The River Within

by Karen Powell

  At lunch Angus had only just begun to eat when he stood up abruptly and hurried from the table. By evening his skin had turned an odd shade of yellow. Against his wishes, she insisted on telephoning Dr. Harrison.

  ‘It won’t be long now,’ the doctor said, coming out of the bedroom.

  ‘This is the first time he’s been sick,’ Venetia said. ‘He walked all over the estate yesterday. And we were in York just the day before.’

  ‘I believe the cancer has spread to the liver and into the bowel. All the evidence points that way. He says he’s not in pain but that seems unlikely. I’ve given him something to help if he should need it and I’ll call again tomorrow, but you must ring me immediately if he’s uncomfortable. Do you want a nurse to come?’

  ‘Here? What for?’

  ‘Lady Richmond, I should be frank with you.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘We’ll do everything we can to alleviate the pain, but he’s going to get weaker quickly and he’ll need help to move around and dress. He seems quite adamant about staying at home, although he may well change his mind about that at things progress. In the meantime, a nurse would make life easier for you.’

  ‘No.’ She didn’t want a stranger in the house. ‘Fairweather will be here each day. He can help me.’

  ‘What about Alexander?’

  ‘He’s on a study tour in Italy. We were going to wait until . . . ’

  ‘You should bring him home.’

  CHAPTER 40

  Lennie, September 1955

  What can I do for you, Helena?’

  Only Dr. Harrison and Alexander used her full name.

  ‘I’ve not been well.’

  She concentrated on the stethoscope that sat on the desk between them, remembering the reassuring feel of that cool disc against her chest when she was small, what a marvel it had seemed that the doctor could know everything that was happening inside of you.

  ‘It’s a couple of weeks now.’

  How desperate she had been, waiting for her name to be called, so that she could get out of the waiting room, which was really a parlour at the front of Dr. Harrison’s house. In that cramped little space, the Ingram twins sniffled and crawled over their mother, the old people groaned as they took their seats, passed the time by listing their various sufferings to anyone who would listen. Lennie had sat in terror that someone would ask her what she was doing there.

  ‘What’s been the trouble, my dear? You’re certainly looking rather pale this morning.’

  The paternal kindness in Dr. Harrison’s voice made her eyes swim. She had been sick on the way there, worse than ever, hunched over in the undergrowth on the edge of the woods, so exhausted all of a sudden, so overwhelmed by what was happening to her that she wanted nothing more than to crawl into the trees out of sight and curl up beneath them. Her limbs were so heavy that she felt she could rest there forever.

  ‘I’m . . . late.’ Lennie looked down at her lap, at hands that grasped one another as if seeking comfort. ‘I can’t remember quite when . . . but it’s definitely late now. I thought I’d started but then it stopped too soon. I’ve been sick too and not just in the mornings.’

  ‘Oh, Helena.’ Dr. Harrison’s eyes were fixed on her now, his voice grave. Then: ‘I will need to examine you. To be sure.’

  She moved to the couch behind the screen, lay down on the blue paper that covered it, lifted her dress. The screen was patterned with blue and orange flowers, simple in shape, monstrous in size; some blooms wouldn’t fit an entire section of the screen, like some tropical experiment that had got out of hand. How ashamed she felt, lying there exposed in broad daylight, with half the village in the waiting room outside. Foolish too. Caught with her knickers down. That was the expression people used.

  Lennie closed her eyes while Dr. Harrison pushed down on her stomach with the flat of his hands. Her stomach was sensitive and a hard little rock all at the same time. They didn’t speak until he was finished and she was back in the chair, clothes rearranged.

  ‘Well now, Helena, you’re definitely pregnant, I’m afraid. Have you spoken to your father yet?’

  ‘No! And please don’t say anything to him. To anyone.’

  How disappointed he looked. He’d known her since she was small. Everyone said she was a good girl but the truth lay elsewhere, in a clearing in the woods.

  ‘You must tell him as soon as possible.’

