Authors: Catrin Collier
Left to his own devices he paced across the hallway. Trying to ignore the overpowering smell of disinfectant, he hesitated below a brass plaque that commemorated the opening of the hospital.
Concerned only for Alma, Trevor had disappeared without a word, and Charlie was uncertain whether he was expected to wait or not.
A clock set high on the wall in front of the window of the closed office ticked on. Five ... ten minutes passed. He shivered, realising he was in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves.
Alma had still been wrapped in his jacket when he had laid her down on the trolley.
The nurse who had greeted Trevor walked back down the corridor, smiled at
Charlie then turned a corner and entered one of the rooms.
He turned his back on the plaque and continued to pace up and down, swinging his arms in an effort to ward off the cold, and, with nothing else to do, he began to think ... and remember ...
‘It was on the point of bursting, but it stayed in one piece until I dropped it in the kidney dish, thank God. So that minimises the risk of infection. Lucky she fainted when she did, and Tony had the sense to send for me.’ Trevor handed Charlie his jacket.
‘Then she is going to be all right?’
‘Thanks to all of you, yes I think so,’ Trevor hazarded cautiously. ’Although it’s early days and the wound may get infected yet. She’ll have to stay in here for at least three weeks, and even then it’ll be a couple more weeks before she’ll be up to doing anything strenuous.’
‘That’s going to hit her hard. I’ve heard money is very tight in that household.’
‘It’s tight everywhere,’ Trevor commented philosophically as he rolled down his cuffs. ‘Want to come with me to see her mother?’
Charlie shook his head. ‘I don’t want to intrude.’
‘Then I’ll drop you off in town. Perhaps you could call into the café and tell them how she’s going. Oh, and you’d better warn Tony that he’s going to have to find a replacement waitress for a month or so, but I wouldn’t mention that until you’re half-way out of the door if I were you. You know what his temper is like.’
‘You really are a terrible patient.’ Tina reached out to the bedside locker and filched a strawberry cream from the box of chocolates she had ostensibly brought for Alma.
‘How can you expect me to lie here doing nothing when there’s no one at home to take care of my mother?’
‘I told you,’ Tina gave a sigh of exasperation as her fingers strayed into the box again. ‘Mrs Lane next door is keeping an eye on her and the house. Not that it needs it,’ she added. ‘Your mother is a marvel at housework. When I saw her scrubbing your kitchen and washhouse floors I would never have guessed she was blind.’
‘You don’t understand. Even if Mam
is
coping at home, I still need to work. The bills won’t stop coming in just because I’m lying here.’ Alma tossed restlessly on the bed.
‘Laura’s seeing to all your bills,’ Tina blurted out thoughtlessly as she studied the illustrations on the inside of the chocolate-box lid.
‘Seeing to them! With what?’
‘Money, I should imagine. I haven’t heard of anyone taking buttons yet.’
‘And how on earth am I supposed to pay her back?’
‘By putting in extra hours at the café when you’re well?’ Tina suggested casually. ’Oh, and by the way, Eddie Powell was asking after you. I think he’s sweet on you.’
Alma wasn’t to be put off by tales of Eddie Powell. ‘I’m fit enough to leave here now...’
‘You most certainly are not.’ Trevor Lewis strode down the centre of the ward, his white doctor’s coat flapping around his lean figure. He smiled and nodded to the occupants of the other beds in the women’s ward as he headed towards Alma. ‘After three weeks of complete bed rest it’ll be as much as you can do to stagger to the bathroom.’
‘I walked there just fine this morning.’
‘I don’t doubt you did, but as it’s only one hour into the first afternoon I’ll talk to you again tonight.’
‘I still don’t see why I can’t go home. I can rest just as well there.’
‘I’ve yet to meet the woman who can rest in her own home without bobbing up and down every five minutes to see to something,’ Trevor replied tactfully. He had visited
Alma’s house several times during the past three weeks, and had seen for himself exactly how bare and comfortless it was. He knew himself precisely what it meant to live out every day fighting a constant shortage of coal and food; and as a doctor, the last thing he was prepared to do was discharge Alma Moore into a cold, hungry home, where she’d be looking for paid work before her operation scar had time to heal. ‘You’re here for at least one more week, Madam, whether you like it, or not.’
Alma’s mouth set in a grim line as she turned her face to the wall. Pity and charity! Since she’d collapsed in the café they greeted her at every turn. She knew from what her mother had told her during her Sunday and Wednesday visits, that she had practically moved in with Betty Lane next door, supposedly ’to help out with the children’. She also knew that Laura Lewis called in every day to check that her mother was all right and had everything she needed.
The kindness of neighbours and friends was proving very hard to take, particularly as she knew it was extremely unlikely she’d ever be able to reciprocate their favours.
‘Laura’ll be here in a minute with your mother.’ Trevor picked up Alma’s chart from the foot of her bed and studied it.
