by Susan Hill
‘Molly . . .’
The warmth moved slightly against her hand and there was a little pressure. She liked the voice. The voice made her feel safe.
‘Molly, can you hear me? I thought I saw you open your eyes. Can you do that again?’
The hand smoothed the back of her own hand. She knew the voice and that it was not a man’s voice, and a name belonging to the voice was floating about just ahead of her, bobbing like a balloon on a string, but just too far away for her to touch it and pull it in so that she would know the name.
‘I’ll keep talking to you. I can stay a bit longer. I came to see you this morning and I told you this so perhaps you did hear. If you can’t open your eyes, just squeeze my hand. If you can remember what happened to you, squeeze my hand. Can you squeeze my hand now? You needn’t try and squeeze hard. Just hold mine a bit more tightly.’
She knew that she could, but the trouble was if she squeezed this person’s hand to show that she had heard her and understood her, what might happen then? Who else might touch her? The man with the shining head might press his hand on hers, might . . .
Molly heard her own voice, crying out but not saying words. Just crying out.
‘It’s all right. You’re in hospital and I’m here with you, Molly. You’re fine.’
Without knowing that she was going to do it, Molly opened her eyes and at once they focused not on the man with the shining head, not on her own hand, not on the white covers, but on a face she knew.
‘Cat . . .’ she said.
‘She’s going to be all right. No brain damage, her lungs are clear. Once they come round and there’s no organ failure, then it’s very fast forward.’
Cat knew the tone of voice and every nuance of expression because she used them herself. Confidence, an almost casual assumption that there would be full recovery, not even the caveat that ‘providing this or that does not occur’. Molly was still young enough to go from death’s door to fit and well within a short space of time.
‘Physically, anyway.’ The registrar waved his hand as he turned away and went off down the corridor.
Molly’s father, mother and brother had arrived. For the first time in many hours, Cat was free.
In the League of Friends café she bought a cheese and tomato baguette, crisps, a bar of chocolate, tea, suddenly ravenous with the hunger that accompanies relief.
Physically, he had said. That was his area. He left the rest to other medics. Molly was seeing a counsellor but Cat was doubtful if it was helping her enough – or why would she have overdosed to the extent she nearly died? She was almost a qualified doctor. She knew what she was doing. Clearly she needed more intensive psychiatric help and Cat would try and make sure she got it. Molly was not merely a lodger, she had become part of the Deerbon family. They loved her. Cat owed it to her to do more than get her good professional care. The trauma she had suffered at the hands of Leo Fison would live in her head forever and certainly she would not be able to return and take her medical finals until she had her reactions more under control. But even if she passed her exams, would she ever be able to cope as a doctor? Cat finished her tea. She was angry at a man who could so disregard his fellow human beings and their feelings. He would have killed Molly, she had no doubt, but he had vanished. No one had seen him, he had left no tracks.
‘You’ll get him,’ Cat had said confidently to her brother.
‘Maybe.’
‘But he’s a dangerous man.’
‘There are plenty of dangerous men on the Wanted records of every police force in the world and lots of them are never caught.’
‘Don’t let Molly hear you say that. She has to feel she’s safe.’
‘I know.’ Simon did know but he doubted if Fison would risk showing his face within a hundred miles of Lafferton again. He just could not give Molly a cast-iron assurance about it.
At Imogen House, Jocelyn Forbes was in a coma, with the breathing tube in place again. Cat looked at her charts. Perhaps she would slip peacefully from sleep into death with the ease they always tried to ensure for patients. She looked calm.
‘Good, you’re here.’ Cathy Loughran, the Staff Nurse, came in, looking agitated. ‘I’m going to blow a gasket if that daughter of hers doesn’t get her act together and come in while there’s breath left in her mother’s body.’
‘Perhaps she’s in court, she’s a barrister –’
‘I know what she is. I’ve spoken to her . . . she’s not well, she’s had a breakdown, she’s trying to come to terms with her mother’s illness, she’s . . .’
Cat led her gently outside into the corridor, though it was unlikely that Jocelyn could hear them.
‘I’ll phone her.’
‘Good luck then. Maybe you’ll have more patience.’
‘Come on, Cathy, you’re one of the most patient women I know.’
‘Not with the likes of Penny Forbes I’m not.’
The phone rang seven times before it was answered by a machine. Cat left a brief message, waited ten minutes and then rang again. The answerphone. She left no message, merely redialled, and redialled, until, at the fifth attempt, she got Jocelyn’s daughter, by which time she was as annoyed as Cathy but, also like Cathy, well able to conceal the fact.
‘I’m sorry, I have a major case to prepare. I’m back at work tomorrow and in court for the rest of the week.’ She sounded crisp and professional. And hard. But Cat knew a front when one was put up before her.
‘I understand. I know Sister Loughran rang you but I thought I should do so as well as I’m the medical officer for the hospice and I’ve been looking after your mother for some time. I was her GP, as I think you know.’
Silence.
‘She’s is in the final stages and I’m concerned that if you don’t see her you may regret it very much.’
‘I will come and see her.’
‘When?’