  Dr. Harrison’s voice was solemn and careful. For a moment, she was so scared that she could not speak. She did not know what she’d expected, coming here on this bright summer’s morning, but part of her had perhaps hoped that there might still be a way, some narrative she’d not yet imagined, which might yet lead her to safety.

  ‘There’s nothing . . . ’ She stared hard at the blind-covered window which swayed in the summer breeze. A fly was trapped behind it. She could hear its buzzing becoming more frenzied as it batted at the glass behind. ‘Can anything be done?’

  Dr. Harrison peered over his glasses. Everything was long about him: torso and arms rising up from behind the desk, fingers, face and that nose like a curved beak. His legs were hidden from sight but she knew they’d be twisted around one another in his customary fashion.

  He sighed. ’You’re lucky in some ways. Lots of girls have to go away until it’s over. Mistakes happen but if the wedding comes soon nobody will be any the wiser.’ He looked at her. ‘If it would help, I’ll come with you to speak to your father.’

  ‘Oh no, I can’t, not yet.’

  ‘He’ll be upset at first, but your father has faced worse. People will always find something to talk about, then it passes. I presume the child’s father is already aware?’

  The fly was desperate now, batting repeatedly at the blind. It was far too hot in this small room, sweat was dampening her armpits, running down the base of her spine.

  ‘Thank you, Dr. Harrison.’ She was on her feet, wanting to be out of the surgery, away from those eyes, that voice.

  ‘Please, Helena,’ he held his hand up in something approximating a halt gesture. She had obeyed authority for too many years of her short life to ignore it now.

  Dr. Harrison removed his glasses, placed them on the desk in front of him, hands still grasping the stems. Lennie gazed at him. Everyone in the village knew what that meant. It was the gesture he reserved for imparting the worst of news: an unexpected death, a lost heartbeat or some disease that was multiplying in every cell.

  ‘My dear, you are very young still. The most important thing is that you have help around you at a time like this. I can’t stress that enough. Delaying the matter will only make things more difficult for yourself and for your family. Do you understand?’ She nodded silently. Outside, one of the Ingram twins was crying in a half-hearted yet persistent way. Dr. Harrison picked up his glasses, examined the lenses as if he held suspicions about their clarity.

  ‘Thank you, Dr. Harrison,’ she repeated.

  ‘It’s early days yet, Helena.’ The glasses hovered just beyond the end of his nose for a moment, before he lodged them decisively back in place. ‘But there will come a point when you can’t hide it anymore.’

  CHAPTER 41

  Venetia, Spring 1955

  The morning after Dr. Harrison’s visit, Angus rose from the breakfast table in a hurry. He left the lavatory door ajar but she waited for him to come out all the same. She heard the running of water.

  ‘Not good,’ he said, wiping his mouth.

  In the hallway she placed a telephone call to Italy, but the hotel clerk in Rome said that the group from the university had gone south, to Sorrento, he thought, though he could not be sure. He would do his best. If all else failed, the signore had rooms booked for their return in a week’s time.

  ‘He is needed now. His father . . . ’

  Yes, he understood the urgency, Signora, would do all he
could, but to Venetia the promise sounded as empty as the echoing line.

  The following day Angus dressed as usual but did not want even his morning tea, only to sit in the chair to read. At lunchtime he insisted on joining Venetia at the table again. She had ordered soup and bread to be served, something simple, but Angus ate only a few mouthfuls before his spoon clattered in the bowl and he stumbled from the room.

  A nurse came that evening. She seemed terribly young for her responsibilities, Venetia thought, but she was quietly efficient, seemed to understand more than her years might warrant.

  ‘Let’s see if we can get him more comfortable. Sir Angus said you have a son. So at least you’ll have some help soon. Someone to look after you too.’

  Angus made no attempt to dress the next morning, though he washed and shaved and put on the fresh pyjamas she brought for him. His skin was that sickly shade of yellow again, like the sky before a storm. She offered to fetch the newspaper.

  ’Might need something close at hand first, Venetia, for the sickness.’ She went down to the kitchens, found an orange plastic bowl in the dresser. She had bought the bowl for Alexander when he was small and liked to bake things, the cook’s china bowls being too heavy for his little hands. There were scratches in the base of the bowl, around the sides, where he had tried to scrape out the mixture with a knife instead of a spoon.

