by Janet Tanner
‘What in the world … ?’ Glad, who had been standing on the step looking only vaguely puzzled and still, for all the world, wrapped up in her wonderful gossipy evening, now sounded thoroughly alarmed herself. The panic in her voice went some way to calming Heather. Glad had had a bad heart for years.
‘It’s all right, Gran.’ She bent forwards again, prepared now for what her groping fingers would encounter. And they did. A cold grizzled neck. The collar of a flannelette shirt. The sturdily made wool of Walt’s cardigan.
‘Oh God, Oh God!’ she whispered to herself between chattering teeth, and then, louder: ‘Vanessa – are you all right, sweetheart?’
‘Mum-my! Mum-my!’
She couldn’t move Walt or the door by so much as an inch. She should have known she wouldn’t be able to.
‘It’s all right, Vanessa. Mummy’s here. Mummy’s coming.’ She scrambled to her feet, tearing the knee of her stocking on the rough edge of the doorstep.
‘What is it? What’s going on?’ Glad demanded again, panicky yes, but also, curiously, almost determinedly obtuse.
‘I think Grampy’s fallen down. In the doorway. I’ve got to get in. Is the front-room window open?’
She stepped on to the strip of garden beneath it, feeling at the surround with her fingertips in the almost total darkness. It wasn’t open. Again, she should have known it wouldn’t be, not at this time of night. Thinking it might be had just been a straw to grasp at.
In her panic she had almost forgotten that Steve would be approaching the house from a different direction – the back-garden path. It was only when she heard him rapping on the living-room window and calling her name that she remembered and flooded with relief.
‘Steve!’ she called desperately.
She heard his footsteps coming along the side passage between the house and the sheds.
‘Heather?’ he called over the solid wood door at the front garden end of the passage, which was also locked at nightfall to stop anyone who might want to take a short cut from the main road to the back lane by way of the gardens. ‘Heather? What’s the matter?’
‘Can’t you get in?’ she called back.
‘No – the back door’s locked.’
‘I can’t get in this way either. Grampy’s fallen down.’ She still used the euphanism, though she knew in her heart it was more than that. ‘He’s right in the doorway. And Steve – Vanessa’s there too, and she’s crying!’
‘All right. I’m coming.’
She heard him clambering on to the dustbin, then haul himself up on to the dividing wall and inched along it, sending a shower of small stones skittering down. Then he lowered himself to the ground, crunching into the lily of the valley bed that thrived in the shady corner.
‘Steve – what are we going to do? The window’s shut too!’
First he pushed at the front door with no more success than she had had. Then he went to the window and a moment later there was the tinkle of breaking glass.
‘My window!’ Glad said, outraged. ‘You’ve broke my window!’
Neither of them answered her. Steve reached through the shattered pane, unhooked the window and hoisted himself up and through. Heather ran back to the front door and as she did so, heard Steve in the hall speaking to Vanessa, and a series of thuds and scufflings. At last the door opened and Steve thrust a sobbing Vanessa into Heather’s arms.
‘Take her … I can smell gas.’
He disappeared along the hall. Heather stepped over Walt’s outstretched body, then, as she too smelled it, stepped back again into the fresh air.
‘Wait there, Gran. There’s gas escaping …’
A minute or so later Steve was back. ‘It’s all right. I’ve turned it off. It’s not too bad – the lav window was open.’
Heather stepped over Walt’s body again and pushed past Steve who was now kneeling beside him. Vanessa’s chubby arms were wound tightly around her neck; in the light of the hall, Heather could see congealed blood in her hair.
‘Steve – call the doctor!’
‘It’s too late. I think he’s gone.’
‘No – for Vanessa. She’s hurt …’
Not waiting for Steve, she grabbed the phone herself, somehow managing to dial the number which she had learned off by heart in case of an emergency such as this, whilst still cradling Vanessa. As if from a long way off she heard Glad moaning and then the shrilling of the bell, over and over and over …
Helen was enjoying a plate of cold beef and ham when the telephone began ringing. She paused, fork poised halfway from plate to mouth, tensing slightly and listening, then consciously relaxing. This wasn’t her house and it wasn’t her phone. But some sixth sense was nudging her, all the same, and a moment later Matthew appeared in the doorway beckoning to Paul, who had been cornered by a large and ebullient lady who looked like nothing so much as a bejewelled tank.
