Spoils of War (8 page)

‘And her head injury?’

‘There were bone and glass splinters in the wound. We’ve cleaned it out and repaired her skull as best we can. But I wouldn’t even like to hazard a guess as to the damage. You know the options as well as I do: epilepsy, loss of the ability to reason, damage to memory or even, as my co-surgeon so cheerfully predicted, total insanity. And that’s without the lesser disorders of single or double incontinence, loss of speech, limb co-ordination …’

‘I get the picture.’

‘I’m sorry, Beth. I’m as fond of Diana as you are.’

‘But you do think she’ll live?’

‘If she doesn’t get pneumonia or have a fit between now and tomorrow morning she stands a chance, but whether or not she’ll be grateful that she’s survived is another thing. How’s Ronnie?’

‘Heavily sedated. The only way we could calm him was for me to give him an injection.’

‘I wouldn’t have left you with him if I’d known he was that bad.’

‘There wasn’t time for you to think of Ronnie, only Diana.’

‘I’d like to know exactly what happened in the house before we got there tonight.’

‘I’m sure it’s not what it looks like.’ She poured out two cups of tea, added milk and handed him one.

‘And what do you think it looks like?’ he asked, mystified by her train of thought.

‘I heard two porters talking when we brought Ronnie in. They were already gossiping about a domestic in Graig Street.
“Returning soldier catches wife in bed with other man then tries to kill her.”
You know how people love to make up stories.’

‘Unfortunately.’

‘But I refuse to believe it of Diana – or Ronnie.’

‘The thought of Diana having an affair never crossed my mind. But then, you and I know Diana and Ronnie. Try not to think about it, or let the gossip upset you until we find out the facts. I’ve told the recovery room sister to call me if there’s any change in Diana’s condition, and no doubt the ward sister will inform me when Ronnie wakes.’ Lifting his legs down he pushed his empty cup back on to the tray and reached for his cigarettes. ‘So, why don’t you go home, Bethan? The children –’

‘Will be fine with Nessie. Tomorrow’s Sunday so she doesn’t even have to get them ready for school.’

‘You’re determined to stay.’

‘You know Diana’s the closest I have to a sister now, and I still think of Ronnie as my brother-in-law even though Maud is dead. He’s never forgotten it or that he’s Rachel and Eddie’s uncle. I can’t leave either of them when they might need me.’

‘Then we’re both in for a long night. What do you suggest? A game of snap to take our minds off things we can’t do anything about?’

‘Anything you want,’ she replied carelessly. ‘You haven’t said a word about Charlie or why Huw sent for you earlier before talking to him.’

‘I think it’s something Alma should tell you – if she wants to.’

‘Is it bad news?’

‘It could be,’ he replied irritatingly, but she refused to take his bait.

‘I know Alma’s desperately worried about Charlie.’

‘I’m worried about Charlie. I’m thinking of sending him to a specialist.’

‘You said he was making a good recovery.’

‘He was for the first couple of months after he came home.’ Flicking his lighter Andrew lit a cigarette and pulled on it, wondering why it was so much easier to talk to his wife about other people’s problems than their own. ‘He’s slipped back.’

‘Could it be his stomach? He doesn’t seem to be putting on weight.’

‘Only because he’s not eating enough.’

‘He admitted that?’

‘Alma told me the last time I talked to her. Do me a favour, Beth. Call in on her tomorrow when the children are in Sunday School.’

‘I don’t need you to tell me to call in on Alma.’

‘I didn’t mean that the way it sounded …’

‘But as I have nothing else to do …’

‘You said you didn’t mind giving up work.’

‘I agreed to move over and make room for a demobbed single nurse to take my post as district nurse. That’s not quite the same thing.’

‘So, you resent staying home and looking after Eddie, Rachel and me?’

‘Don’t put words into my mouth, Andrew.’

‘But you don’t want to stay at home? I don’t even know why I’m asking, the fact that you’re here now, says it all.’

‘Put it this way, I’ve never been much of a housewife, and with a live-in maid and both the children in school I have some free time that could be put to better use.’

‘You may have to take over Billy and Catrina.’

‘I doubt Auntie Megan will let me do that and she’ll be back the minute she finds out about this.’

‘There’s always voluntary work.’

