My Husband's Wife (28 page)

Some time later, something alerted Rosie and she twitched and shuffled on the bed. She pulled the duvet over her and snuggled in for the night. She was drained and sleep was beckoning; so what if it was a bit early. She smiled drowsily as the scent of apples filled her nostrils. The smell was stronger than usual, almost overpowering, and there was a warm orange glow behind her eyelids. She felt snug, as if she was being hugged.
I can see the sun. No, better than that, I can feel the sun.

She nestled her head into the pillow and suddenly Laurel was standing by her side, calling her name. ‘Rosie!’ Gently at first and then with more urgency. ‘Rosie! Rosie!’

It was amazing and wonderful, and she was filled with joy because this was the first and only time in her whole life that she’d heard her mum’s voice. She sounded like her! Their voices were the same and this made her smile, happy to know they shared something.

Rosie felt calm and filled with love, not just for her mum but also for her children and for all those who loved her. She couldn’t recall names and faces at that precise moment, everything was blurred and jumbled, but it was enough to have her mum close and to be able to see and hear her.

Knowing Laurel was close made her feel calm, quieted any potential panic and filled her with a sense of peace that had been lacking of late. She could let go. Everything was under control. It would all be fine.

Rosie stayed in this comfortable stupor, sinking deeper and deeper into the mattress while that sun burnt brightly. Shades of orange, red and gold leapt behind her eyelids. It was beautiful and warm and she was at peace.

There was a deep, low hum in the room, like the whir of a machine, just loud enough to annoy. And there was an unusual sensation, unfamiliar to her and one that she couldn’t quite identify.

Everything was hazy. She knew she was Rosie but was conscious of little else. Her senses were numbed, her body unresponsive; it was like trying to decipher detail while looking through dense fog.

She opened her eyes a millimetre or two and closed them again immediately. The bright light filtering through her lids caused a pain in her head to flare. Her chest felt sore, her throat more so, and her eyes stung badly, even though they were clamped shut.

‘Where am I?’
she wanted to ask, but instead she emitted an incoherent mumble. Panic rose in her chest as she tried in vain to move her head to the left and right. She swivelled her eyes, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. She wanted to cry out. Then she heard a voice, soft and soothing. A woman came into view.

‘It’s okay, Rosie. Don’t try and talk. Try to relax.’

She didn’t recognise the kindly female voice but took comfort from it nonetheless. At least, wherever she was, she was not alone.

‘There’s no need to worry. Just relax, pet. Go back to sleep. You’re in a safe place. You’re in hospital, but you’re not badly hurt and you’re safe.’

I’m what? In hospital? Why? What happened to me?

And then it hit her: the strange sensation was pain! She was in pain! It was her lungs that hurt the most. She tried to scream, but there was something in her mouth, over her mouth and down her throat. She tried to lift her hand, to gesture, let someone know she needed help, but her arms wouldn’t move. Panic threatened to overwhelm her and in that second the hum faded, her muscles relaxed and the pain subsided as she faded back into morphine-induced oblivion.

*

It was two full days later that Rosie woke up.

The acute spikes of pain had dulled to a general wave of hurting that made her whole body pulse. There was a plastic mask fixed over her nose and mouth. She was able to swallow, but it felt like blood had gathered in her throat and couldn’t be dislodged by saliva alone. Her nose and mouth felt raw and even the lightest breath instantly caused a biting sensation of soreness. She was short of puff, inhaling sharply and frequently, each intake rattly.

‘Hello, Rosie.’ It was a male voice this time.

There was something scratchy on her eyelids that she wanted to rub. Blinking hard, she tried to remove the irritation.

‘Are your eyes sore?’

She nodded.

‘You’ve burnt your eyelashes and they’re a bit stubby, probably scratchy. I can wipe them for you with some damp cotton wool.’

‘Burnt them?’ she managed, her voice hoarse, her mouth and throat tender.

‘Yes.’ The man bent over her, younger than he sounded, maybe thirty, with close-cropped ginger hair and pale skin. He was smiling. ‘There was a fire in your house. You were very, very lucky to get out. But don’t worry, you weren’t badly hurt. The smoke did get to you, though, and a bit of heat. It’s damaged your lungs, but you will get better.’ He sounded certain and this encouraged her. She trusted him.