‘See, you can stop worrying, we have everything under control,’ Tina mumbled, her mouth full of chocolate cream.
‘Including the disposal of any sweets that the patient is given?’ Trevor lifted an eyebrow. ‘Did you remember to bring in two boxes, one for yourself and one for Alma?’
Tina stuck a chocolate-coated tongue out at him.
‘Only thinking of your figure, dear sister-in-law,’ he teased.
Alma looked towards the door. Leaning heavily on Laura’s arm, her mother was walking slowly down the central aisle between the beds. Dressed in the second-hand coat, woollen hat, scarf and gloves Alma had given her for Christmas, she was carrying a brown string carrier bag.
‘Here we are, Mrs Moore.’ Laura led Alma’s mother towards the chair Tina had vacated, and lined her up in front of the seat. ‘You can sit here, right next to Alma’s bed.’
Alma reached out and placed her mother’s hand on the edge of the seat; only then did Lena Moore gingerly lower herself.
‘Doctor Lewis tells me you’re feeling better, Alma?’ She felt for the bed and deposited her carrier bag on it.
‘I’m fine.’ Alma forced herself to sound bright and cheerful.
Using Alma’s voice as a guide, Lena leaned forward and fumbled for her daughter’s hand. ‘Are you really?’ she whispered intensely.
‘Of course,’ Alma reassured her, taking her hand.
‘Tina and I have to visit the men’s ward,’ Laura tapped her sister’s arm. ‘Our uncle was brought in last night.’
‘Oh dear, nothing serious I hope.’ Mrs Moore lifted her face in Laura’s direction.
‘He chopped his hand when he was chopping chips in his café last night,’ Tina explained, gathering her coat and handbag from the floor. ‘But it’s all right. My cousin fished his finger out of the fat fryer.’
‘You’ll have to excuse Tina, Mrs Moore,’ Laura apologised, as she kicked her sister’s shin. ‘She has a peculiar sense of humour.’
‘Have you brought him a box of chocolates as well, Tina?’ Trevor replaced Alma’s chart on the rail at the foot of her bed.
‘Of course,’ Tina retorted. ‘See you later, Alma.’
‘I’ll be back before visiting ends to fetch you, Mrs Moore,’ Laura called over her shoulder as they walked away.
‘Thank you,’ Mrs Moore answered as she heard their footsteps echo down the ward. ‘Mrs Lewis is a lovely person, and so kind,’ she enthused as she turned back to Alma. ‘And you really are better, aren’t you? I can hear it in your voice.’
‘I can get out of bed whenever I feel like now.’
‘Don’t forget to take it slowly,’ her mother cautioned. ‘Doctor Lewis told me how ill you’d been. He said that even when you come home you are on no account to work for at least two weeks, and that’s in the house, let alone outside work.’
‘We’ll see how I feel, Mam.’
‘At least two weeks. He warned me of serious consequences if you don’t heed his advice, Alma.’
To Lena Moore the words of ministers and doctors were sacrosanct. Both professions she placed in a social stratum only marginally lower than God.
‘I’d be bored silly at home all day.’ Alma forced a laugh. ‘You know what I’m like Mam; I can’t sit still for a minute.’
‘Well, for once you’re going to have to.’ Her mother opened the carrier bag and lifted out a clean nightdress. ‘Besides, there’s nothing for you to do at home. Mrs Lewis has seen to everything. The rent, the bills, the shopping –she even got that nice young man who works for the foreign butcher in the market –what’s his name?’
‘William Powell,’ Alma said suspiciously.
‘That’s him. She even got him to put a load of coals into the coal-house for me.’
‘And you let him? What did you pay him with?’
‘It’s all right Alma,’ her mother smiled. ‘Mrs Lewis is paying for everything out of the insurance you took out in work in case you got sick. She’s been collecting your full wages. And not just the café wages. It’s twelve shillings, the same as it would be if you’d been able to carry on with both jobs. Although no one from Goldman’s been near the house to ask after you. That’s not very neighbourly of them I must say. You see, you don’t have to worry about a thing. These last two weeks I’ve even been able to put a little aside. By the time you come out we’ll have a few shillings spare. Maybe enough to buy a length of pretty cotton so you can sew yourself a new summer dress.’
Alma lay back on her pillows listening to her mother’s tales of how marvellous everything was at home, and saying little except the odd ‘yes’ or ‘no’. She knew her mother had been worried sick about her. Now, for the first time in almost three weeks, relief was evident in the relaxed lines of Lena Moore’s face and voice.
The last thing she could do was shatter her mother’s illusions.
She’d wondered just how Laura had managed to get her mother to accept charity. Now she knew. Insurance! How would her mother feel if she told her there was no insurance? That there never had been. That even if such a policy existed, she’d never had money enough to spare to subscribe to one.
