No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (75 page)

‘There, there, Mrs Miller. Yes, it’ll soon be over now. It seems best to humour her,’ she whispered to Celia.

‘Yes of course.’

‘Lady Celia, are you there? Are you there?’

‘Yes, Sylvia, I’m here—’

‘I want to look after this one. Whatever’s wrong. I don’t want to do that again.’ A silence: then, ‘Don’t tell Ted. Don’t.’

The nurse looked at Celia. ‘Poor thing, what’s she on about?’

‘I – don’t know,’ said Celia quickly. This was becoming a nightmare in more ways than one.

Sylvia was tossing and turning on her pillows: then, ‘Is it all right,’ she said, ‘is she breathing?’

‘She’s fine, Mrs Miller. Fine.’

‘Lady Celia, be quick, quick. Oh God—’

‘Oh Mum,’ Barty looked up at Celia in terror.

Sylvia was biting her fist now, her eyes staring. ‘Do it quickly. Quickly. Before anyone comes in. Poor baby, the poor, poor baby. She’s died now, she’s died—’ She stopped talking, groaned, clutching her stomach. Her pain was obviously extreme.

‘What can we do for her, what can we do?’ said Barty. She started to cry. ‘There must be something.’

‘Nothing, darling. Until the ambulance gets here. It won’t be long.’

‘I’m rather afraid of septicaemia,’ said the nurse under her breath to Celia.

She nodded. ‘I know but—’

‘Oh God,’ Sylvia’s voice was low, very fast. ‘God, dear God, help me, Her poor little legs, all twisted look. Help me, please, please, take the pillow.’

‘Sylvia, hush. Lie still. Everything is all right. Let me sponge you down again! And stop talking, Sylvia, please stop talking.

Her stomach was absolutely iron-hard; the infection was clearly spreading. The nurse took her pulse again. ‘It’s faster,’ she said to Celia, ‘I wish the doctor would come.’

‘I’m sure he won’t be long. It always seems forever when you’re waiting.’ She felt quite frightened herself. Panicky almost.

‘It’s over now,’ said Sylvia suddenly. ‘It’s done. All for the best. All for the best really. She’s gone.’

‘Yes,’ said the nurse gently, ‘yes, it’s all for the best. There there, Mrs Miller. Lie still. Doctor will be here soon. Oh heavens, where is that ambulance?’

‘Where is that ambulance? It must have gone via Scotland—’

‘Coming now. I can hear it. Here, wave your torch. That’s right. Over here.’ The ambulance pulled up; the driver got out.

‘Is this – oh yes. Ah. Right.’

‘Looks bad doesn’t it?’

‘Not too good.’

They had seen it all, Jim and Dot Everett. They had been asleep in their small house on the outskirts of Lewes, when the noise of all the cars woke them. One after another, hooting wildly as they came round the corner and down the hill, enough to wake the dead, Jim said. And then this one had somehow shot across the road, on to the wrong side, hit a lamp-post, spun back on itself and turned right over. Just like that.

‘It was like slow motion,’ said Jim to the policemen who had now arrived. ‘Over on to its back. And then over again. And then sort of drifted into that tree.’

‘Yes. Yes, I see.’ One of the policeman walked over to the ambulance men; they were bent over their stretcher, strapping the body on to it.

‘How bad?’ he said.

‘Not good. Too soon to say for sure.’

‘Any identity?’

‘Can’t find any yet. Might be a wallet or something in the dashboard. Only it’s all folded up. Like a concertina. One of these stupid young people isn’t he? Look at him, dinner jacket and all. What do they call them? Bright young things. None too bright if you ask me. Champagne bottle open on the seat beside him. And this little ring box as well, look. Dear oh dear.’

Dr Perring had diagnosed acute peritonitis; the ambulance had come, and Sylvia had been taken off in it with the nurse. Barty, crying bitterly, stood on the steps in front of the house, with Celia’s arm round her shoulder, waving her mother off. Oliver had awoken, and so had LM; they all went down to the kitchen.

‘I’ll make a cup of tea,’ said Celia.

‘No, you mustn’t,’ said LM, ‘you should be in bed. I’ll do it.’

‘I’m all right.’ She rubbed her eyes wearily. ‘Barty darling, you really must try not to worry too much. Your mother is very strong. And Dr Perring says they will be able to do all sorts of clever things in hospital. She’ll be all right. Truly.’

‘We should have made her go earlier,’ said Barty, wiping her nose on the back of her hand, and then, seeing Celia’s face, ‘sorry, I haven’t got a hanky.’

