by Laura Wilson
‘She is. She said she was coming here. She told me. I think she’s in the kitchen.’
‘Well, she’s not there now,’ lied Dacre. ‘No-one is. I’ve looked.’
‘She’s probably just gone outside. We’ll go in there and wait till she comes back.’
‘Wait!’ Dacre grabbed the woman’s wrist. ‘It’s not safe,’ he whispered. ‘There’s others around – more of them – they might be expecting us.’
‘They don’t know I’m here. And I’ve got this.’ She shook him off, took out the parcel and began to unwrap it. Dacre stared – it was a carving knife. ‘It’s hers. I took it from her kitchen.’
‘Stop! No—’ As he raised his hand to take hold of her arm once more, she slashed at him, a movement so swift he didn’t register it properly until he felt a stinging pain and saw a line of blood appear across his knuckles.
Seeing the blood, Mrs Ingram backed away from him, holding the knife out in front of her. ‘If you’re one of them…’ Her eyes glittered. ‘If you are…’
Dacre shook his head frantically, and put his hands up in a gesture of surrender. ‘No…I just think it may not be safe…not yet…’
They stared at each other for a second, panting slightly, then turned, in unison, towards the door as footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. Mrs Ingram shoved the knife back inside her coat, and, in an instinctively feminine gesture that made her seem even more deranged than before, reached up to adjust her wonky hair. For a moment, they stood side by side, erect and tense, like soldiers awaiting inspection by a general.
The doors swung open, framing the big policeman, and, in that instant, Mrs Ingram swung round and ran for the doors at the opposite end of the room. ‘Wait!’ shouted Dacre, vainly, rushing after her. Two steps later, he felt himself hit in the back by a heavy weight which sent him sprawling to the floor. ‘Stop her!’ he shouted. ‘You’ve got to stop her!’
Sixty
The washing-up water was greasy and cooling rapidly. Lifting out the last of the plates, Jenny decided she’d better boil the kettle before she tackled any more of the dirty crocks on the table. Every time she looked there seemed to be more cups and dishes, although she knew this couldn’t be possible because Mrs Haskins had brought them all through before she’d left for the evening. It’s because I’m tired, she thought, wiping her hands. They were so rough and red nowadays – last winter, the skin on her fingertips had split painfully, and her wedding ring had actually begun to chafe. She hadn’t taken it off, though. She never had, ever since they’d got married. Staring ruefully at her hands she thought, They look as if they belong to an old woman. A pair of decent gloves would help – her last pair of cotton ones were almost beyond saving. Where on earth would they get baby clothes? she wondered. She’d given Monica and Peter’s away long ago, and the crib. They’d give you extra coupons, she thought, but how far would they go…? The memory of Monica and Peter’s baby clothes suddenly made her smile. So small it scarcely seemed possible they were for a living breathing baby, not a doll. Unbidden, her hands went to circle her stomach.
Shaking her head at her own sentimentality she set the kettle on to boil and scraped the few scraps left on the plates into an enamel bowl, ready to take outside to the pig bin. Looking at the squalid leftover crusts and bits of cabbage, she found herself thinking longingly, as she did very often, of the wonderful Sunday teas they’d had before the war: tins of salmon, watercress, white bread, jam tarts and a big fruit cake…Catching herself, she thought that if anyone had told her that, at thirty-four, she’d find herself daydreaming of food as she’d once dreamt of romance, she’d have told them they were barmy, but there it was.
How marvellous it would be to go into a shop and get anything you fancied – money permitting, of course – with plenty to go round! And nice material to make frocks for her and Monica, and some more hand lotion, and eau de Cologne – there was only half an inch left in her little bottle of Coty, now…Pete needed new clothes too, he was growing so fast…He’d be like Ted when he grew up, she thought, tall and broad-shouldered. Amazing when he’d been such a tiny baby, only five pounds when he was born.
She transferred some more plates to the sink and stood back, wiping wisps of hair off her forehead with the back of her hand. At least she and Doris had come to a decision about Mrs Ingram. They’d speak to Dr Makepeace about finding somewhere for her to go. Then, when that was sorted out, she’d tell Ted about the baby. They’d manage somehow…There was a crash from somewhere down the corridor, and the sound of running. Jenny sighed. So much for no emergencies and getting off home – it was probably just children messing about, but most of the other helpers had already left, so she really ought to check. She turned off the gas under the kettle, and went towards the door. The footsteps were louder now, and she could hear shouting somewhere in the background, though not the words. Honestly, kids were so out of control these days, especially—the door flew open, crashing against the wall.
