‘Where, no doubt, they will be either: 1. Captured and held to ransom by the local rats; 2. Satayed by the warehousemen and sold diced, on peeled sticks, to unsuspecting travellers; or 3. Made into the softest furry hats for those babies born in the three days of fresh breezes they comically refer to as winter …’
We both laughed indulgently at this, veterans of winter that we were. General Winter, Napoleon had called him. I held Mother’s hand. Her fingers tightened around mine.
‘Will we see the sea soon?’ she said.
11
A SISTER WINGFIELD ushered Mother smoothly away. Forty-five minutes, she told me, ‘to give Mother a wash and brush-up, and for Mr Fairchild to see her. Have no fear, Miss Calvert.’ She accompanied me halfway down the corridor, adding, ‘Ladies get more upset when they have family present, so let’s spare her that, hmm? There’s a lovely view from the new garden.’
I walked the length of a laurel hedge, pacing in what I took to be a mature, collected fashion, my hands clasped in front of me. I stood and sniffed the salt in the air, and wondered how I would get the money to wire Edward, and what I’d find to say. That would depend, of course, on the operation tomorrow. Dr Bell had told me that Mr Fairchild would ‘open her up and have a look-see’. What he saw, I gathered, would determine whether or not he would perform further surgery. Dr Bell had made to pat my hand again but I’d removed it hastily from my lap, diving for my handkerchief. ‘So we’ll have to play the waiting game for now, you and I, Miss Calvert. Ha, ha.’
Mother was sitting bolt upright with her legs, shrouded in the sheets, straight out in front of her, her arms by her sides and her hair shockingly loose. ‘All neat and presentable,’ said the nurse. ‘Sister will be along to fill you in, and then you’ll have to start thinking about your bus.’
I sat down beside the bed, and the nurse went out. Mother had her eyes closed, mercifully. Without opening them she said, ‘Oh, I think they gave me something nice in that tea. I do feel awfully woozy.’ A strand of hair fell across her mouth. Rather than lift her hand she blew it away. I reached out and tucked it behind her ear.
Suddenly she opened her eyes. ‘Do you remember Edward and the sherry trifle?’
She talked about this from time to time, how when Edward was four he’d gorged himself on sherry trifle in the kitchen while Cook was cleaning leeks with the tap running and didn’t hear him come in; and how he’d wandered unsteadily through the sun room where she and Daddy were having cocktails, saying, ‘Lay I down, lay I down and don’t bend I,’ before being heartily sick on the steps outside. I was a babe in arms at the time, and often told her so, but she always asked me if I remembered.
I forced myself to smile. ‘Lay I down and don’t bend I.’
But she just blew out another breath.
Sister Wingfield came in and consulted her brooch timepiece. ‘Time for Mother to have a sleep. Mr Fairchild will operate first thing tomorrow and his secretary will telephone Dr Bell during the course of the morning. If you go to the surgery at twelve you’ll be able to speak to him before coming back.’
‘Mayn’t I just come anyway?’ I got to my feet. ‘And not wait for the call?’
The Sister ushered me away from the bed and removed a pillow from behind Mother’s back. She lowered Mother onto the remaining pillow before hooking her arm under Mother’s knees and shifting her down the bed. ‘Ah,’ Mother sighed. ‘That’s comfy. Bye-bye, darling.’
Sister led me to the door. ‘Wait for the call, my dear. Visiting hours are three till five.’
I’d never been alone at the Absaloms before. For a short while after Edward left I feared that if Mother had to stay somewhere else overnight I’d be left among the brambles and nettles and the gaping sink in the kitchen. But I’d been young then. When I got home I put a small fire in and toasted the leftover bread, which I ate with an entire tin of sardines. Afterwards I typed for a while on my cardboard keyboard, leaving fingerprints of fish oil. Then I made tea and had it in bed, where I reread Edward’s letters, followed by Downland Flora. I fell asleep at horseshoe vetch.
At a quarter to twelve the following day I got up from my desk and went to wash my hands. Lucy followed me to the cloakroom. ‘Miss says I can walk you to Dr Bell, if you need the company.’
We met each other’s eyes for the first time that day. Her gaze was currant-dark, unreadable.
‘Why don’t you come with me as far as your turning?’
We set off, our hands in our pockets, through the thin sunshine. There were spats of water shining on the road. Neither of us said anything until we got to the turning, when Lucy spoke. ‘Nan says you’re welcome at ours for your tea tonight. Or tomorrow night, if you prefer.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It’ll be poached egg either way, so take your pick.’ She smiled, and set off, coughing merrily on her way. I never knew anyone so vigorous who did so much coughing. It was as normal to her as breathing. I kept waiting for her to grow, and get pink in her cheeks, but it never happened. She was who she was, it seemed. Small and high-shouldered, sallow in the face, and missing in the teeth, which you would never know if you weren’t familiar with her, because she only let herself grin and guffaw with those nearest to her. I was one of those nearest to her, and I counted it a privilege, because I could not ask for a better friend.
The surgeon shook my hand and kept his friendly, piercing eyes on me as he spoke. ‘We need tea, Sister Wingfield. Tea for all of us, if you please, and a goodly supply of your delicious ginger parkin – what say you, Miss Calvert?’
An orderly came in with a loaded tray. Mr Fairchild and the Sister distributed tea things with medical efficiency. Then the Sister sat down beside me. ‘You must prepare yourself,’ she began in a hollow voice, ‘for some very grave news—’
‘The growth can’t be removed.’ I swallowed. ‘That’s obvious.’
‘Thank you, Sister Wingfield.’ Mr Fairchild lifted his hand. ‘We’re a certain way beyond that, it seems. Yes, indeed. Miss Calvert’s ahead of us here.’
‘How could she …?’ My voice wouldn’t behave; it warbled up the scale. I cleared my throat. ‘How did it get this far?’
‘Well, now.’ Mr Fairchild stirred his tea. ‘This is a very sad matter. A gastric tumour produces no particular distinctive symptoms, do you see. A little indigestion, a little nausea, a little bloating: all everyday ailments, which is quite what your poor dear mother took them for. The cancer spread too far and too fast for me to produce any good result by taking it out. I’m very much afraid it is a case of comfort and solace, in the form of care and strong medicine for her, and for yourself, young lady, the consolation of your good friends in the parish.’
The Sister leaned forward, put a hand on my arm. She began telling me how they would move Mother to the Old Infirmary at Waltham for her ‘last days with us’, a place ‘simple in the extreme’ but one more suited to her needs than our home, and where I could go to visit her whenever I wished. But I wished only that the Sister would shut her mouth. I clamped my knees and teeth together, trying to keep it away from me. But it was in vain. I was in it up to my neck. She’d been clean and young and beautiful and now look at her. Look at us, living in dirt and dreck with Edward gone and a carpet on our bed. Daddy wasn’t mad. He was just a wastrel and coward who had taken a coward’s way out after robbing us. Left us in our coal dust and our filthy worn linen and our dry potatoes. I stood up, and a huge sob escaped me.
‘He’s done for her,’ I cried. ‘He’s killed her at last.’
They stood up too, but I pushed past them and ran down the corridor. ‘Mother!’ I cried. I reached her door before the Sister. The curtains made her bed a battle tent and she a shrunken general. I slapped my own cheeks and screamed.
Sister Wingfield bound me across the chest with a heavy forearm. A nurse came and drew the curtain.
*