by Susan Sallis
After William had picked up the broken plate and put it in the bin and assured Arnold that Connie would not notice because they had at least two dozen of that pattern, he became serious and said, ‘I’ve wanted to say something for some time, Arnold. Now . . . Christmas night . . . family time and so on . . . very special.’ He smiled, acknowledging his own embarrassment. ‘Don’t look worried. I want to thank you for rescuing me – what is it now, fifteen years ago? If it hadn’t been for you I think I might have ended up in a psychiatric hospital or even teaching inadequately in a school somewhere!’ He tried to laugh. ‘It’s no good you shaking your head. I was a mess, Arnold. And I was scared to death. And you calmly took over from my parents and . . . fixed me up!’ He stopped speaking because he saw that Arnold was near tears. He seized on the first subject change that was even minimally relevant. ‘The hand hurting, old man?’
Arnold choked on a laugh at the emphasis William put on ‘old man’ but then nodded. ‘It’s giving me gyp,’ he acknowledged. ‘But Rosemary’s done a grand job – she used to help Connie with her first aid, you know. When she was a Girl Guide. Probably these gloves.’ He peeled off the yellow gloves and opened his palm. The dressing was black at the edges. Where it ended, blisters began.
‘Oh my Lord, Arnold. We’d better get you along to Casualty. Rosemary should have let a professional see this when you did it.’ He pushed Arnold into a chair. ‘I know you and Rosemary have had a tiff about something but I should have picked up that you were in a bad way. I’ll get our coats. Don’t move.’
Arnold thought how right he had been about William. The boy got him into his outdoor things, stowed him in the car in about five minutes flat and then ran back to yell up the stairs to Connie. He also got him out of the car and into the waiting room in the Casualty ward before he passed out. He came round almost immediately and smiled at the face of the young nurse bending over him. ‘It’s supposed to be Rosie who faints. Not me.’ And he went again.
It continued like that for some time. It seemed that he was run-down and had one of these fancy new viruses and the burn had just tipped him over the edge. He heard the word septicaemia and thought it might be a new type of iodine. William had gone and come back with pyjamas and a toilet bag and settled him into a bed that was as hard as iron and quite narrow. He imagined what he would look like falling out of bed. He was probably still wearing that daft paper hat Rosemary had insisted on fitting over his ears. ‘Respected local solicitor falls out of bed drunk and disorderly.’ He fell into a proper sleep but dreamed he was chasing a man down a long, endless street and he had no shoes on his feet so every now and then he would yell with pain when he stepped on a sharp stone. He had to catch the man. He called out at one stage, ‘Wait, Maurice! Please wait! She is still waiting for you – can’t you do the same?’
William came the next afternoon, clutching the centrepiece from Connie’s Christmas Carol dining table. The nurses were all smiles as they put it on the table in the middle of the ward where the ‘walking wounded’ had their meals. A great fuss was made of lighting the candle. ‘You’ll be able to blow it out soon, Mr Jessup,’ said one of the girls, who looked like Rosemary must have looked twenty years ago. He smiled, waited till she was out of earshot and said to William, ‘Oh goody-goody.’
William said, ‘Rosemary is frantic. I did what you asked – told her you did not want visitors – but she thinks it’s her fault. She said she went into some kind of trance in the kitchen and let the milk boil over and then let you rescue it . . . You can imagine.’
‘Some kind of trance, my foot. Tell her she can visit me if she wants to but not until she can look me in the eye and tell me exactly what happened in that bloody kitchen. Until then, yes, it was her fault.’
William frowned but in view of Arnold’s delicate state did not follow it up. He was given a piece of cake and a cup of tea at teatime and allowed to stay to hear the wassailers. Then it was time for sandwiches and hot milk and pills and injections. The night spread before Arnold endlessly. He took William’s arm. ‘Tell her to come anyway. Tomorrow. Two o’clock till six o’clock.’
William grinned. ‘All right. Gives her plenty of leeway.’
‘None whatsoever. I need her at two. And she doesn’t go until six.’