‘My girls?’ Her heart raced. She had no memory of the events leading up to the fire.

‘They weren’t there. They were with their dad. He’s been in a couple of times to sit with you and someone is phoning him right now to say you are awake.’

She tried to shake her head, didn’t want Phil to be called, but was more preoccupied with the tears she was crying, which were both painful and cathartic at the same time.

She closed her eyes and tried to picture that night. She couldn’t. There was a vague recollection of warmth and... and her mum had been by her side and she had heard her voice! This was her last thought before sleep pulled her under once again.

When she woke, Phil was sitting in the metal chair by her side.

‘Hello.’ He leant forward, his elbows resting on his knees.

She turned her head to the right and stared at him.

‘Girls?’ she managed from beneath the oxygen mask.

‘They’re absolutely fine, worried about you, of course, but I’m taking good care of them.’

She felt her muscles uncoil a little. Her eyes flitted around the room. There were three empty beds, two opposite and one between her and the window in the corner. Each bed was surrounded by a rail from which hung garish green and pink curtains with an abstract pattern. The striplights were suspended on plastic arms, setting them lower in the room than usual.

‘You’ve had a lucky escape. The house didn’t fare too well.’

‘Oh no!’ Her sadness was complete.
My house! Our home! That’s all I’ve got left!

‘Yes, well, we need to talk about that at some time, but not now.’ He gave a small nod.

‘Can we fix it?’ She needed to know, needed that light, no matter how small at the end of the long, dark tunnel.

Phil took a deep breath and rubbed his mouth and chin, a sign to her that he was stressed. ‘It’s not insured, Rosie. We’re not covered. Not for negligence. Not that that helps right now, but it’ll be rebuilt, eventually. Main thing is that you’re okay.’

‘What... happened?’ she croaked.

Phil scratched his eyebrow and licked his lips. ‘You must have lit some candles in the sitting room, put them on the windowsill and left them burning when you went up to bed. They caught the curtains – quite quickly, by all accounts. The next-door neighbours saw the flames, luckily, and broke in from the back and got you. Thank God they were there.’ He shook his head and placed his thumb and forefinger in his eyes, as if he was either tired, angry or distressed, she couldn’t tell which.

It’s all my fault! All my fault! Oh God!

‘Sore.’ She placed her hand to her throat.

He sat up straight. ‘You inhaled a lot of hot smoke and it’s burnt your throat and around your mouth and nose. And you’ve got a bit of blistering on your face.’ He ran his thumb along his own jawline. ‘And on your left arm and shoulder.’

She flexed the gauze-type bandages on her arm. Her skin stung and felt tight.

‘But it could have been so much worse. The doctor says you’re over the hardest bit and that everything is healing nicely. They were worried about infection setting in, as that can be really dangerous, but you’ve come through that. You’ve just got to take it easy and let your body heal.’

‘Where?’ she rasped.

‘What?’ He leant closer.

‘Where will I go?’

‘I spoke to your dad. He’s going to collect you when you’re well enough and you can go and stay with him.’

I don’t want to go there!
She wracked her brain for alternatives and found none. ‘Nay and Leo?’

‘We all have to make economies right now.’ He sighed again. ‘We have to go back to London so that we can work. Glencote said they could attend temporarily until you’re back on your feet. It’s the only way I can look after them and earn money at the same time.’ He looked at the floor.

Rosie’s chest heaved and her tears fell at the prospect, the plan that she was powerless to change. In every sense, she had no voice.

‘Even Mel said she thought it was best under the circumstances.’

She hated the way he threw her friend’s opinion into the mix to bolster his argument. Letting her know that they were in contact. She pictured Mel gingerly treading the white carpets and sipping wine while Andy winked at their good fortune in having friends with such a pad and Phil played lord of the manor.

‘Don’t cry.’ He sounded curt rather than sympathetic. ‘Mum’s going to bring them in to see you. They’re not going to just disappear. I’ve already told you that.’

She turned away from him and cried harder, trying to swallow, trying to ignore the unremitting soreness.

