by Annie Murray
On the second Sunday she caught a bus down the Bristol Road to Hollymoor Hospital. Her sickness was easing a little now, leaving room for her enormous loss and loneliness. Rosalie was good company, of course, and the neighbours were all right. But she hungered for someone she could really talk to.
Hollymoor seemed like a world of its own, shut away behind its high walls like a self-contained village, the forbidding hospital buildings clustered together.
Eventually she was directed to where Tom was, out in the grounds. He and several others were sitting in an oval-shaped ring of chairs, round which two nurses in starched uniforms came and went, fetching, carrying, cajoling. The men mostly sat still, some with their heads lolling, some just staring, one with bandages across his eyes. Mercy’s heart contracted with pity.
There were a couple of other visitors here, sitting patiently beside their sons, brothers or lovers in halfconcealed desperation. Mercy picked up one of the spare seats and placed it beside Tom’s bath chair, facing into the sun. He didn’t register her presence and she reached for his nearer hand and held it in hers so that he stirred slightly. His eyes were watering in the bright light.
‘Hello, Tom.’ She spoke quietly, feeling self-conscious. ‘It’s me, Mercy. You’re looking well, love.’ He was, compared with the last time she saw him. He was clean, shaved and groomed and his cheeks and nose were turning a faint pink in the sun.
‘I’ve moved back home now.’ She wondered if anything she said ever reached him. ‘Living with Alf and Mabel and Rosalie. They’re all going to come and see you again very soon. Everyone else is much as usual . . .’ She watched a woman across the circle from them clinging to what must have been her son’s hand, staring at him with tormented eyes. A moment later she got up suddenly, as if overcome by emotion, and left.
Mercy sat in silence with Tom as he made odd sounds and fidgeted. She needed him so badly that day, needed to believe he could hear her and offer friendship and comfort as he had in the past.
‘We’ve both got a life sentence, haven’t we?’ She didn’t look at him as she spoke. ‘There’s you here and me back where I started when you and me was kids. Shame we can’t put the clock back, eh? I’d give anything for you to be back like you were.’
One of the nurses approached with a cup of cordial for Tom to drink through a straw.
‘Would you like to help him with it?’ she asked Mercy. She seemed stiff and formal, yet not unkind.
Mercy held the straw to Tom’s dry lips. He knew what to do and there were soon loud slurping noises as he drained the cup. When he finished he said, ‘Ahhh,’ loudly. Mercy smiled.
‘Was that nice?’ She felt as if she were talking to Stevie. She put the cup down on the grass, took her hat off and laid it in her lap.
‘See, if I don’t talk to you, Tom, there’s no one now. And I know you’d be kind to me and understand.’ She drew closer and quietly poured out all her troubles to him.
‘I’ve tried so hard with my life,’ she finished. ‘You know that, don’t you? I can’t make sense of it. Everything seems to happen before I’m ready for it . . .’ She found she was suddenly weeping again, warm tears coursing out. She’d never cried so much in her life as in these few weeks. It was as if all her defences had been trampled down.
‘I don’t know what I’m going to do. I just don’t know how I can bear it . . .’
Tom moved his head suddenly and let out an ‘Er-r-r-r’ sound which she found comforting, as if he’d heard and wanted somehow to reach her. She kissed his hand.
‘You were always so kind and good. You don’t deserve this, Tom, none of it.’ There was nothing else she could say to him that she hadn’t said over and over. ‘I’m so sorry. I wish, I wish . . .’ If only he could talk and yell out all the horror and injustice of being trapped in there forever, in his useless body. But he sat silent now, like an inscrutable puppet.
She said goodbye to him, promising she’d come back.
It was as she left the hospital that despair hit her fully, a great surge which washed through her. She leant against the wall outside and closed her eyes, the rough brick against her forehead, crumpled with agony inside.
Tom would sit there like that for the rest of his life. How long? Ten years, twenty, thirty, more? And Paul – she saw his eyes looking into hers with all his pained tenderness, his need of her. She loved him so much. However often she tried to convince herself that she could be strong, could move forward, it was not true.