‘You’re delirious again. But I’ll put it to her.’
She did not come at two but Greta Heatherington did. She had two turkey sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper which she put in his locker. ‘The nights are so long. Gives you something to do. Next time I’ll bring those chocolate biscuits you like. Trouble is, they’ll melt in this heat. My God, it’s hot in here. Snowing outside.’
‘Really?’ There was no sign of it on the window opposite his bed. Something was falling. Like gritty rain. He didn’t feel so good today.
She said, ‘Well, almost. Sleet, I suppose. Listen, Arnold. I have to attend rehearsals starting tomorrow. Will they let me come in the morning?’
‘Shouldn’t think so. Has Archie moved in yet?’
‘No bloody fear. He doesn’t move in till I’ve got my marriage certificate framed and on the wall.’
‘Good. I want you to promise me something.’
‘Go on.’
‘Promise first.’
‘OK. Promise. Only because all promises are cancelled if you die and they say things aren’t looking good for you.’
For a moment he was startled, then grabbed her wrist and tried to give her a feeble Chinese burn. She giggled.
‘Seriously. Just for a minute. Promise you won’t marry Archie Fielding until you’ve spent some time with Maurice.’
Her face opened wide; he thought he saw joy. There could have been fear as well.
She said, ‘You’ve found him! The swine – was he in Rangoon all the time?’
‘I haven’t found him. But I feel I’m close. I agree the contract is void if I die. But if not . . . you have given your word. Remember that.’
She grabbed his hands and he flinched. ‘You are not going to die! Do you hear me, Arnie? I’m older than you by seven years and you are not going to die before me – that is part of the bloody contract too!’
He whimpered, ‘If you go on squeezing my poorly hand I probably will die right here and now.’
She gasped and let him go. ‘Dear boy. I have to go. Wish me luck for tomorrow’s rehearsal. I’ve bought a new sewing machine. D’you remember that outfit I made for myself for “Moonlight Becomes You”?’ He nodded feebly. ‘Well, I plan to do the same one for the ingénue in this production. But it has to be – basically – a dressing gown.’ She kissed him. ‘Good luck to you. My first love.’
‘Liar.’
He could still hear her chuckling as she got to the end of the ward and turned to wave to him. Then he saw the big clock over the door; it was three o’clock, so Rosemary wasn’t coming after all. He carefully used his good hand and pulled out a clean handkerchief from the pile William had left, shook it loose and put it over his face for a moment. He must be ill, this was at least the third bout since Christmas Day.
She came at five. She and William had been to his place and she brought clean pyjamas, a pair of flannels and a jumper fit for a polar explorer. ‘You are going to be sitting out for your meals tomorrow,’ she said as she stowed the stuff neatly in his locker.
‘It’s like a hothouse in here all the time,’ he bleated.
‘Clean pants and vest. More hankies. That stuff you like to pat on your face – it costs the earth and it’s only eau-de-cologne, you know.’
‘When can I go home?’
‘When the doctor says you are free of this wretched poison. How you let yourself get in such a state, I do not know.’
‘I thought you were taking responsibility? William said you were in quite a state yourself. Guilt.’
She was crouching in front of the locker and she stayed there, head down. He elbowed himself up from the pillow and saw tears on her eyelashes.
He said, ‘I was joking. Get
up and give me a kiss. And tell me what the hell is going on. When are Marcus Vallender and Maria getting married?’
‘Not for a while. And it’s Challenger, not Vallender. I think.’
She sat on the edge of the bed and he elbowed himself even further up and grabbed her clumsily and pulled her down with him. They kissed. The man opposite whistled.
Arnold said, ‘I don’t care.’
‘Well, neither do I. But once that whistling business starts everyone does it. So let me up.’
He let her up but tutted with annoyance. ‘I meant I don’t care about Marcus Challenger or Vallender or whatever the hell he’s called. I know it’s horrible for you, my dearest one, but surely it’s not horrible enough to put the mockers on what we’ve got?’
