fine girl, a credit to you and herself. And she's got herself a good man, even if he isn't Catholic. But take my advice, slow down. The world will keep turning if your shop runs out of pies and pastries an hour before closing time, and there's only two sausage rolls for every three children at the Sunday school tea parties. ‘

Magda made a face as she dry-swallowed two aspirins. She knew from experience that the sooner she took the pain-killers, the sooner the stabbing pains would stop. But Father O'Brien was wrong about one thing. Her headache had nothing to do with stress and everything to do with the war. Just one more bitter souvenir.

She sat back in the seat, closed her eyes, and waited for the foul taste of the pills to subside along with the pain.

‘I know you wanted Helena to be married with a full celebratory mass, but the mixed marriage ceremony is a splendid one in its own right, Magda. And who knows? When the children start coming along, Helena's young man might change his mind about being received into the Church. And then there'll be another cause for celebration.'

Magda could hear Father O'Brien's soft, musical Irish lilt, but the pain in her head had intensified, closing out the world around her. She'd had many headaches before, but never one like this. It was as though everything was conspiring to make it worse. The lurching movement of the car. The heat of the sun burning her face through the windscreen. The discordant blast of a car horn behind them …

‘Magda … Magda … Mother of God! …'

She heard Father O'Brien's voice rise in panic. She tried to open her eyes, but the pain prevented her. She gradually became aware that the car was no longer moving. A pleasant draught of cool air blew across her body as the passenger door opened. She sensed the touch of the priest's hand on her forehead.

She heard Father O'Brien shout to someone to telephone for an ambulance, then she heard him recite words she had last heard in another time, another language, another country. But the rhythm and the sombre tones were unmistakable.

‘Through this holy anointing, may the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit …'

Father O'Brien was administering the Last Rites. Suddenly it was the end. She thought of all the things she'd left undone, unsaid. ‘Helena … forgive me, Father, for I have sinned …' she whispered. She gripped the priest's hand with all the strength that remained. ‘Helena,' she repeated urgently. ‘Tell her … I'm sorry …'

The priest broke off mid-sentence. ‘To be sure, Magda, you've nothing to be sorry about. And this is only a precaution. The ambulance is on its way.'

Magda knew she had no time left for lies, even kind ones. ‘It was a sin to keep the truth from her. I knew it was a sin … but I loved her …'

‘What was a sin, Magda?' A tear fell from the priest's eye onto Magda's cheek. It splashed dose to her mouth.

‘I was afraid she'd blame me … hate me …'

‘No one, least of all Helena, could hate you, Magda.' The priest knew he was speaking to a corpse, but he continued to hold Magda's hand. ‘May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up …'

Father O'Brien didn't release Magda until he had completed the ritual. Not even when the ambulance came and Andrew John stopped his car and ran to see if he could help.

Helena was half sitting, half lying against Ned's chest, her arms entwined in his. She felt sleepy, contented and just a tiny bit smug as she surveyed the bare room. Their first home and she was about to earn enough money to furnish it exactly the way she wanted.

‘White walls and paintwork, two simple Art Deco his and her wardrobes, an equally simple dressing table,' she said decisively, ‘and a headboard to match. In beech if we can find it, but almost any light wood would look good. We'll put the bed against that wall. We'll buy two matching bedside cabinets and a writing table. A bookcase and an upholstered Queen's chair …'

‘And I'll have to call the builder back to knock down all the walls, to accommodate madam's wishes for this one room. It only looks big at the moment because it's empty,' he warned. ‘A king-size bed will fill it.'

‘We can't have a king-size bed. They're modern. We'll never find an antique headboard large enough to fit.'

‘I like to sprawl.'

‘And I prefer cuddling.' She snuggled even closer to him.

‘Temptress. I can see you're determined to get your own way as soon as I put the ring on your finger.' He dropped a kiss on to her neck. ‘Who on earth can that be?' he said irritably when the telephone shrilled in the living room.

‘Answer it and you'll find out.' She rolled away from him and lay back with her head on her arms.

‘Not likely. I'm not dressed and, unlike the back, the front of the house is overlooked. Besides, it's bound to be a wrong number. No one knows our number or that we're here.'

‘Your father would know it; he arranged to have the telephone installed.'

‘He's picking my sister up from the stables. See, I told you,' he said when the phone stopped ringing.

‘It could be him,' Helena suggested when it started up again.

‘Perhaps it's an emergency and he needs help.'

‘One of his partners is on duty this weekend. You answer it.'

‘If it is your father, he'd hardly be ringing me,' she pointed out. ‘It could be your mother.'

‘She doesn't know the number. Here, wrap yourself in this.' She handed him a beach towel.

‘And if anyone sees me?'

‘They'll think you've had a bath.'

‘When we haven't even moved in?'

‘You could have got dirty scrubbing out the place.'

‘It's stopped again. It has to be a wrong number.' He pulled her towards him, but as they settled back on the bedspread it started again.

‘Damn!' Ned reached for the towel, wrapped it around his waist and padded on bare feet into the living room. Crouching beside the box of books, he picked up the receiver and barked, ‘Hello.'