‘Mrs Ingram! Are you all right?’
Mrs Ingram seemed to fly towards her in a blur, her face contorted, something – a knife – gleamed in her hand. Instinctively, Jenny put her hands up to protect her face, and, as she did so, felt a sharp stabbing pain in her stomach. ‘No, no please—’ Screaming, she doubled over, clutching herself, and saw blood on her apron, her hands, the lino…And it hurt so much. The baby…Holding her stomach, she collapsed.
Sixty-One
Flat on his face, pinned to the ground with his arm forced excruciatingly upwards behind his back, Dacre fought for breath. ‘She’s got a knife! She’s—’
‘You must think I was born yesterday, chum.’ Stratton’s flat voice betrayed no hint of exertion.
‘Please.’ Dacre forced breath into his compressed lungs. ‘She’s going to—’
‘Listen, Doctor Dacre,’ Stratton’s voice was heavy with sarcasm, ‘it’s time we had a little chat. I must say, I didn’t expect to see you so soon, but now you’re here—’
‘Please! You’ve got to—’
‘I haven’t got to do anything. Apart from arresting you, that is.’
‘No!’ Dacre began to struggle desperately, thrashing and kicking out, but it was useless. He might as well have had a ton weight on top of him, and each time he jerked, the big policeman pushed his arm up higher, until it felt as if it were about to snap.
‘I’d keep still if I were you. Otherwise, I’ll thump you so hard you’ll be shitting teeth for a month.’
‘She’s…got…a…knife!’
‘Don’t waste my time, chum. James Dacre, or whatever your fucking name is, I’m arresting you for impersonating a—’
A piercing scream from the direction of the kitchen sliced across Stratton’s words. Dacre felt the big policeman relax his grip slightly, and straighten up. ‘What the hell—?’
The rest of his words were swallowed up by another scream of nerve-shredding intensity, followed by rising shouts of ‘No, no, please!’
‘Jenny?’ Dacre felt Stratton release his arm. ‘Jenny!’
‘I told you,’ said Dacre, elbowing him out of the way and staggering to his feet. Stratton reached the doors ahead of him, and looked wildly up and down the corridor.
‘This way,’ gasped Dacre. ‘The kitchen. I told you, she’s got a knife!’
‘No!’ Another shriek, and then a thump, as of a body connecting with something hard. Stratton, tailed by Dacre, reached the end of the corridor and barged the door open, barrelling into the room. There, lying on the floor, was a woman, clutching her stomach, aproned in blood which streamed down her skirt, her legs, her shoes…
Dacre stood blinking, while Stratton rushed towards her. ‘Jenny! Christ! What happened? What’s happened to you?’
Out of the corner of his eye, Dacre saw a figure rise from a crouching position beside the cooker and stagger towards Jenny and Stratton, now together on the floor. He saw her raise up the knife in both hands and start to bring it down towards the big policeman’s ches
t, and, without thinking, rushed at her, knocking her sideways so that the knife plunged into Stratton’s upper arm. Mrs Ingram, on all fours now, seemed to scuttle away from him horribly, like a human crab, and, in a moment, she was upright, through the door, and running away across the yard.
Dacre righted himself. Stratton was before him, cowering on the floor, cradling the bleeding woman in his arms. He was bleeding, too – Dacre could see the dark stain blossoming on the sleeve of his jacket.
‘Jenny, oh, Jenny…’ Stratton looked up and stared at Dacre for a moment as if he’d never seen him before, then said, ‘Don’t just stand there! You’re the one who’s been telling people you’re a doctor – fucking do something! Help her!’
Sixty-Two
She was so heavy against him, her blood so warm and sticky, unceasing. ‘It’s all right, Jenny, I’m here, it’s going to be all right, I’m sorry I swore, love, I promise I won’t do it again, it’ll be all right…’ Stratton scarcely knew what he was saying – this couldn’t be happening, it couldn’t. But it was. Dacre was bundling things at them, tablecloths and tea towels, pressing them against Jenny’s stomach, saying something…
‘Hold them there, press down…Press hard.’
