Time to Say Goodbye (42 page)

She felt the mask over her face, the sweetish smell of the anaesthetic, a hand gripping her arm, subdued voices . . . then silence, darkness, and a desolation greater than she had ever imagined.

She came round dizzily, to find herself in a high hospital bed, with Will holding her hand whilst tears chased themselves down his cheeks. She ached all over, and a questing hand at her stomach found a dressing of some description. What did it mean? She had a vague memory of having had an accident but she was pretty sure her injuries had been to the head, so why should the dressing be on her stomach? It took a long while to turn her head so that she might look into Will’s eyes. ‘What happened?’ she whispered. ‘I banged my head – I remember that – but I don’t remember . . . oh my God, my God, my God! Was it Tom Tiddler? Oh, Will, I can’t
remember
.’

‘Better not think about it,’ Will said huskily. ‘It’s all over; all you’ve got to do now is to get yourself fit and strong again. As soon as you’re well enough, we’ll go back to the cottage. Once you’re there, you’ll remember everything. I’ve rung them at work and explained what’s happened, so I’ll be staying at home to look after you . . .’

By now, Imogen had summoned up enough strength to look about her. She was in a smallish room, with five other beds in which reposed five other women, and at the end of each bed was a cot. She peered at the end of her own bed. No cot.

She was about to panic, then remembered that her ordeal had only just happened; these other women had probably given birth to their babies days, possibly even weeks, before. But when she looked into Will’s eyes, she read a terrible message there.

Very, very slowly, she withdrew one hand from under the covers. It was white and feeble; not at all like her own hand. Will, seeing her holding it out towards him, took it in his and bent his head to catch her whisper. ‘Tom Tiddler? Is he . . . was he . . . there was a nice man who said everything would be all right. Was he telling me the truth?’

There was a long, long pause and then Will put his arms round her. ‘Just as soon as you’re well enough we’ll make ourselves another Tom Tiddler,’ he said. ‘But oh, my darling, our first little fellow didn’t make it. He’s – he’s gone to Jesus, sweetheart.’

Imogen stared at him for an unbelieving moment and then she gave a great gulping, tearing sob and buried her head in her pillow. ‘Go away,’ she cried. ‘If it hadn’t been for . . . if you’d thought before . . . oh God, if only, if only . . .’

Chapter Fourteen

IMOGEN REMAINED IN
hospital until almost the end of February. The hospital was a small one, and though at first she had begged to be moved to a ward where she did not have to see other women nursing their babies the sister had told her, not unkindly, that she must not be so over-sensitive. ‘This is a maternity hospital, so we have no other wards, and Mr Ramsden, who did the Caesarean section, wants to keep you under his eye,’ she explained. ‘At least two of the women in Room 3 lost their first baby and will tell you that their second child soon followed, though we do advise a six-month wait before trying again. Try to be patient, Mrs Carpenter, and remember how fortunate you have been. You were involved in a very nasty car accident and your head hit the windscreen with enough force to cause you to lose consciousness, yet because of the prompt action taken by the doctor in charge you will scarcely be scarred at all, and if you wear your hair in a fringe for a few months . . .’

Imogen sighed. ‘I’m not ungrateful, I just want to get home,’ she said. ‘I’m sure I’d get well quicker if I were at home. Most of the other women are discharged after a week or so . . .’

‘They’re the ones who have a friend or relative who can move into the house until the patient is well enough to be left on her own,’ Sister explained. ‘Your husband told us your mother died soon after the war, and anyway you’ve had a Caesarean section, so your wound needs time to heal. But Mr Ramsden will be doing his rounds today and perhaps he will agree that you should go into a convalescent home until you have fully recovered.’

‘Thank you,’ Imogen said. ‘When my husband visits this evening I’ll ask him to bring me some clothes.’

‘We’ll see,’ Sister said, and patted Imogen’s shoulder as the younger woman smiled tentatively up at her. ‘It’s nice to see you smile, Mrs Carpenter. The convalescent home is by the sea, so you should begin to recover your spirits as well as your strength.’

That evening when Will visited the hospital, he asked Sister why Imogen could not come straight home. ‘She’s had major surgery, Mr Carpenter,’ Sister explained, ‘and must not lift or carry heavy objects for a considerable while. Furthermore, you’ve told us your work takes you daily to London, so a few weeks in our convalescent home, being brought gradually back to normal health, can do your wife nothing but good.’