A few moments later Paul was back, making his way to her side.
‘We’ve had a call; can you come?’
Helen dumped her plate, found her bag and stole and followed him outside.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked as she slid into the car beside him.
He told her.
‘I think we might have a sudden death on our hands, and Vanessa’s been hurt too.’
‘Have they phoned for an ambulance?’
‘I don’t think so. We’ll probably need an ambulance and the police, but we can assess the situation when we get there. They didn’t give Dorothea many details, but she said Heather sounded very upset.’
Dorothea had been fielding calls and had Matthew’s number in case of emergency.
Paul drove fast, negotiating the almost empty main road with skill and ease. The front door of the Simmonses’house was ajar, light spilling out on to the step and the peony bush sentinels and framed within it Steve, still wearing the blazer and flannels that made up his choir uniform, but with his tie pulled loose at the neck, could be seen looking out.
Paul took the steps two at a time and Helen followed.
‘I’m sorry, it’s a bit of a squeeze getting in,’ Steve said and as they slid through into the hall Helen saw Walt sprawled on the floor. At a glance she knew he was past help.
‘Where’s Vanessa?’
‘In the living room with Heather.’
Leaving Paul with Walt, Helen hurried along the hall. Glad was sitting in one of the fireside chairs, staring into space, Heather was on the sofa, cradling Vanessa in her arms. The child was silent now; Helen guessed she had gone into shock. A faint smell of gas still lingered.
‘Oh, Doctor, I’m sorry!’ Heather said inconsequentially as she noticed Helen’s finery. ‘You were out somewhere and we’ve spoiled your evening.’
In the midst of mayhem and tragedy it was the sort of response that might have sounded ridiculous but Helen had heard it – or something similar – many times before – a not unusual attempt at almost banal normality.
‘It couldn’t matter less,’ she said. ‘Now – let’s have a look at this little one.’
‘What a night!’ she said to Paul much later. ‘So much for Matthew’s soirée!’
‘At least it gave us an easy get-out,’ Paul said. ‘Sometimes getting away from these things can be very difficult.’
Helen laughed. ‘That is wicked of you! And I can’t imagine the soirée is still going on now. Enid didn’t strike me as the night owl type.’
They were driving back to Valley View House. The clock on the dashboard showed one thirty and the valley was silent and dreaming beneath the star-studded velvet of the night sky.
Helen had accompanied Vanessa and Heather to the hospital for X-rays and a thorough check on the little girl, whilst Paul had waited at the house for the police to arrive and then the removal team from the undertakers. By the time Helen got back from the hospital, Walt had been taken away to the mortuary to await the necessary postmortem, for under the circumstances neither he nor Helen had been able to sign a death certifi
cate. Helen was relieved to find him gone; she didn’t want little Vanessa traumatised any further.
‘It’s the sort of experience that could mark her for life,’ she said to Paul now. ‘I only hope they’ll talk to her about it and encourage her to do the same.’
Paul threw her a quizzical glance, steering the car into Mill Lane.
‘She’s too young for that, surely.’
‘Old enough to know what happened. If they try to make her forget, maybe to all intents and purposes she will, but in fact all that will happen is that it will be driven deep into her subconscious. She’ll never deal with it, Paul, just remember she was terrified and carry a child’s terror into adulthood. There’ll be a trigger – the dark, maybe, or stairs, or something equally innocuous that she associates with her terror and she’ll never encounter that without it setting her off. Phobias are made of this.’
‘You’re getting a bit deep for me. I didn’t do any psychology.’
‘Neither did I. Well, not much, anyway. But believe me, I know from personal experience.’
‘You?’