‘I don’t want to spend my life alone . . . I can’t, I need someone. I need you, Paul. I can’t bear it.’
But she’d told him there was nothing for him here. She was no better than a tart, a trollop, carrying the child of a bullying, selfish man. She was alone in the world, nothing to anyone, and that was what she had always been. She thought of the railway, of lying across the track, hearing the train thrumming faster and faster towards her, the singing, the thundering roar of it. Then blackness. No more. Her troubles would be over, and who would care? She could have peace, blessed peace . . .
‘You all right, missy?’
She turned, bewildered, and found herself looking into the watery eyes of an elderly gentleman with white hair tucked under a smart black Homburg. He was rather stooped, carried a stick, and his face wore a sad, gentle expression.
‘Yes.’ With an effort she straightened up. ‘Thank you. I just came over a bit dizzy.’
‘It’s a warm day.’ He looked at the sky for a moment, with a sideways swivel of his head. ‘I saw you visiting one of the young men, didn’t I?’
‘Yes – my, er, friend. ‘ She remembered the old man now, from among the visitors. ‘I’m just going for the bus.’
‘Perhaps I could give you a lift somewhere, my dear? I’ve got my car. My sons say I shouldn’t be driving any more at my age but I can’t see the harm. I don’t go at any great speed.’
‘Oh – it’ll be out of your way. I live right near the middle of Birmingham.’
‘Not at all, my dear. Let me help you – look, just along here . . .’
The idea of being driven was very attractive. He opened the door of the motor car and Mercy saw the blue veins standing out on his hands. She sank gratefully into the leather passenger seat.
The gentleman’s driving was perfectly in order, though he must, Mercy saw, have been nigh on eighty. Now and again he wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. They drove in silence for a few moments, until he burst out, ‘That was my grandson in there. Was. Like a vegetable now.’ She could hear all the grief pressed into his quavery voice.
‘Only eighteen he was, when it happened.’ He punched the air impotently with one hand and the car swerved. ‘Arras. That’s where it was, curse it! If only I could take his place—’
‘I feel that too.’
‘You?’ He glanced round at her, eyes wide. ‘Oh no – not you. You’re much too young, my dear. It’s us old, useless things – he should be out working, prime of his life . . . And you – lovely girl like you. I don’t know how you can even think such a thing.’
‘The way things are, it’d be easier.’
‘Now, now, now – nothing can be that bad, surely? Not compared with them in there. Young slip of a thing, life all in front of you. No war on now, nothing like that . . .’ He reached out and patted her hand. ‘Only thing to do, you know – keep putting one foot in front of the other and you’re sure to get there.’
Mercy managed a little smile. ‘Yes. I s’pose so.’
She got him to pull up on the Moseley Road, saying she’d walk the rest of the way, and thanked him sincerely.
‘I’ll perhaps see you there again. What’s your name, my dear?’
‘Mercy Hanley.’
The old gentleman let go of the steering wheel and slapped his thighs in amazement.
‘Extraordinary! Well, well, d’you know, my name’s Hanley too? Joseph Hanley – delighted to make your acquaintance. No relation, I don’t suppose!’
Mercy’s h
eart started to thump harder. No, surely it couldn’t be – he must be long dead . . .
‘You’re not – surely – that Joseph Hanley – the Hanley Homes?’
‘Yes, my dear. The very one – they’re still going strong, I’m happy to say.’
‘I can’t believe it!’ She clasped her hands to her cheeks. His face was much more shrunken now, softer, with an innate sympathy, and she could barely see that it was the same person. ‘I grew up in the home in Aston,’ she told him. ‘They gave me your name because I had no one—’
‘Did you, my dear?’ Mr Hanley’s face creased in wonder. ‘Well I’m proud to know you! This is a great day for me, seeing how you’ve grown up into such a fine girl.’
Mercy swallowed. ‘I, er – I was the one that bit you.’
Mr Hanley’s forehead wrinkled. ‘My, my – now you come to say it, I do remember that. Tiny little blonde thing – eyes like a cat. I had a mark on my hand for years after . . .’ He glanced at his thumb, then back at her. ‘It’s gone now though!’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Hanley. I wasn’t cross with you, not really. You gave me a roof over my head. But they sent my friend Amy to Canada and I felt I was all alone . . .’