Stratton tried to obey with his right hand, but his arm wouldn’t move. He stared at it in surprise, and saw that there was a knife sticking out of it. That must have been the blow I felt, he thought, stupidly. He reached across Jenny to pull the knife out, but Dacre knocked his hand away.
‘Leave it! Use your other hand,’ he shouted. ‘I’ll see to that in a minute. Just got to fetch some more cloths…’
‘Yes…yes…it’s all right, Jenny, it’s going to be all right…’ Red blooms on the faded linen, spreading out, it wouldn’t stop coming, and now the blood dripping down his arm was mixing with hers, and Jenny was groaning, over and over. He pressed down hard with his left hand, as Dacre had told him to, but it seemed to make no difference. ‘I don’t want to hurt you, love, but we’ve got to stop it…’
Jenny’s voice, thin and reedy, in his ear: ‘It hurts…Ted.’
‘I know, sweetheart, but we’ll soon have you better, I promise…I’ll look after you, I’m here, it’s all right, I’m here…’
Jenny began to shake, jerking against Stratton’s arms and chest. Dacre was talking again: ‘Shock. She’s haemorrhaging. Keep pressing down as hard as you can…’
‘I am. Isn’t there anything else I can do?’
‘I—’
The kitchen door banged, and there was another scream. Looking up, Stratton saw a woman standing on the threshold, her hand before her mouth. The man rushed towards her and they disappeared in a blur. ‘Ambulance!’ he heard the man shouting. ‘Police! Now!’
‘Oh, Jenny, Jenny…’ It should be me, not her, thought Stratton. I should have stood between them, protected her…
The man was beside him again, tugging at the shoulder of his jacket, brandishing a pair of scissors. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ shouted Stratton. ‘Look after her!’
‘You first. She’s hit something big, or you wouldn’t be bleeding like that. Keep still.’ Working fast, Dacre cut through the sleeve of his jacket, then his shirt, and then, ripping a tea towel in two, made a tourniquet just below his armpit, yanking the cloth tight and knotting it. ‘That ought to do the trick. For Christ’s sake leave that knife where it is.’
Then his hands were at Jenny’s lap again, scrabbling at the wadded-up cloths. ‘No!’ bellowed Stratton. ‘You said—’
‘I need to have a look…Be ready to put them back…Right…’ Dacre pulled Jenny’s apron aside and Stratton heard material ripping. Jenny began to struggle, weakly, in his arms.
‘What are you doing?’ Stratton snarled, pushing him away. ‘You’re hurting her!’
‘Her skirt…I’m sorry, but we need to do this. Wait…’ Dacre grabbed the scissors again. ‘Now, I’m just going to…Keep her as still as you can.’
‘All right, Jenny, it’s a doctor, he’s going to help you, it’s all right, love…’
Dacre’s arms were concealed by the bundle of soaked linen on Jenny’s lap, but Stratton could hear the snip of blades through material, and, a moment later, Dacre removed a sodden, blackened piece of cloth and threw it on the floor, and then another. ‘Her clothes…that’s better…Now…Oh, Christ!’ Stratton caught a glimpse of something pinkish, shiny, and gouts of dark red blood, momentarily unstaunched, welled out, before the linen was grabbed from him and pressed again into Jenny’s lap, Dacre’s arms taut and shoulders bowed as he forced his weight downwards.
‘What’s happening?’
‘Haemorrhage,’ panted Dacre. ‘Won’t stop. Got to keep this on here. Keep talking to her.’
‘Yes…’ Stratton, who was beginning to feel faint, struggled to make words come. ‘Jenny…’
Jenny’s head flopped against his shoulder, and she groaned again, and made a stuttering noise.
‘What? What did you say, love? Say something…talk to me…’
‘Pete…Monica, say…say…Oh Ted. The bay…’
‘Ingram,’ cut in the man. ‘Her name’s Ingram.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Stratton. ‘Do you know her?’
‘No. She told me her name before you arrived. She had a knife.’
‘Why didn’t you stop her?’
‘I tried,’ said the man. ‘Then you came.’