‘Ned?'

‘Dad?'

‘Meet me at home as soon as you can.'

‘What's the problem?'

‘Just get here, and bring Helena.'

‘Dad –'

‘It's not urgent, so don't break the speed limit.'

‘But it is bad news?' Ned fished.

There was resignation and something Ned couldn't quite decipher in his father's voice. ‘Just come home, Ned. Please.'

The line went dead. Ned hung up and turned to see Helena standing behind the door, cloaked in the bedspread.

‘What's the matter?' she asked.

‘I'm not sure. You were right, it was my father. He wants us to go home but he said it's not urgent so it can't be anything serious.'

‘Perhaps it's something to do with the wedding.'

‘Perhaps.' He glanced down at the towel he was wearing. ‘I suppose we'd better look for your green knickers.'

Helena sat beside Ned on the sofa in Andrew and Bethan John's drawing room. She was so still, so quiet, that neither Father O'Brien nor Andrew was sure she'd understood a word they'd said. She simply continued to stare out of the window. She didn't even look up when Bethan brought in a tray of tea and set it on the table.

‘Magda was taken quickly, Helena. From what I saw, there was very little pain. Just one of her headaches, or so she said. During the war I saw more deaths than any man should in a single lifetime, and you can take it from me that your mother's was peaceful. In the end, that's what we all want for our loved ones and ourselves. To slip away quietly to the Lord's kingdom.'

Helena turned to the priest. ‘Did my mother say anything?'

‘That she loved you and was sorry.'

‘Sorry?' Helena repeated in a dull, cold voice. Ned and his father both saw she was in deep shock.

‘I think she was sorry she didn't have time to say goodbye to you.'

‘Why?' Helena asked Andrew. ‘Why did she die? She was fine at lunch. You all saw her. She was fine.' She looked to Ned and Andrew for an explanation.

‘Your mother's death was so unexpected, Helena, that there will have to be a post-mortem.' Andrew broke the news as gently as he knew how.

‘You're a doctor. You were with her just after it happened. You must have some idea what caused it.'

‘From what Father O'Brien said about Magda complaining of a headache and the suddenness, it's possible she suffered a brain haemorrhage,' Andrew diagnosed. ‘But that is only a possibility. I could be wrong.'

Bethan poured the tea into a cup, sweetened it and handed it to Helena. ‘You must move in with us, darling. Ned will take you down to the flat to get your things.'

‘Thank you, Mrs John, you're very kind, but I should go back. I have things to organise. Mama's funeral …' As Helena said the word funeral, the finality of her mother's death hit her.

Ned saw her lips quiver. He reached for her hand. ‘My mother's right, Helena. You must move in here.'

‘I have too much to do.' Her hand shook, and Ned took the cup from her.

‘You can arrange everything from here. We'll help you as much as we can.' Ned looked to his father for support.

‘You won't be able to arrange the funeral until your mother's body is released after the post-mortem, Helena,' Andrew warned. ‘Bethan is right; you can't stay in the flat by yourself. You're part of this family and your place is here, with Ned and us.'

‘In the meantime there are people who have to be told.' Father O'Brien rose to his feet. ‘Mrs Raschenko and Magda's family in Poland.'

‘I telephoned Alma just after she reached home. She's on her way back here.' Bethan took the empty cup the priest handed her.

‘I wish I could stay, Helena. But I have to deliver the food to the church hall. The women can manage the Sunday school tea without me. I'll be back as soon as I can.'

‘There's no need, Father. I'll be fine,' Helen replied unconvincingly.

‘I'll see you out, Father.' Andrew followed the priest to the door.

‘It's a sad day, Doctor John.' The old man shook his head. ‘I met Magda Janek the week she and Helena came to Pontypridd. Magda wasn't one for complaining, so she didn't say much, but I could tell that she'd had a bad time of it during the war. And although Mrs Raschenko did all she could to help her and Helena, Magda didn't have an easy life, even here. Not with a child to bring up on her own in a strange country, so far from her family. But Magda just got on with things. She was one of the best. We'll miss her at the church, but it's selfish of me to think of anyone besides Helena now she's all on her own.'

‘Helena's not alone, Father.' Andrew opened the door. ‘She's part of our family. She has my son and all of us.'

‘So she does. But I'll be back later to see how she's getting on, if that's all right with you, Doctor John.'

‘You'll be very welcome any time, Father O'Brien.' Bethan joined them in the hall. ‘I heard a car pull up in the drive. I was hoping it would be Alma.'

‘It is.' Andrew walked out to meet her.

‘Mrs Raschenko.' The priest shook Alma's hand. ‘I'll say hello and goodbye, but I'll come back to pay my respects on the loss of your dear friend.'

‘Thank you, Father.' Alma shook the priest's hand and hugged Bethan. ‘Where's Helena?'

‘In the drawing room with Ned.'

‘She's in shock,' Andrew warned.

Alma looked from Andrew to Bethan. ‘As we all are.' She went inside and took off her coat.