‘Me. For as long as I can remember I was terrified of birds. Really freaked-out terrified. When I was little I had nightmares about them. I’d wake up thinking my hot-water bottle was a dead bird and I’d lie frozen, afraid to move a muscle in case I touched it. Afraid to get out of bed too, thinking I might step on one. Even when I grew up it wouldn’t go away. I’d miss a bus rather than pass a pigeon and the seagulls.’ She shuddered, remembering.
‘Are you still afraid?’ Paul asked curiously.
‘No, that’s the whole point. When I was at med school there was a guy who’d done a degree in psychology. We got talking and he asked if he could hypnotise me. I thought it was a load of rubbish, doubted he could even put me under, but I was intrigued. So I agreed.’
‘And?’
‘It took a couple of sessions before he found what he was looking for – and those sessions were an experience in themselves. I thought I was still fully conscious – relaxed, yes, but totally in control – and then I’d hear myself saying things in this little child’s voice – really weird things, like: “Mummy said I didn’t have to paddle today’cos I’ve got a cold, but Daddy let me,” and I’d be describing my dress and my sandals, even my pushchair.’
‘Making it up to please him.’
‘That’s what I thought at first. But it wasn’t that. It was – weird. And then we got to it. I’d been with Dad for a walk in the woods at Alcombe. Some boys were there, shooting. They killed a rook. It fluttered out of the bushes, dying, right at my feet. I said in that same little child’s voice: “It’s dead! I don’t want it to be dead!” And then I was crying, sobbing, tears streaming down my face. He told me there was nothing to be afraid of, that I was grown up now, and now that I understood, I’d lose my fear.’
‘And did you?’
‘Yes. Not immediately – I had to relearn years of responses. But gradually the terror went away. Now it’s gone completely. And I can actually remember that fright with the reaction of an adult. So you see I am living proof of the damage that can be done. My mother had told me to forget it – it was over; she never talked it through with me. I don’t want that to happen to Vanessa.’
They had reached Porters Hill whilst she was talking and Paul had pulled up beside the gate. The moon was bathing the valley in light so that the grass took on a silvery sheen and the houses on the far side of the valley were clearly visible. No lights showed at any of the windows; they might have been alone in a silent shadowy world. The sharing of the confidence had made Helen feel closer to Paul, she was surprised at the shaft of warm awareness as she glanced at him. He was looking straight ahead; his profile was strong and unexpectedly attractive. She caught at herself, caught at the sudden surge of emotion which was exciting her and making her feel oddly vulnerable both at the same time.
‘I shall keep an eye on her, anyway,’ she said. ‘In fact, I might just have a word with Heather and tell her what I’ve just told you.’
‘Be careful. People round here are very wary of anything that borders on the psychiatric.’
‘Don’t I know it!’ She remembered her aunt Grace, her mother’s sister, who had suffered so badly from the clinical depression which was described so cruelly hereabouts as ‘going funny’. To go funny was almost a crime, certainly the cause for scorn and derision, as if the subject was to blame for their illness. Pneumoconiosis, hernias and heart disease were acceptable, nervous disorders were not.
‘Heather’s young though,’ she said. ‘I’m sure she would be more open-minded. We’re not living in the Dark Ages any more, for goodness sake.’
‘Hmm.’ It was no more than a thoughtful expulsion of breath, followed by silence. Helen looked at him, puzzled.
‘What was that for?’
‘No reason.’
‘It must have been! What were you thinking?’
Yesterday, much as she had enjoyed his company, she would never have pressed him for his private thoughts. That she did so now was a mark of the new intimacy.
‘About Heather.’
‘What about Heather?’
He glanced at her, running his fingers thoughtfully around the steering wheel.
‘Have you looked at her records?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘There’s nothing before she came to Hillsbridge.’
‘The family moved from Bristol during the war, didn’t they? I assume Heather’s records were lost in the bombing.’
‘Possibly, I suppose. But all the others survived. It’s my opinion that Heather’s have disappeared for a reason.’
Helen was completely intrigued now.