*

Day by day she felt a little better, physically. Her dressings were changed and everyone cooed words of encouragement at how well she was doing. Her rapid breathing had slowed and the cutting pain every time she inhaled had subsided to an ache. Her wheeze was less acute and her chest less rattly.

Mentally, however, she was sinking. Mel had sent a jaunty card with a generic message. Rosie had put it straight in the bin, upset more than angry that her friend hadn’t seen fit to visit and had actually thought a card would do instead.

A surprise had arrived in the form of Mummy von Trapp, whose name, it turned out, was Phillippa. She tiptoed cautiously into her ward one afternoon, crying big fat tears as though they’d been close.

‘I can’t stop thinking about it. I went out to the car to get some bed linen I’d left in the boot and I knew something wasn’t right. Then I saw the colour – bright orange, vivid, scary and already throwing out such heat.’

Like the sun, I thought it was the sun...

‘I banged on the door, but nothing. Then the fire seemed to flare and it was too hot to get in. I called the fire brigade and it felt like an age until they arrived, even though it wasn’t. It was the scariest thing. I ran round to the back and Jack got the ladder and we put it down into your garden from our flat roof at the back, and then up to your bedroom. Jack smashed the window and you were right there on the bed. He thought... he thought you were dead. You weren’t moving.’ She stopped to blot her tears. ‘And just as he was figuring out how to get you out, the fire brigade arrived. They went in from the front top window and they lifted you and handed you to Jack and then another ladder appeared and they got you out.’

‘Thank you.’ Her words were small, inadequate.

Phillippa patted her forearm. ‘I can’t stop thinking about what might have been. It’s a godsend that the girls were away.’

Rosie nodded. The same thought had been playing in her head day and night. ‘What does the house look like?’ she rasped.

‘The roof’s intact, and the outside walls, but when I saw inside...’ She hesitated. ‘There’s quite a bit of damage and I think lots got ruined when they put the fire out, but you have to not worry about that, just concentrate on getting better.’

Rosie nodded again. If only it were that easy. It was her fault they had lost their home, god only knew how they were going to afford the renovations. She couldn’t help but picture Gerri’s luxurious pad. A small part of her wished Mummy von Trapp hadn’t needed to get the bed linen that night and that she had simply been left to disappear. It wouldn’t have been so bad.

*

Today was a big day: her girls were coming to visit. She hoisted herself into a sitting position and practised her smile. It was difficult. The muscles required for grinning were the ones beneath the sorest patches of skin around her nose and mouth.

The noise of their chatter and laughter woke her; it was the sweetest sound she could imagine. The girls fell silent, however, when they arrived at her room. They stood in the open doorway, staring. Each held one of their nan’s hands as they studied her, their legs twisting and their fingers in their mouths, embarrassed, unsure.

‘Well, am I glad to see you!’ She spoke as best she could, but her voice was strained and husky and the effort was painful. Even so, it seemed to do the trick. They slowly came closer, eyeing her suspiciously from top to bottom. She took in their clean clothes and unfamiliar hairstyles. Someone had given them each an elaborate, tight, side braid that fell against one shoulder; it looked complex and professional and certainly wasn’t Phil’s handiwork. She blotted out the image of Gerri touching their beautiful long hair, chatting over their shoulder into a large mirror.

‘Do I look a bit funny?’ she asked Leona, who nodded.

‘Your face looks funny,’ Naomi said. ‘You’ve got scabbies here...’ She dotted her finger around her mouth. ‘And here.’ She did the same around her nose. ‘And your eyes are all puffed up, like you’ve been crying.’

‘I have a bit.’ She looked at Mo. ‘Thank you for bringing them.’

‘Oh, Rosie.’ Mo’s lip trembled and she looked close to tears. She coughed and ushered the girls forward. It was down to her to present a calm and dignified front for the kids. ‘I came in before, but you were sleeping. So I sat with you for a while.’

Rosie was happy to know this, pleased that she had bothered.

‘Wow, that’s an amazing card! Who’s it from?’ Mo nodded at the enormous one-foot-square picture of a kitten.

‘Doug and the girls at the site.’

‘That was kind.’ Mo paused. ‘Kev sends you his best; he’s phoned every day. I told him you were on the mend.’ She pursed her lips as if to stop herself from thinking about the reason for her son’s absence.