  ‘I think I could eat some toast,’ Angus announced at lunchtime, looking more cheerful. More like himself, she thought, and then wondered what she meant by that. ‘And some tea.’

  He was several mouthfuls in before he grasped for the bowl, which she had placed beside him. When the spasms eased, she saw that he was trying to shield it from view. ‘Fetch Fairweather,’ he said. But she had already taken it from his shaking hands. ‘Sorry,’ he said. The contents, viscous in the base of the cheap plastic bowl, were black.

  CHAPTER 42

  Lennie, September 1955

  In the darkness of the auditorium, she gripped Alexander’s hand, willed the film to finish. The air was thick with tobacco smoke and, beneath it, the faint odour of frying from the fish and chip shop next door. She’d refused ice cream, concentrated now on her breathing. Why did they call it morning sickness? The threat was there all day long, a bilious volcano.

  Alexander had wanted to drive but she’d persuaded him to take the train.

  ‘My father will worry less.’

  On the way home from York, they had the carriage almost to themselves, just an elderly couple finishing up their sandwiches who then fell into a doze in the corner. The carriage window was half open, a breeze softening the air. Alexander hadn’t thought much of the film, To Catch a Thief, but he was in one of his playful moods, stealing kisses, keeping his arm around her throughout the journey.

  It was late by the time they arrived at Starome station. The High Street was empty and quiet, just a spill of light and faint voices coming from the Black Swan. Her father would be on his second Friday night pint by now, with his back to the door as usual. All the same, Lennie kept her eyes down as they passed. Seeing a light on in the downstairs window of the Masters’ cottage, she glanced across at Alexander.

  ‘Mrs. Masters is thinking of moving away. Father says she might go to her sister’s.’ She didn’t know why she had mentioned it. Only that it had bothered her to think of winter coming, the graveyard bleak and bare, Danny’s grave unvisited. She hoped Mrs. Masters might still make the journey to tend it. ‘Do you still think about what happened to Danny?’

  ‘Not recently.’

  The river was glass-green and still tonight. Even the Stride seemed to have quietened to a distant whisper. Silence hung in the air as though everything had paused, as if the world was waiting for something to happen. Overhead, the stars were steady and sure, Lennie’s dress glowed like a flower in the twilight. Could it really be so difficult when Alexander loved her and she loved him? In the beauty of the summer’s evening, the great obstacle in her way faded to nothing. Lennie turned to Alexander, holding up her face to be kissed. He put his arms around her and she held him tightly.

  ‘Let’s not go home yet,’ she said, taking a step off the path into the deep shadow of the trees. She held out her hand to him.

  ‘You’ll get into bother with your father again,’ said Alexander.

  Her father’s feelings had never bothered Alexander before. Why did he care now? It should have been a sign.

  ‘Do you love me?’ she said.

  ‘You know I do.’

  ‘Then it’s for us to decide.’

  Alexander frowned, looked over his shoulder as if searching for answers on the river bank.

  ‘You’re in a strange mood tonight.’ He pushed his hands down into his pockets as if steadying himself for an argument.

  Lennie planted her feet between the ancient roots of an oak tree. She would not move. He laughed then, the sound harsh in the deep green silence.

  ‘Not such a good girl, after all,’ he said. ‘You’ll have people talking at this rate.’

  ‘But what can it matter if we’re to be married? Whatever happens . . . ’

  ‘Who said anything about marriage?’

  Her power left her in that moment. As if Alexander had physically knocked it out of her. Lennie could not breathe, was crying without knowing that she had even begun. Alexander tried to take hold of her arm. She recoiled, stumbling over the tree roots.

  ‘Oh, come on now, Helena!’ There was irritation in his voice, as if she had forced him to be cruel.

  ‘Leave me alone. Please.’ She had sunk to a crouch in the soft green undergrowth, arms wrapped around herself, her breath coming in great jags.