‘Join the middle-aged, middle-class Mrs Llewellyn-Joneses of this world in “good works”, ministering to the “deserving poor” and running fetes and bazaars. No thank you.’

‘If you’d remained a district nurse I would never see you.’

‘Like I hardly ever see you.’ She couldn’t resist the gibe, but that didn’t stop her from regretting it the moment it was out of her mouth.

‘I’m glad I finally met the famous David Ford,’ he said evenly, deliberately changing the subject.

‘And was he what you expected?’

‘He didn’t quite fit the mental image. I’d heard he was good-looking but I didn’t expect someone so young. All I can say is, if he’s typical, American brass is cut from a very different cloth to British. He’s also surprisingly direct for an officer. He told me I have quite a family.’

‘He was very fond of all the children, the evacuees as well as ours.’ She listened hard but the corridor outside the office was deathly still.

‘And you.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘As a friend,’ Bethan countered.

Andrew knew he should leave it there but some devil prompted him to take it further. ‘Close friend.’

‘I told you, Andrew, he helped all of us with our problems not to mention extra rations he and Dino –’

‘Were here and I wasn’t.’ He didn’t attempt to conceal his bitterness.

‘We’ve been over this a dozen times. You told me you didn’t believe the gossip about David and me. If something’s happened to make you change your mind, why don’t you just come right out and say it?’

He almost shouted,
‘I want to believe you but I can’t because I’m insanely jealous.’
‘He seems a nice bloke,’ he finished lamely.

‘He is,’ Bethan agreed shortly. ‘And I’m fond of him in the same way I am of my brother Haydn.’ Daring Andrew to say more, she continued to watch him as he squashed his cigarette end into the ashtray on the sister’s desk.

‘Dr John?’ A staff nurse knocked on the open door. ‘Sister’s asking if you could take a look at Mrs Ronconi.’

‘I’m there.’

More concerned with what had been left unsaid than said about David Ford, Bethan reached into her pocket for her own cigarettes.

Too terrified to think of what was happening to Diana, she tried to concentrate on what Andrew had said. It wasn’t his fault that she’d been coerced into giving up her job – and it did make sense for the time-consuming post to be filled by a single woman rather than a married one with two small children. But sense couldn’t alleviate her boredom, nor dull the growing conviction that nothing she did mattered and could probably be done – and better – by anyone of a number of other people. She was a good nurse, and she wanted to nurse, yet Andrew had almost sneered at her for staying with Ronnie tonight. What did he want her to do, mark time – until – when?

She hated to acknowledge it, even in her private thoughts, but there had been an edge and excitement to wartime living that she missed. Never knowing when she might be called on to deputise for the doctors as the stretched medical services were put under even more strain. Organising get-togethers and scratch meals from practically nothing for family and friends at short, and often no notice, to celebrate allied victories and unexpected leaves. Waiting for news from the various fronts along with everyone else in the town and being swept up in the universal elation when it was good …

‘Bethan.’

She looked up to see Huw Davies, helmet in hand, standing in the doorway.

‘I’m sorry, there’s no real news. I would have telephoned if there had been. All I can tell you is that Diana has survived an operation and Andrew’s with her now.’

‘I was just passing.’

‘And they let you in. Come in, sit down. I might be able to rustle up some fresh tea.’

‘No thanks, love. I only wanted to know how Diana is. I saw the open wound on her head …’

‘It’s far too soon to know if there’ll be any permanent damage.’

‘And Ronnie?’

‘Still out for the count, which is probably my fault. I think I got carried away and gave him too much.’

‘He needed too much the way he was thrashing around.’

‘Have you any idea what happened?’

‘We picked up Tony Ronconi, drunk, in Leyshon Street. He only had on a pair of trousers, nothing else, not even underpants, and he was gabbling about killing Diana.’

‘Tony! I don’t believe it …’ she faltered. It was an open secret in the family that Diana’s eldest son, Billy, hadn’t been fathered by her first husband, Wyn, but was the result of a fleeting and disastrous liaison with Ronnie’s younger brother that had ended when Tony had left to join the army. A full two years before Ronnie had returned from Italy and fallen in love with the newly widowed Diana.

‘Mrs Evans saw Tony go into Diana’s house tonight.’