‘Here,’ said Oliver, ‘take mine. That’s better. No, Aunt Celia’s quite right, they can do wonders in hospital.’

‘Yes, but the doctor wanted her to go this afternon and we – we—’ She started to cry again. ‘Oh, Wol, it was so awful, she was in so much pain, and saying such strange things.’

‘Very strange,’ said Celia quickly, ‘she was delirious, none of it made sense.’

‘It sort of did,’ said Barty, ‘she thought she was having a baby, and first it was alive and then it was dead. It was so horrible.’

‘Poor Sylvia,’ said LM, ‘how dreadful. Didn’t she have a baby that died, Celia? I seem to remember something—’

‘Yes,’ said Celia quickly, ‘yes, she did.’

‘How old was I?’ said Barty.

‘Oh, tiny. About two, not even that.’

‘What happened?’

‘Barty, it’s such a long time ago, I really can’t remember.’

‘Poor, poor Mum,’ said Barty, starting to cry again, ‘I’m so afraid she’ll die.’

‘Barty, she won’t die,’ said Oliver firmly, ‘I’m quite sure she won’t.’

‘I wish I could go to the hospital with her.’

‘Well, you can’t. They wouldn’t let you in. But in the morning, first thing, we’ll telephone, and see when you can visit her. Now what about bed? It’s – goodness gracious me, it’s nearly four o’clock. Celia, come along, my dear. You really should be in bed. You look terrible. As if you’d seen a ghost.’

‘Do I?’ said Celia. She felt she had seen exactly that.

They telephoned the hospital at eight; the news was not good. Mrs Miller had acute peritonitis, a ward sister informed Oliver, her temperature was extremely high and there could be no question of visitors. Beyond that, she offered no information; Dr Perring was more successful.

‘They have inserted a drain into the abdominal cavity, as I rather hoped they would. That’s all that can be done to fight the infection at this stage. The cyst should be removed, but of course while the infection is so acute, surgery is out of the question. She must have been in dreadful pain for months, poor woman. Dear oh dear.’

Later that morning he telephoned again.

‘Between you and me,’ he said to Celia, ‘I don’t think there is very much hope. Septicaemia has set in. I don’t quite know what to think about Barty. Or the other children—’

‘Oh God,’ said Celia, ‘well – Billy works for my mother; he’d have to come up on the train. The others are all in London, as far as I know.’

‘Would Barty know how to contact them?’

‘Oh yes. Poor little girl.’

‘Well – maybe it won’t be necessary. How are you today?’

‘I’m fine. But Barty will want to visit. If only to say goodbye. She’s a very clever child. I couldn’t fool her for long.’

‘No. Well, I think you should be as honest with her as you can. Just tell her her mother’s no better, but that there is room for hope. I’ll be in touch if it’s thought that – well, Barty should be taken to the hospital. And the others . . .’

‘Yes. Please do. Thank you for everything Dr Perring. Once again.’

‘Where on earth is Jack?’ Oliver put his head round LM’s door. It was extraordinary how quickly she had become part of the establishment again. ‘Do you know?’

‘I have no idea, no.’

‘He’s often late, but not this late. I’ve telephoned his flat, he’s not there.’

‘Might his girlfriend know?’

‘Well possibly, but I have no idea where to find her, either.’

‘I’m sure he’ll turn up soon. Is there anything from the Lothian tribe this morning?’

‘No, nothing. So – another day’s breathing space.’

‘Yes. For which much thanks.’

‘Dear oh dear,’ said Howard Shaw to his secretary, ‘is there still nothing from Lyttons?’

‘Nothing, Mr Shaw.’

‘Extraordinarily remiss of them. Well, if they don’t get in touch today, we may be forced into an ex parte hearing. Mr Justice Berryman will not be at all impressed.’

‘No, indeed, Mr Shaw. You did post the letter on Friday, didn’t you?’

‘Of course. It was very urgent, that is why I wanted to do it myself. I told you that.’

‘Yes, of course. Mr Shaw. Shall I phone Briscoe’s?’

‘Certainly not, Angela. If they are so inefficient, or even discourteous as to ignore anything this important, they don’t deserve to have us running round after them.’

‘No, Mr Shaw.’

It was a very beautiful morning: the slightly harsh end of summer just tinged with the softness of autumn. Susannah Bartlett was reading the newspaper in the garden when the postman arrived.

‘Good morning, miss.’

‘Good morning.’ She smiled at him.