Bethan hovered at the ‘dining end’ of the one-reception, two-bedroomed flat, or ‘apartment’ as Andrew liked to call it. She checked the table in a desultory, absentminded fashion, straightening knives and forks that were already beautifully regimented, patting the bunch of violets she’d arranged in her smallest, prettiest crystal vase –a wedding present from Laura and Trevor –passing time while she waited, half in anticipation, half in dread, for the sound of Andrew’s key in the door.
She’d taken a great deal of trouble with the table, using the best damask tablecloth that Andrew’s sister Fiona and brother-in-law Alec had given them as a belated wedding present. She’d spent half an hour that afternoon polishing the silver cutlery that Andrew’s parents had sent, along with a fine set of Doulton china, from Harrods. She could accuse them of antagonism towards her, but never meanness.
Fiona, Alec, Laura, Trevor and Andrew’s parents –the only thing on the table she could honestly say was the product of their own taste was the posy she’d bought from the flower seller outside their block of flats.
Andrew wouldn’t have approved of her going downstairs with the baby in her arms. It upset him to think of people looking at the child. One glance in the shawl or under the hood of the pram he’d asked her to keep raised in all weathers would be enough for anyone to see that something was wrong with little Edmund. Even the baby’s name wasn’t right. Before the birth they’d decided if the child was a boy they’d name him Evan after her father, and if it was a girl, Isobel after Andrew’s mother.
But then, before the birth they’d both hoped that the baby would help to heal the rift that had existed between their families ever since she’d run off to London to be with Andrew. Andrew’s parents had never really forgiven her for being a miner’s daughter and six months pregnant with Andrew’s child when they’d married, and her parents had never forgiven Andrew for making her pregnant in the first place.
She wandered into the inner hall and peeped through the open door of the darkened nursery she and Andrew had lavished a great deal of money, time and trouble on before the baby’s birth –and a room Andrew hadn’t entered since the day she’d carried Edmund into it.
The baby lay on his back, eyes closed. She listened hard. His breathing was soft, regular. It sounded so ... so normal. If
only
she hadn’t drunk so much brandy. She was a nurse: she knew full well that alcohol taken in excess in pregnancy leads to complications and birth palsy in infants. And then to go and fall down the stairs of the Graig Hospital in a drunken stupor –and afterwards...
She closed her eyes tightly, gripped the door and swallowed hard. Little Edmund was the way he was because she’d tried to kill him before he even had a chance of life. She had never thought of him as an individual- a living, breathing being in his own right until Andrew had returned to Pontypridd and talked about the baby they were about to have. So much guilt –hers and hers alone –and poor, innocent Edmund was paying the penalty.
How could she forgive herself! Not only for what she’d done to Edmund, but for the pain she’d caused Andrew.
He’d hardly said a word to her beyond the brief exchanges that had to be made since she’d defied him and brought Edmund home from hospital against his express wishes.
He had pleaded with her to leave the child in the nursery at the hospital until he was old enough to go into an institution –if he lived that long.
Perhaps it was the brutal honesty of Andrew’s final remark that decided her, activating the stubborn streak she’d inherited from her grandmother. If Edmund was going to have a short life she owed it to him to make it a happy one. She didn’t need her nurse’s training to see just how frail the baby was. His legs and arms were paralysed.
His oversized head lolled alarmingly on his thin neck.
And worst of all, the only response he made to her ministrations was ceasing to cry when she fed him.
Before she brought Edmund home, before the crushing silence had settled between her and Andrew, he’d tried to talk to her about suitable places for children like Edmund.
He had shown her photographs of institutions that had been set up in converted manor houses with beautiful gardens. But her time in the Graig workhouse had taught her the exact worth of beautiful gardens. Most patients were never allowed to walk in them, or touch the flowers.
The closest they got to the manicured lawns was to look at them through glass windows.
The unwritten rule in the medical world was that inmates of institutions had to be kept indoors, segregated from ‘normal’ people lest the sight of them offend and upset. She recalled the rows of utility iron cots in the depressing, green-painted rooms of J ward in the Graig; the listless babies too used to neglect even to whimper, because they knew that crying wouldn’t bring attention.
She’d tried to make Andrew understand how she felt, taking all the blame squarely on herself, but none of her efforts had lessened his shame at the son they had produced, or his determination to remove all trace of the child from their lives as soon as possible.
She went into the bedroom they shared and glanced at the alarm clock. Not quite seven. She tiptoed back into the hall, and took one last look into the cot before closing the door.
Edmund was generally very good and had begun to sleep through until six in the morning. It was just as well; it irritated Andrew beyond measure when she left their bed to see to him.
Pulling her small, entirely useless, ‘fancy’ lace-trimmed apron tight at the waist, she checked her reflection in the hall mirror. She’d had no trouble in regaining her figure after the baby’s birth. In fact she was probably too thin.
She’d lost all appetite when Andrew had insisted on her taking salts to dry up her milk so Edmund could be bottle-fed.