‘He didn’t go in invited, Huw. Diana would never –’

‘I know that and you know that, love, but it’s the rest of the world I’m concerned about. You know what the Graig is for gossip. And that’s why I think I’ll stay here until Ronnie comes round. The sooner I know what really happened in that house tonight, the sooner I can nip any nastiness in the bud.’

*……*……*

Tony was sitting at the table in the single room, which was all Gabrielle’s mother had been able to rent after fleeing from East Prussia to Celle just ahead of the invading Russian Army. Originally a bedroom, the room now did service as kitchen, bathroom and living room in addition to its original function; but as Gabrielle’s mother was so fond of reminding her daughter,
‘we might be reduced in circumstances but we are still von Stettins and – as such – have standards.’

A makeshift curtain in front of a shallow alcove hid the buckets and bowls they used for washing, along with their towels, flannels and water pitcher. A scarred, rickety old cupboard fit only for firewood, with broken doors and drawers that no one could open, held the battered pots and pans which the Red Cross had given them as their share of the refugee charity handouts. Their few clothes were housed in cardboard boxes but everything was spotlessly clean and there were still a few touches of elegance and style to remind them and their visitors of lost splendour.

The table in the centre of the room was always draped with a hand-embroidered linen cloth – and never the same one two days running. The rug covering the stained floorboards was handmade Bokhara. At mealtimes the silverware and porcelain were antique heirlooms, part of a small hoard of family treasure Gabrielle’s mother had consigned to bunkers deep in the Hartz mountains for safekeeping, ‘just in case’ the war got too close to the home she always referred to as Schloss von Stettin. The single German phrase she had taken care to translate to ‘Castle von Stettin’ for Tony’s benefit, to let him know exactly
‘who’
he – a pathetic unworthy sergeant – was daring to court in her daughter.

‘More coffee, Tony?’ Grafin von Stettin’s voice, soft, silvery, reverberated towards him, making him feel even more ill at ease. The Grafin’s formal manners invariably made him feel like a great, clumsy oaf. Try as he may, he couldn’t get used to balancing on worm-eaten chairs or sipping acorn coffee from wide, shallow Continental coffee cups, before a table laid with delicate porcelain that he was terrified of breaking.

‘No, thank you, Grafin.’

He looked to Gabrielle, cool, beautiful, desirable, and a graphic image of her naked sprang, unbidden to his mind. Her breasts, perfect, pale globes tipped with rosy pink nipples, the gentle curve of her rounded thighs, the dark triangle between her legs – then, suddenly, he realised the Grafin was reading his thoughts. Blood rushed to his face – he fought to loosen his collar – a voice interrupted. A voice that had travelled over a great distance and one that had no place in this bizarre room with its broken furniture and relics of a more leisurely and opulent lifestyle.

‘Could fry eggs on his head.’

‘Silly bugger, sitting out half-naked in the street at night. Serve him right.’

‘We should send for the doctor.’

‘He’s been sent for.’

‘He’s not bloody well here, is he?’

Someone heaped heavy things over him – his body – his face. He felt as though he were being smothered. He fought to reach Gabrielle sitting across from him at the table but every time he took a step forward she floated backwards. He continued to struggle but it was futile – he simply couldn’t get to her. She was slipping and fading away before his eyes and he was powerless to stop it. Then suddenly she wasn’t Gabrielle at all, but Diana. Pale, beautiful, standing at the foot of the stairs in Graig Street in her bottle-green robe. She smiled and held out her hand to him. He went to take it, then screamed. From the crown of her head to her feet she was bathed in blood. Thick, crimson blood that welled constantly from a hole in her skull and still she continued to hold out her hand – and smile.

*……*……*

Alma laid her book on the bedside cabinet and checked the clock. She’d read a dozen pages in the last half-hour without a single word registering. And it had been a full hour since she’d last heard Charlie pacing around the living room, and he still hadn’t come to bed. Switching off the lamp she lay back on the pillows and closed her eyes.

The first image that came to mind was Charlie’s face as he’d said,
‘It might be better for you and Theo if I move out.’

 
Better! How could it possibly be better? Did he really believe that after all the misery of their three-year separation it would be better for them to live apart now? Didn’t he realise that when it came to him and Theo she had no pride, no regard for gossips, or even the law? If a position as mistress was all he was able to offer her, then she would accept it – and to hell with gossip and convention. She wanted
him –
no one else – and if he could only give her a part of himself then that part was better than the whole of any other man.