‘What do you mean?’
He was staring straight ahead again now, still fingering the steering wheel.
‘I looked after Heather when she was having Vanessa. I delivered her in fact. Heather insisted Vanessa was her first child. But she wasn’t. I didn’t make an issue of it – there were no complications, no real reason to press Heather for details she obviously wanted to keep to herself. But Vanessa was not Heather’s first pregnancy. There was absolutely no doubt in my mind. She’d had a baby before.’
Helen was silent, digesting this information.
‘General practice is full of surprises,’ Paul said with a grin. ‘Never assume you know a patient, Helen. Most people have a cupboard full of secrets.’
‘I know that,’ she said shortly. ‘I’m not totally naive.’
‘I never thought you were. But you do tend to think the best of people.’
‘Is that so bad?’
‘No. Just typically you.’
‘And what,’ Helen asked mischievously, ‘is typically me?’
He turned to look at her again. A corner of his mouth turned up; by the bright moonlight she could see it quite clearly.
‘A bit fiery, a bit defensive …’
‘Being a woman in a man’s world has made me that!’
‘And really altogether rather nice.’
‘Nice!’
‘A bit more than nice.’
‘Oh.’ She was embarrassed suddenly. ‘You mean I’ll do.’
‘I reckon.’ He paused. ‘How would you feel about doing this more often?’
She knew what he meant; chose to be deliberately obtuse.
‘Spend our evenings dealing with death and trauma?’
‘Not exactly. I was thinking more of the social aspect.’
‘Ah.’
‘You’re still involved with that Guy fellow.’ He said it so quickly, so defensively, she realised that beneath the down-to-earth side of him which he chose to show to the world, he was actually rather vulnerable.
‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I’m not. That’s over.’
‘Well then …’
‘Is it wise?’ she asked.
‘When was wise ever worth bothering about?’
‘True.’ When had she been wise? She hesitated; threw caution to the winds. �
��All right. Just so long as we don’t get involved.’
‘Did I ask you to get involved?’
‘No.’ But you meant it. I know you meant it.
‘So what are you worrying about?’
A hundred and one things. Mostly how we would be able to go on working together if we want different things, want to move at a different pace.
‘Paul, I …’
And then he kissed her. Afterwards she was never sure how it had come to happen. Only that she was in his arms and his mouth was on hers and it felt good. Very good.
‘I suppose I shouldn’t have done that,’ he said, releasing her.
‘No, you shouldn’t,’ she said. ‘It’s exactly the sort of thing I was afraid of.’
‘I suppose that’s why I did it,’ Paul said. ‘What were you just saying about confronting your fears? That if they’re left to go inward they just get worse? I thought if you’re into all this Freudian stuff it might be just the kind of therapy you needed.’
‘I see,’ Helen said. ‘So it was a form of treatment.’
‘If you like. Did it work?’
The moon was very bright. She thought afterwards it initiated a sort of madness.
‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you should give it another try.’
He did.
‘Any better?’
‘Let me sleep on it,’ she said.
Chapter Twelve
‘I hear poor Walt Simmons has gone,’ Charlotte said.
She was wearing her Sunday-best dress, sitting on one of the hardbacked chairs in Dolly’s living room with her bag and a cup of tea on the table in front of her. She had been there for the half-hour since Dolly had cleared away the dinner things and replaced the tablecloth with one of the cream centrepieces Charlotte had crocheted for her and a glass jug and basin full of sweet william and snapdragons, waiting for Helen, who had promised to take her for a run in the car. But now that Helen was here, she wasn’t sure she wanted to go out. It was a hot afternoon and there was so much traffic on the roads these days it worried her; even sitting in the back seat like a passenger in a taxi she found it difficult to relax, with motorbikes roaring past and other cars coming from all directions. It was a sign of getting old, she supposed, you felt more vulnerable, nervous of things you could have taken in your stride when you were twenty years younger. Besides, she wanted to talk to Helen and talking wasn’t easy when the conversation had to be conducted over her granddaughter’s shoulder.