‘Look, I don’t think you understand what it’s like and I certainly don’t think you know what an ordeal I went through with her on that terrible journey to the clinic . . .’
Cat took a deep breath. ‘I do know, I promise you. It was horrible for you both and I can guess what a toll it took on you as the one who had to be responsible for everything. It was a very loyal and loving thing to do. I’m not surprised you’ve had such a reaction. Is there anything I can do to help you? If you feel it would help to come and talk to me I’m more than happy . . .’
‘My own doctor hasn’t been very supportive, to be honest. I have sleep problems, I have flashbacks, I have panic attacks.’
‘Your GP should be able to refer you to a counsellor.’
‘I don’t think I could face that, going over and over it and then delving back into my childhood, stirring up all sorts of memories. I just need something to calm me down. I have to be in control when I’m in court, I can’t look ragged with lack of sleep. Is there anything you can prescribe for me?’
‘I’m afraid not, but . . . would you feel able to talk to me? I can make sure I’m free when you come to see your mother.’
Penny Forbes sighed deeply. ‘I don’t know if I can face that yet.’
‘Talking to me?’ No, she thought, of course that isn’t what you mean, you selfish, self-regarding, self-absorbed cow.
‘No. I meant my mother.’ There was a catch in her voice.
‘You really don’t have much time.’
It’s winter. I had to wait, wait, wait. Bloody cold, day and night, and it’s night I like. Once the clocks go forward you’ve lost a big bit of the night. I’ve been thinking back. Spring was best. It was warm. I used to love that. Wait for it. Warm nights, walking back home. Big moon. Huge moon.
I love the moon. Moon nights are best.
Big moons.
Thirteen
‘I CAN’T GET over it, I just can’t. I knew it would be nice but I didn’t think it would be like this. Look . . . look at the fridge!’
Harry laughed. ‘It’s only a fridge like you
r old fridge.’
‘No, it’s not, it’s got a much bigger freezer box.’
Rosemary opened a cupboard door, then another. Went to the sink.
‘What’s this?’
‘Waste disposal.’
‘What does it do?’
‘Munches up your potato peelings and all that. Turns them into a slurry.’
‘Looks as if it could turn your fingers into a slurry as well.’
‘It could. You be careful.’
‘Let’s go back into the sitting room.’
There was a pair of double doors onto the patio, which faced west. There was a raised step for pots. A small shed. A gate to the bin area.
‘I’ll get a bird table. One with a seed feeder. And a bird bath.’
‘Nice outdoor table and chairs. Tell you what, Rosemary, let me buy you those . . . house-warming. Let me know what sort you like. You can have breakfast out here, anything, it’s pretty sheltered. Not overlooked either.’ He climbed on a couple of slabs to look over the fence. ‘Not overlooked. But you’re not far from next door either.’
‘Wonder who I’ll get. We share a front path. Hope we get on.’
Harry put his arm round her. ‘You get on with anybody and everybody, Rosemary. Never known anyone so friendly.’
It was true. One of the best things about her.
‘The electrics aren’t finished by the look of things. I’ll keep an eye on that, and they haven’t done a second coat on the paintwork.’
‘I’m not moving in for another three weeks, Harry. Nobody’s moved in.’
‘They’ll sign them all off together. Wonder if the flats are done?’
‘I’m relieved I haven’t been given one of those.’
‘What’s wrong with a flat? Call it an apartment – see the difference?’
‘There isn’t any – and I don’t care what it’s called, I couldn’t live in one.’
‘Good job you won’t have to then. This is going to suit you very nicely.’
On the other side of Lafferton, Gordon Dyer was spending another day clearing out cupboards. Kitchen cupboards, bathroom cupboard, cupboard above the wardrobe, cupboards in the sitting-room wall unit, and then there were the shelves, and then there was the shed. He sat down. It was cold in the kitchen but the gas had gone up sky-high and even in this snow he didn’t put the heaters on until seven and went to bed at nine, unless there was something he wanted to watch, when he kept it low, put on another jumper and sat with the old car rug over him. Greta had thrown the rug out a dozen times, and he’d always managed to sneak it back again. When she went, he had it cleaned and then spread it on the sofa. She’d have hated that. But then, Greta would have hated a lot of things he’d changed. Hated the kitchen table being on the other side and the bed against the wrong wall and the shower he’d had put in and the wallpaper up the stairs and the blue three-piece suite. She’d left him six thousand pounds, though where she’d got it from heaven knew – probably been squirrelling it away for years. He’d gone out and bought all the new stuff for the house and still had just over three thousand left.
He looked at the electric-blue sofa. She’d have hated it.
What she would have said about a move to the sheltered bungalow he could guess only too well. ‘Poky place.’ ‘What would I want to be among all old people for?’ ‘Call that a garden?’ ‘Why’d they have to name it after royalty? I can’t do with royalty.’
Gordon was happy to have his new home named after anyone or anything. He was pleased with it. He needed far less space, he needed neighbours, he needed someone listening out, he needed a new start. Why not? He might even meet somebody. He and Greta had never been more than accommodated. He wondered if seventy-eight was too old to find a woman who might be more. Love even.