  ‘Do get up. I just wish you’d make up your mind, that’s all. Half the time you push me away—’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Just the other week, when we were in the graveyard. And now you’re behaving like this. I don’t understand.’

  Like a whore.

  ‘You said you loved me.’

  Alexander threw up his hands. ‘I don’t know if I trust you. I don’t know if I can trust anyone.’

  ‘All these years, I don’t understand how . . . ’

  ‘This is ridiculous.’ Alexander turned away from her, then swung round again. ‘You’re ruining a perfectly nice evening. I don’t understand why.’

  She shrank at his anger, but she was not going to back down now. Crouched like an animal in the undergrowth, her belly soft and vulnerable, it felt like her entire future was at stake.

  Lennie rose to her feet. ‘You said we would marry.’ With great effort she made her voice stay low. ‘I haven’t made that up. Or have I gone mad?’ She steadied herself against the immense trunk of the oak tree. It proved, beyond doubt, that the past existed, she hadn’t just imagined the whole thing. ‘You talked about it . . . We both did.’

  Alexander shook his head. ‘I’m not sure I believe in marriage anymore, that’s all. It doesn’t seem to mean that much to people.’

  ‘But you said . . . What are we doing then?’ she whispered. Why should he care about other people? Did he know that in a few harsh sentences he had destroyed their future?

  He feigned boredom but she could see that he was trembling. What had happened? Did he suspect something? Was there some other problem, something that had nothing to do with her after all? With a word, or a gesture, he might still put everything right again.

  Alexander stayed where he was and would not meet her eye. Lennie felt something dislodge in her mind, like a book dropping from a shelf.

  CHAPTER 43

  Venetia, Spring 1955

  He’s getting weaker so quickly,’ she said, motioning to James to close the bedroom door behind him as he joined her on the landing. Angus appeared to be sleeping at last, but it was difficult to tell. ‘You can see how much weight he’s lost since you last came. Alexander has set off fr
om Rome now apparently, but I have no idea how long he might take to get here.’

  James looked at her steadily, though his expression remained customarily guarded. ‘I’m not sure he’ll last till then. You say he’s not keeping anything down?’

  ‘People can survive for weeks without food. He’s drinking water constantly and he craves ice. I get them to crush it for him downstairs. Fairweather is desperate to do more but Angus doesn’t want the servants to see him in this . . . like this.’

  ‘No good for anyone, him hanging on like this.’

  The baldness of the statement appalled and liberated her all at once. She thought of Ptolemy, her old favourite among the horses, who’d broken his leg jumping a fence one day last autumn. She had buried her face in his rough mane for a minute before the gunshot solidified the life in his eyes.

  ‘Have one of the girls make a bed up for me here,’ said James. ‘At least you can get some rest that way. Sam and the lads can manage well enough without me at the farm.’

  ‘I don’t need rest.’

  ‘We’ll do it together,’ said James.

  ’A blockage,’ said the nurse when she visited the following evening. She was not the young one but an older woman with a thin, mean look about her. She dropped her hand down to her stomach and clenched her fist to illustrate the point. ‘Nowhere for anything to go.’

  ‘I see,’ said Venetia. The news came as no surprise, when she had made numerous journeys between bedroom and bathroom in the last few days, the priestess with the orange plastic bowl. She removed a heap of bedding from the corner of the bedroom and went downstairs.

  When she returned, James met her at the top of the staircase, signalled to her that Angus was sleeping, should not be disturbed. With the promise of a few hours of peace, they went downstairs for dinner. They might have had food sent up to Venetia’s sitting room, just along the landing from where Angus slept, but the small proprieties of the dining room—a set table, the good glassware and china, the shining cutlery—seemed to matter tonight. In the formality of the dining room, with its marble pillars, the vast stretch of the walnut table, Venetia found herself ravenously hungry. They both drank wine and then James, visibly relaxing as the meal went on, opened a second bottle. Venetia accepted another glass, savouring the ruby dryness upon her tongue. The alcohol was getting into her blood, numbing the surface of her skin. She realised how exhausted she was.