She looked at him incredulously. ‘You’re supposed to be intelligent, clever, sensitive . . . Listen to me properly: Marcus and Maria are getting married.’
‘Yes. I know.’ He mouthed the words with enormous exaggeration. ‘Is that the end of the conversation?’
‘And we are not.’ She started the short sentence with the same emphasis he had used and ended it on a sort of whimper.
He stared at her for what seemed a lifetime. Then he said, ‘I thought you said . . . I thought I was setting you free from that sort of petty convention . . . You said . . .’
‘I know. I thought the same. But then I wanted to look after you. Like now. I wanted the right – the right – to walk into this hospital at any time because you are here. It was when Marcus and Maria said they were getting married. It seemed just awful at first, then I saw what it truly meant. It meant that legally – legally – they would be responsible for each other.’ She looked at him. Her eyes were swimming. ‘You don’t want that. I know. You want to be free. And you want me to be free. In case I find someone younger. In case you have to care for Greta at some point. And I understand that. But it’s not enough for me, Arnie. I want to tell the world that I am committed to you. And I want you to do the same. There, I’ve said it. Pride in the dust and all that.’ She tried for a laugh. ‘I’m going now. You know I love you and you know we can carry on almost like we did when it first hit us. But at least we both know where we stand.’
He discovered he was bloody well crying again and in a moment of terror thought he might actually be going to die, here in this hospital. And if that were the case then Rosemary would not have to nurse an older husband.
She was on her feet, gathering handbag, gloves, scarf. He choked, ‘Rosie. Marry me. Please.’
She dashed the tears from her own eyes and looked at him. She drew a quick breath and leaned over him to ring the bell. Her finger was still in place when two nurses came running. Curtains were pulled and she was ejected. She heard the initial hiss from the oxygen tank; soothing words as a mask was fitted. More soothing words. Then one of them leaned around the curtain and said, ‘He is still agitated. Says he did not hear what you said.’
There was so much to say. He did not have to do this . . . She had made it plain that they could go on together if he wished . . . She had wanted him to know how she felt . . . She looked at the young nurse who could not possibly understand, she spread her hands wide and her handbag dangled from one arm like a pendulum measuring precious time. She said helplessly, ‘I said yes. Tell him . . . yes.’
The nurse gave a grin that spread from ear to ear and disappeared. Both of them emerged after another ten minutes. They let her look at him propped up with the plastic mask in place. Incredibly he was asleep. They told her what they had done. An injection. His natural immunity was low.
The one with the wide smile said, ‘He is going to be all right. Come tomorrow if you can. You will see an enormous difference.’ She walked with Rosemary to the ward door. ‘Immediately he got his answer, he was all right. His whole face changed. You must not worry about the tears. He is very weak.’
Rosemary fought to control her own tears, touched the nurse lightly on the arm and went without another word.
She drove back to Number Five very carefully, conscious that her concentration was not at its best. The streets already had the awful after-Christmas look about them, and the sleet had bedraggled even the miniature Christmas trees around the shops. She had intended to go back home today but Connie had begged her to stay.
‘If we’re going to get snow you won’t be able to get down to see poor Arnie.’
‘But, darling, haven’t we agreed that it is best if I don’t visit him? This latest demand – that I spend the whole of visiting time sitting by his bed – it’s just his nonsense, you know.’
‘I think you should go – if the roads are passable. And be honest with him, Mummy. Seriously. And then come back here. If not for his sake, for mine. The baby is kicking like mad – I don’t remember Frankie being so active. I’d like to have a check-up and I hoped you would stay with Frankie.’
What could she say? Especially now. His proposal and her reply probably did not mean much but she had to be around. She thought of her house and the expanse of the golf course stretching out from the sitting-room window. It was so convenient. And she was tired herself. Bone tired.
And then she thought of Maria next door. She sighed. It was better she stayed in the city. Just for a while.