Mr Hanley shook his head, still astonished. ‘Well well. I shall look forward to telling my family I’ve met you, Mercy. And I hope we shall run into each other again.’
Mercy climbed out of the car and looked in through the window, smiling. ‘So do I,’ she said.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Dorothy Finch waited on the step outside the Adairs’ house the next Saturday morning, a perplexed frown on her face. Emmie opened the door, and seeing her, clapped a hand over her mouth.
‘Oh – sorry, Miss Finch – only we’ve been so worried about Mercy. D’you know where she’s gone?’
‘What d’you mean, “gone”? Ain’t she here?’
Margaret Adair appeared, her face pale and tired. She immediately recognized the woman’s rather old-fashioned clothes and her dark, soulful eyes.
‘Thank goodness someone’s come at last – we haven’t known what to do. Please come in, won’t you? Emmie, you can go now . . . We’re all rather at sixes and sevens without Mercy.’
In the sitting room, Dorothy could see the woman was quite distressed. She motioned Dorothy to sit but remained standing herself, moving restlessly round the room.
‘I imagined she must have come to you. I just don’t understand it. She had seemed just a little unwell, but – is she all right? Where is she?’
Dorothy felt dread spreading through her. She clenched her teeth for a moment to quell her anger. How could they have just lost her!
‘It’s news to me that she’s not here, Mrs Adair. I expected to see ’er last Thursday. She comes to meet me about once a month as a rule, as you may know. I thought I’d come and see if she were awright like . . . When did she go?’
‘Nearly three weeks ago!’ Margaret wailed. ‘We all got up one morning and she’d gone – just bundled up some of her things and walked out in the night. For a terrible moment I thought she might have taken Stevie. That’s what’s so odd – she was so fond of him! What could have induced her? We thought of calling the police, but then it seemed she must have wanted to go, and the trouble is—’ – Margaret sat down suddenly beside Dorothy – ‘she talked occasionally about the home she’d grown up in, but I’ve been thinking about it and I don’t ever once remember her saying the name of the street. There’ve been letters coming for her too, I think from that young man. He even telephoned . . . I don’t know if all this had anything to do with him, but if she’d gone with him he wouldn’t need to write to her, would he? And I can’t even send the letters on. I do feel so very worried about her. And rather let-down to tell you the truth. It’s so out of character . . .’
Dorothy stood up, stemming the flow of Margaret’s agitated chatter.
‘You should give me the letters, Mrs Adair. Don’t worry,’ she added grimly, tucking the envelopes into her pocket, ‘I’ll find her. Good day to you.’
‘But . . .’ Margaret stood up after a moment. ‘Where are you going to . . .?’
Dorothy had already gone.
‘So, miss – what d’you think you’re doing back here?’
Dorothy’s voice was harsh with worry. She’d come straight from the Adairs’ and caught Mercy an hour before she was due at work. But Josephine had come to visit with her three kids and there was nowhere for them to talk in private.
Mercy didn’t look especially pleased to see her either. She seemed quite put out at her arrival. Dorothy saw how thin she was, gaunt and tight-lipped, a dull expression in her eyes. She’d last seen Mercy after her return from America, blooming with health and happiness. Whatever had got into her?
‘I’m just off to work,’ she said curtly, picking up her cardigan.
‘I’ll walk with you then.’ Dorothy’s tone brooked no argument.
‘I’m in good time,’ Mercy said. ‘Let’s go round Camp Hill way.’
She didn’t speak as they passed through the streets of St Joseph’s parish, wouldn’t answer Dorothy’s agitated questions until they reached the bustling thoroughfare at Camp Hill. Mercy was almost choked with nerves. She had to tell Dorothy, ’course she did. But it was the hardest thing yet. Dorothy had known her all these years, had tried to help her live a good life. She would expect better of her.
‘I didn’t think I’d see you,’ she said lamely.
‘And why not, pray?’