He wondered what it might be like.
Twelve bungalows. One block of four maisonettes and a warden’s flat. But Duchess of Cornwall Close still wasn’t quite finished.
‘Typical,’ Elinor Sanders said, having to spend the night with her sister Muriel while her furniture went into the depot.
‘Stop complaining. You’re lucky to have a place. Not that I know why you bothered coming away from Newcastle.’
‘Nothing left for me in Newcastle. Newcastle’s a young person’s place, all those students, all those out on a Friday night. Nothing for anyone my age.’
‘Never heard anything so daft. I suppose you want a sherry.’
‘Not fussed.’
‘Well, do you or not?’
‘Nothing left there at all.’
‘I don’t know what there is for you in Lafferton either.’
Elinor looked at the twin sister she had fought with since trying to elbow her out of the shared womb. ‘And you, my only surviving flesh and blood.’
Muriel snorted.
The sherry brought their animosity to a head. They quarrelled over Elinor’s gloating that at least she had had a husband and spent the evening in silence.
‘She’ll be gone in the morning,’ Muriel reassured herself as she got into bed, ‘they’ll get the heating sorted tomorrow, surely to God.’
They did. By four o’clock Elinor was surrounded by her own chairs and tables in 12 Duchess of Cornwall Close, and at seven, Muriel was drinking her sherry alone.
It’s better, Elinor thought, even though the bungalow was so silent, the street outside a traffic-free cul-de-sac, and only a couple of other houses occupied. ‘It’s better we live near one another and I won’t miss Newcastle.’
But that night, lying in a bedroom as yet without curtains and quiet as the grave, she did.
Two doors away, Ray Hartwell had been asleep since nine. Ray had not wanted to move. They were starting to demolish the other houses in the street and he had sat tight. The landlady had bribed him and then upped the bribe. The landlady had tried to get the council involved but they were not prepared to move someone physically and told her to negotiate. She had upped the bribe a last time, offering him far more than he was worth, and then, recognising a final offer when he saw one, Ray had agreed to move if the council gave him somewhere new in a decent area of town and on a subsidised rent. Duchess of Cornwall Close was entirely allocated and with a waiting list. Ray had threatened to occupy his house while they tore down the walls around him. He had suggested arson and made sure he was seen carrying a petrol can. The offer of a maisonette came the following day. Ray did not like maisonettes or flats, so he stuck out for a bungalow. A few more days of building small bonfires, prowling round them with a box of firelighters, and he was given the keys to number 8 as the builders left. Number 8 was supposed to have been the warden’s.
A leaflet had come through the door, a welcome letter from the warden and a note about activities and facilities that would be available before long.
Ray threw it in the plastic carrier bag he used for a bin. Activities and facilities did not interest him and he could do without the welcome letter. The front-door key had been his welcome.
Ray lay on his back and snored and a faint wash of snores even reached Elinor Sanders two doors away and ruffled her sleep so that she turned over and back and murmured quietly, but did not wake. She had gone to bed in the knowledge that if she wanted to sleep in she could, though her conscience would not have let her stay in bed beyond eight thirty.
Ray would wake at five and get up at ten minutes past, as he had done for sixty years. He made black tea with four spoons of sugar and sat at the window drinking it, looking out. He would do the same in Duchess of Cornwall Close, staying at his window for an hour or more.
Ray liked to think he missed nothing.
How long does it take to stop dreaming about the old life? I walk those streets not these streets. I see the people who live there not here. They call me by my own name. This name isn’t my own name and never will be, even though I went through all their tripwire tests until they were satisfied. How do you stop being the person you were since the day you were born? You’re born all over ag
ain with this new name, new past, new place, new house, new life, but your memories aren’t new, are they?
Anyway, I like those memories. I liked that life. I like to think about what happened. Everything. I like to walk those streets in my dreams not these streets. I like to lie in bed before I drop off and go back there. Go back. Be me. Remember everything.
Keeps me warm at night.
Fourteen
QUIET. A STRANGE, muffled quietness. A cool moonlight coming through the window and silvering the opposite wall.
Elinor Sanders had slept a little, woken, slept a little less. Switched on the light and switched it off again. Then sat up suddenly, afraid of the silence and the odd light. It was bitterly cold. She was used to cold, used to living in the North-East after all, but the walls of the new bungalow felt raw-cold, without having had any heating to penetrate the bricks and settle there. The bed was deep and soft and she was warm inside it, but the air outside chilled her face and one arm which had been outside the covers.
She got up and went to the window. The paving stones on the paths were pale as bone. The air was brilliantly clear, the moon full. Cold.
She went into the kitchen. Colder. Looked out of the window again, waiting for the kettle to boil. There was a light in one of the other houses. Someone else not able to sleep. Would it be all right here? The North-East was very friendly – too friendly, sometimes, but you were never ignored, never left to rot, never without someone you could call on, or call out to. Would that be true here? ‘The South?’ they’d said, wondering at her state of mind. They weren’t friendly in the South. They kept themselves to themselves and nobody just popped in.