Will had expected Imogen to object, but she did not do so. The home was a long way from Farthing Cottage, but he told her that he would visit at least twice a week. ‘The Rover’s been mended and is as good as it ever was,’ he told her bracingly. ‘So no fear that I won’t arrive on the dot when you get your discharge.

A few weeks later, Will took time off work and arrived at the home with a suitcase containing the clothes for which Imogen had longed. He had taken the greatest care in the selection: a blue cardigan, a pretty white blouse and a smart navy skirt which had seen better days but he knew Imogen loved, though the staff at the home had reminded him tactfully that Mrs Carpenter’s wound, albeit healing beautifully, would be best without the pressure of tight garments.

When he entered the dormitory which Imogen had shared with three other women he was telling himself that now everything would be all right. Imogen had blamed him bitterly for the accident, blamed him for the death of the baby, though she had never said a word about the scars across her forehead where she had hit the windscreen. But surely, now that she was becoming her old self again – or he hoped she was – she would accept that he was no more guilty than she was herself. She had punched his shoulder, though only in fun, seconds before that damned cat had run out in front of him. He had borne the responsibility, explained that he’d have slammed his foot on the brake the moment he saw the movement of anything heading across the road. He had told her that it might have been a child, and then regretted the words as he saw her big, dark blue eyes fill with tears.

He put the case down on Imogen’s bed and kissed her, feeling her immediately go stiff with rejection. He tried not to mind, but it was hard when all he wanted to do was hold her in his arms and regain the loving trust they had always shared, even if it meant accepting responsibility for something which, he knew, was in no way his fault.

‘Will! You’ve brought my clothes? What a silly thing to say – you’re scarcely likely to bring anyone else’s.’ Imogen clicked the case open, pouncing on the contents and snuggling clothing against her cheek. ‘My favourite things; aren’t you clever?’ She stood up to draw the curtains around the bed. ‘Go and wait for me in the day room. I can dress in a trice,’ she lowered her voice to a confidential whisper, ‘if it means getting away from here.’

Will was halfway out of the curtains when he stopped to look over his shoulder. ‘Why can’t I stay and help you with buttons and things?’ he said, almost shyly. ‘I am your husband, after all.’

He had not meant to sound hurt, but somehow that was how it came out, and when he looked at Imogen’s face he knew he had said the wrong thing. She gave him a cool and antagonistic look whose meaning he could not fail to interpret and he slunk out of the day room, glad that there were no other patients to see his humiliation. He told himself that it had been his tactlessness which had annoyed her. Once she was out of here, all would be well.

‘Well, darling, as you can see, I haven’t wasted my time during your absence. What do you think?’ Will had driven the car between the brand new wooden gates and parked it on a patch of ground which had once been home to an ancient chicken-house and was now converted into a small gravelled sweep, just wide enough to turn the car.

Imogen had been very quiet on the drive home but now she began to look about her. ‘New paint,’ she said. ‘I like the green front door, only I thought we’d agreed that it should be yellow.’

‘Yes, I know, but green paint was all I could get, and do you know I believe I prefer it to yellow anyway? It’s such an old building . . .’

‘You’ve dug the garden.’ It was a statement, not a question. ‘I suppose you’ll plant spuds; isn’t that what you said was best for the land?’

‘That’s right,’ Will said eagerly. So she had been listening after all when, during visiting, he had tried to tell her how he was employing his time. ‘I know you can’t see it from here, but old Geoff Barnett, the thatcher who lives in the village, has done some patching and he’s made a reed bird to stand on the ridge of the roof. I should have pointed it out as we came round the bend, but I forgot you’d not seen it before. What do you think?’

There was a long pause and Will, anxious that everything should go well, got hastily out of the car and went round to the passenger side. He tried to help Imogen out of the car, but she stepped past him and moved back to admire the reed pheasant on the ridge. He waited for her comment, but she did not speak, so he inserted the key in the lock and pushed open the front door, then stood aside. ‘Come into the lovely warmth of your newly decorated parlour,’ he said. ‘Did you like the pheasant? I think it’s a work of art.’