‘Yes…’ said Stratton, weakly. ‘I’m sorry…Oh, Jenny, I’m so sorry…I didn’t know…’ It’s my fault, thought Stratton, helplessly. He’d do anything to help her, anything, but there was nothing he could do, and it was all his fault. ‘If I’d only listened to her,’ he said to Dacre. ‘She didn’t want me to go down the hole…the bomb…She didn’t want me to go…’
‘It’s all right, mate,’ said Dacre. ‘Talk to her, not me.’
‘I shouldn’t have gone,’ said Stratton. ‘I should have left the bloody woman where she was. I’m sorry, Jenny, I’m sorry…’
Jenny murmured something, but he couldn’t make out what it was, or if it was words at all.
‘What is it, love?’
‘I’m going to…’
‘No, you’re not. You’ll be all right, just keep very still now, let the doctor do his job…’
Stratton’s eyes met Dacre’s. But he’s not a doctor at all, he thought. Somehow, he’d forgotten this. But he seemed so competent, so much in control…
As if guessing what was in his mind, Dacre said, ‘This is the only thing we can do – first aid. We have to stop the bleeding. Stomach wounds are the worst.’
‘Yes…’ This chimed with something vague in Stratton’s memory. ‘You’re right.’
‘Put your hand back on this,’ said the man. ‘Press as hard as you can. I’ll get more cloths.’
As the pressure was momentarily released, Jenny made a mewing noise and twisted against Stratton’s arm, her feet drumming weakly on the floorboards.
‘Keep still, love, just try to keep still…I know it hurts, but you’re a brave girl…’
Dacre rose and turned away from them, and Stratton heard the sound of drawers being yanked open. He looked down at Jenny, whose face was now turned upwards, towards his. Her eyes were closed and he saw – had he ever noticed it before? – the delicate mauve colour of her eyelids. ‘Beautiful Jenny, please, love, please…’
‘Baby, I’m going…’
‘Ssh, Jenny…’
‘No, listen…Please, Ted…I’m g-g—’ Jenny’s lips parted slightly, in a sigh, and Stratton saw that they were losing colour, turning a purplish blue, and, as he watched, a bubble of bright blood appeared at one side.
‘Her mouth! She’s bleeding from her mouth!’
The man was beside him again, a bundle of roller towels in his hands. ‘These’ll be better,’ he said. ‘Take your hand away, and I’ll just…there…’ Another blur as the bunched-up tablecloths were thrown aside, landing in a puddle on the floor, stripes and patterns and lace edges
stained red, and replaced by the towels, their fibres obliterated immediately by yet more blood.
‘Make it stop,’ implored Stratton. ‘You’ve got to make it stop…’
‘I’m doing my best,’ said the man, grimly. ‘Where the hell’s that ambulance?’ he muttered, through gritted teeth.
‘Jenny…Oh, love…Jenny…Jenny…’
Sixty-Three
He knew she was leaving him. She’d lost too much blood. He must be losing blood, too, he thought, because he could feel his strength ebbing away so that it was harder and harder to hold her. She was dying and he was helpless, so helpless…She’d stopped moving and lay limp now, in his arms, but still he hoped – if she would only open her eyes and look at him, if the ambulance would come, if…‘Please,’ he begged Dacre, who still knelt at Jenny’s other side, his arms rigid, blood welling up – the threadbare towels were saturated and would absorb no more – around his outspread fingers.
The man, head bowed, shook his head slowly. ‘The ambulance will be here soon,’ he muttered.
‘Jenny…’
‘Soon…’
‘Jenny, love…They’ll be here soon, I promise…’
‘Keep talking to her…’
‘Jenny…’
More blood, now, from her mouth, trickling languidly down her chin and meandering across her neck, as if it didn’t matter, as if she didn’t need it…She made a sudden retching noise, as if trying to expel something in her throat, and, the next moment, vomited blood. ‘Push her head forward,’ said the man, ‘don’t let her choke.’
Stratton did his best to obey, watching as the blood issued from Jenny’s mouth in a thick stream, splattering down the front of her frock. He felt as if his heart were being pulled from his chest. ‘Jenny…’ He pressed her head against his neck. ‘Jenny, don’t…’
‘For Christ’s sake, give her some air!’
‘Sorry…I’m so sorry, love…’