She was a pretty girl, he thought. Woman, rather She looked very young for her age. She must be over twenty. Well over. She seemed younger. Of course, living with her parents as she did, and not working much, just doing her translation or whatever it was, she seemed more like a student than anything. So it was natural to think of her that way. He liked her; she was a bit odd of course – the milkman said she was slightly touched, but that was rubbish. His wife, who did for the vicar at St Stephen’s knew the Bartletts’ cleaner and she said it was just the drugs she was on. She had nervous problems; she’d had a bad nervous breakdown while she was at university and she was very highly strung anyway, so she had to be kept quiet. It was a shame, the Bartletts’ cleaner said, because she’d been ever so clever, still was, she translated books from the original Greek and Hebrew and the Lord knew what else, but she couldn’t cope with a proper job. Not in an office and that.

She had wonderful long hair, hanging in a thick plait down her back; he liked to see long hair on a woman, didn’t approve of all this bobbing. Nor the short skirts. Unfeminine, that’s what they were. Funny, when they all thought they looked so attractive in them. He parked his bike, went through the gate and up the short garden path to the front door.

‘You’re late, this morning,’ she said.

‘Yes, I know. It all got held up at the depot.’

‘Got anything for me?’

He flicked through his pile.

‘No, sorry.’

‘Oh dear. I was expecting something. From the translation agency.’

‘What about the one that came the other day?’ he said.

‘I didn’t get a letter the other day. You must be thinking of someone else.’

‘Course I’m not.’ His professional pride was hurt. ‘I always remember who gets letters.’

‘Well – there was one a couple of weeks ago.’

‘No,’ he said, ‘no, Friday it was. I remember, because I had hardly any for this whole row of houses that morning, I don’t like that. Doesn’t feel right. None in the second post, either. So I noticed yours. And there was one for your mum and dad as well. Someone’s still writing letters, I thought. Thank goodness for that.’

‘Oh, I see.’ She looked rather tense suddenly.

Oh Lord. Now he’d done it. Upset her. Maybe the drugs affected her memory. They were funny things, drugs were.

‘Maybe I’m mistaken,’ he said quickly, ‘maybe it wasn’t Friday.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said. She managed a smile. ‘We all make mistakes. I certainly do.’

She went into the house.

‘Mother! Mother where are you?’

‘In the kitchen, dear.’

Susannah went into the kitchen; her mother was standing at the sink with her back to her, wringing out some washing.

‘Mother, was there a letter for me on Friday?’

She saw her mother’s back tense, watched her hands go still. ‘I’m – not sure, dear. Maybe.’

‘Was there?’ she heard her voice shake; damn. Keep calm, keep calm.

‘Now, Susannah.’ Mrs Bartlett’s face was anxious, her voice carefully soothing, ‘You mustn’t get upset.’

‘I won’t get upset, Mother. If you give me my letter.’

‘But I don’t know what letter you mean. You get so many.’

‘I get very few. And one came on Friday, and I think you didn’t give it to me for some reason. Please give it to me now.’

‘I’ll – I’ll have to ask your father about it. He’d know where it was. If there was one.’

‘But he’s at work. Please be kind enough to have a look through the desk. Or I will.’

She felt herself getting hot; she took several deep breaths.

‘No, no, dear. I’ll go. You sit down there.’

‘I’ll come with you. Help you.’

That was better; she felt calmer already.

She watched her mother going through the desk, carefully and methodically. There didn’t seem to be anything there.

‘Upstairs? In his wardrobe?’

‘I don’t think so, dear. But we can have a look, if you like.’

‘Yes, I would like.’

No letter.

‘I’m really not sure there was one, dear.’

Susannah felt her temper rising.

‘Mother, please don’t lie to me. I may be a depressive; I may be on permanent medication, but I am not a fool. Clearly there was a letter and you’ve chosen to keep it from me. Why?’

‘Well—’

‘Mother, if you don’t tell me, I shall allow myself to get upset. All right? I’m trying very hard at the moment but I could – let go. So—’

‘We thought the letter would upset you, dear.’

‘You thought so. Why?’

‘It was from a young man who wanted to talk to you About your time at Cambridge. He’s a journalist.’

‘Well, what’s wrong with that? I’d rather like that, I—’

‘Professor Lothian didn’t want you to talk to him.’

‘Professor Lothian! Why on earth not, why should he care?’ But – she knew. So did her mother.

‘Now you can imagine why, dear. Although how he knew about it, I really don’t know. Anyway, that’s why we thought it best to – well leave it for a while. You haven’t been very well lately and—’