‘It’s very nice,’ Imogen said in a small, flat voice. She looked around the living room, into which the front door opened directly. ‘I like the pictures; where did you get them?’

Will smiled. ‘Oh, from the local auction. They’re only prints; I got them quite cheap. But come into the kitchen. It’s my
pièce de résistance
.’

They walked across the room and through the door into the kitchen, and Imogen saw that the old cooking range had been replaced by a more modern version. For the first time since they had left the hospital, she gave him a tiny smile. ‘Oh, it’s a Rayburn. I’ve always wanted one of these. Did it cost a great deal of money? Only I never could get the temperature right on the old range.’

‘It actually cost more to install than to buy, even though I did most of the work myself,’ Will admitted. He pulled a chair out and would have helped Imogen to sit down, but she shook her head.

‘I’m not an invalid, and as the locals at the Linnet used to say I in’t made of icing sugar, neither, so let me get on with things at my own speed.’

‘Sorry. But after all, pet, you were in the convalescent home only a couple of hours ago,’ Will said. ‘I’ve a meal in the oven. It’s nothing special; just a couple of baking potatoes – can’t you smell them? – and a bought pie, because as you know I’m no hand at cooking. I don’t want to leave it too long, but if you want to see the rest of the cottage first . . .’

‘I don’t; want to see the rest of the cottage I mean,’ Imogen said quickly. ‘Did you bring my case in? . . . Then while you fetch it I’ll lay the table.’

Presently they settled down to eat the meal Will had prepared, though he noticed that Imogen ate little more than a few mouthfuls. They had told him at the home to ‘feed her up’, but he thought that nagging her wouldn’t help. She had been very active before the accident, and he imagined that was what had given her such a good appetite; perhaps now that she was home again it would gradually return. So when he cleared the plates away he made no comment, merely saying that he could tell she must be tired. ‘You go upstairs and get ready for bed,’ he suggested. ‘I’ll deal with the pots, and follow you when I’ve closed down for the night.’

Imogen was still sitting at the table, though she had pushed her chair back, but now she stood up and faced him, pale but determined. ‘I’m not going upstairs; please don’t try to make me. It’s – it’s too soon. I’m going to sleep on the sofa in the living room tonight.’

Will stared at her, knowing his astonished pain must show on his face. ‘But you won’t need to look at . . . I mean, you can go straight to our room,’ he said. ‘I’ve cleared the second one. Look, I had a plumber round to give me a quote for turning it into a bathroom . . . I thought you might prefer it . . .’

He stopped speaking; Imogen was shaking her head and there was a mulishness about her mouth with which he had become painfully familiar since the accident. ‘It’s too soon. Don’t you realise, every room in this house, every inch of the garden, makes me remember our plans for Tom Tiddler. I thought it was the same for you, but I can tell I was wrong. You’ve put him out of your mind and you expect me to do the same. Well, maybe I’ll be able to forget him eventually – after all, I only saw him for a second before they took him away – but for the time being his little spirit . . .’

Tears welled up and Will tried to take her in his arms, but she repulsed him. ‘Don’t touch me!’ she said sharply. And then, as he stepped back, it seemed that for one moment she softened. ‘Will, I’m sorry, but that’s how I feel at the moment. I hope it will pass, but until it does . . . oh, can’t you see? He – he was like you to look at, not in the least like me. Every time I look at you, I see his little face . . .’

Her voice became choked with tears and Will took her unresisting hand and kissed the palm. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. Now I understand how you feel I’ll do my best to respect your wishes. But Immy, as soon as you feel able . . .’

‘Of course,’ Imogen said, and a tiny, wintry smile flickered across her face for an instant. ‘When you fetch a blanket and a pillow, perhaps you could bring my suitcase down. I’ll need my nightie, my slippers and my wash bag, so if you wouldn’t mind . . .’

‘I’ll do whatever you want, whatever will help you to get well again,’ Will said, but this, apparently, was the wrong thing to say.

The gentler look left his wife’s face and a frown etched itself between her soft, winged brows. ‘I’m not an invalid,’ she reminded him crossly. ‘Don’t treat me like a child . . .’

It was too much for both of them. Imogen flung herself on the sofa and buried her head in the cushions, racked with sobs, whilst Will stood helpless, not daring to touch her, as tears trickled down his cheeks.