That evening after Frankie’s bedtime routine, the three of them sat around the fire and watched the late news. Connie was doodling on the notepad she kept for shopping lists. Rosemary had taken on the tiny matinee coat so nearly destroyed by Arnie on Christmas afternoon and was using a crochet hook to pick up a missed stitch. William had removed a nail from the funnel of the choo-choo and was replacing it with a screw.
He glanced up and responded to the picture of the eager young American waving out of the screen. ‘Wonder what this Kennedy chap will be like. He’s got a good background, links to this country. Could be all right for us as well as America.’
Rosemary glanced up too and nodded. ‘Very nice smile. Good teeth.’
Connie stopped writing for a moment but did not look up. ‘All Americans seem to have good teeth.’ She sighed and referred to an earlier announcement. ‘D’you know, I’ve really missed the farthing.’
William grinned over her head at Rosemary but she said staunchly, ‘I know what you mean. It was practically valueless but it just fitted nicely into that pocket compass your grandfather had. Supposed to take a sovereign but the mean old so-and-so took that out and put a farthing in its place.’
The other two laughed. Rosemary said, ‘There. Now we’re on line two of the pattern. Shall I keep going?’
‘Oh, would you, Mummy? I just want to finish this. Then I suppose it’s a drink and bed?’
‘I’ll see to the drinks.’ William tested the choo-choo and ran his hand over the surface. ‘That’s better. Imagine using nails in a child’s toy.’
He left them to it and went into the kitchen. He was more anxious about Arnold than he let on. Surely this afternoon’s relapse could not have been brought on – and cured – by Rosemary’s presence? His parents had always told him that Arnold had not been accepted for the armed forces because of a ‘condition’. He had mentioned this to Arnold once and had been told that it was their polite way of saying he had flat feet. What if that was a form of self-protection? What if he had a blood disorder or a heart condition? William reached for the Ovaltine, the cocoa and the Horlicks, wondering why on earth they all had to have different bedtime drinks. He fetched beakers and spoons and frowned at the kettle. He would ask Arnold. Tomorrow, he would ask him.
Back in the living room Rosemary tucked the knitting away in its bag and leaned back in her chair. ‘I’ll leave it, darling. I’m so tired I’ll probably make another mistake.’
‘You’re worried sick about Arnold. But don’t be. I dreamed about him last night. He was running down a street. He looked marvellous.’
‘Do you still get those vivid dreams? They used to mean so much to you. One or two did actually come true.’
‘Well, one d
id. I got married in a register office and was really happy about it. That came to pass.’ She grinned at her mother, ripped off the top page of her notebook and passed it across. ‘What d’you think about that? I’m going to send it to the Brighton newspapers . . . I’ll have to find out whether there is a special paper. Greta will know.’
Rosemary read Connie’s carefully printed words and her brows rose into her hair with astonishment. She looked up. ‘How on earth will Greta know?’
‘Arnold told me she was always popping off to Brighton with various boyfriends. It was the thing to do apparently.’
‘Well, he would know!’ Rosemary snapped.
Connie looked at her mother calmly. ‘Yes. He would. Accept it, Mummy, please. He is full of love and she needed him.’ She held her mother’s gaze very deliberately. ‘That was how it was for me. That’s how I know that Arnold is faithful to you.’ She sighed and shook her head. ‘Anyway, I asked him. He would not have lied to me about that. He was shocked that the suspicion had even crossed my mind.’
Rosemary sniffed. ‘Oh, damn this blessed crying – I hate myself for blubbing every time Arnold’s name is mentioned!’ Connie offered no sympathy; in fact, she grinned. Another loud sniff and Rosemary waved the notepaper at her. ‘I still don’t get it. Why would the horrid Maurice hide himself away in Brighton?’
Connie took the paper from her and leaned forward. She was not at all certain about this but she was so excited she knew she had to go through with it.
‘This dream last night. Arnold was coming out of a fog. He saw someone ahead of him. It was Maurice – no, I have no idea why I knew it was Maurice, but it was. Spivvy suit – you know – soft trilby, very Raymond Chandler. It was a long street, sort of boarding houses either side. Arnold recognized Maurice and started to run. And then I woke up.’