Mercy shrugged. Angel Street felt like a completely different existence that she’d slunk back into to hide, expecting everyone to just leave her alone to get on with it. She wanted to be left alone, to forget she’d ever had any hopes.
‘What’s going on, Mercy?’
They stopped by an ornate street lamp across the road from the Ship Hotel. There were trams passing, bicycles, people bustling along. The bell of Holy Trinity struck one.
Mercy folded her arms tight, looked into Dorothy’s eyes and told her. She expected disgust, scorn and anger. Instead, Dorothy’s face lost all its colour and she had to lean against the lamp-post for support.
‘Oh Mercy. Oh my Lord, you mean he . . .? Of course you couldn’t tell Mrs Adair why you were going! Oh, Lord above.’ She put her hand over her eyes. ‘I knew summat terrible must’ve happened.’ She turned, face hard for a moment. ‘Tell me you didn’t encourage ’im.’
‘On my life.’ Mercy’s lower lip was trembling. ‘You’ve got to believe me, Dorothy. I hardly knew what he was doing before it was too late, and I just couldn’t think that he was going to . . . It was all so strange and horrible . . .’
Dorothy breathed in and out deeply, trying to steady herself. Mercy was moved by her emotion. Dorothy really did care about her, almost like family.
‘What’re you going to do, Mercy?’
‘Have the babby. What else?’
‘But there are places – well, like Hanley’s – after, you know . . .’
‘No!’ she shouted, so enraged she didn’t care who heard. She could hear blood throbbing in her ears. Lowering her voice a little she said, ‘Are you saying I should just throw my babby away the way my mother did me? She didn’t care, did she? She just did what suited her. But I’ll never cast my child off!’ She laid a hand on her belly. ‘It’s my babby – the first person I’ve ever had who’s related to me by blood. Blood tells in this world – or it damn well should anyhow. I’ll look after my own, not like some.’
The two women stood glaring at each other for a moment, then Dorothy reached into her pocket.
‘You’re not telling me everything, are you? Mrs Adair said—’
‘You went to see her?’ Mercy was filled with panic. ‘You mustn’t, Dorothy – don’t tell her! She must never know. It’d destroy her and I don’t want him knowing, making any claims, or—’
‘He won’t make claims!’ Dorothy said scornfully. ‘I’d’ve thought you could at least work that one out for yourself. He’
d run a hundred mile rather than admit that babby’s his, in his position. But if you was to tell just him, you might get some money out of him.’
Mercy stared back at her as if she were deranged. ‘I don’t want his filthy money! I don’t want anything to do with him!’
‘You might think different when it’s born and going hungry.’
‘Alf and Mabel won’t let us go hungry.’ Mercy pulled herself up straight, making a show of strength. ‘And I’m going to provide for it too. I can survive. I’ve always had to, haven’t I?’
A tram rumbled past on the street beside them. Dorothy pulled Paul’s letters out from her pocket and held them out. Only then did Mercy’s face crumple. Her eyes widened before filling with tears. She covered her face with her hands.
Mercy sat in the ticket booth at the cinema while the first showing was on. She could hear the music from inside. She slit open the envelopes containing Paul’s letters, her hands trembling so much she could barely manage.
The first, two weeks old, contained the usual news from Cambridge. Paul’s father was deteriorating, had had another slight stroke. Paul was caring for him continuously. The sight of his handwriting wrung her heart.
By the second letter he had received her last note, posted on her flight from the Adairs’. Mercy began reading, then looked up, unable for a moment to go on. In the dim light she could just see her pale face reflected in the glass. When she looked down again to read the letter, the pain and bewilderment contained in his few quiet words seemed to burn from the page.
My loved one,
I can feel – I hope – the distress of your last letter to me. I have read it over and over many times, trying to make sense of it. How could you imagine for a second that I could ever forget you? Or perhaps there is another reason, another person in your life, and that is why you want to forget me? What is it, my love? What could have made you write a letter like that all of a sudden, as if I could just stop feeling what I do for you and that everything between us was nothing? If only I could see you, I’m sure we could make ourselves understood so much better.
