‘I’m afraid he broke his legs,’ answered Henry. ‘They put him out of his misery.’
When they reached the hospital they went straight to Casualty, where they found John, sitting, waiting. When they walked in he got to his feet and enfolded Charlotte in his arms. For a long moment he held her and then, keeping hold of her hand, sat back down and she sat down beside him. Dr Masters raised an interrogatory eyebrow.
‘They’ve taken him for X-rays,’ John said. ‘The doctor said they’d know more when they’d seen those.’
‘No change in the ambulance?’
John shook his head. ‘I did what you said, Henry, and talked to him all the way.’
‘That was good,’ said Henry. ‘Now it’s just a question of waiting to see what they’ve found. I don’t suppose it’ll be long.’
‘You’ve told Margaret, I suppose.’
‘Yes, they were all at the farm. She and Caroline are looking after the children. When you’re ready to go, I’ll drive you home.’
‘They put him in that end cubicle when we got here,’ John said. ‘It’s full of the latest stuff. The nurse told me he’d be brought back there when they’d finished. Think I’ll wait until we hear something.’
They sat in silence, waiting for Billy’s return. A nurse came and spoke to them and told Charlotte that she’d be able to sit with Billy once he was comfortable.
‘Dr Smart’ll come and talk to you as soon as he knows anything. He told me your husband wouldn’t be going up to the ward straight away. We’ll have to keep a very close eye on him for a while and that’s easier down here. Would you like a drink of tea? I could make some for you in the ward kitchen.’
Charlotte shook her head, the thought of swallowing anything seemed impossible, and the two men declined as well.
It seemed an age before the doors swung open and two porters wheeled Billy in on a trolley. He was taken into the end cubicle where the nurse joined them. Not long after, the doors opened again and a doctor came in. He walked across to where the three of them were sitting.
John got to his feet. ‘Doctor, this is my daughter-in-law, Billy’s wife.’
‘Dr Smart,’ said the doctor, extending a hand to Charlotte. ‘Perhaps you’d like to come into the office so we can have a chat.’
Charlotte stood up and followed him in to a glassed-off office at the end of the ward. At the door she said, ‘Come too, Gramp, and you, Henry.’
‘We’ve had a look at Billy’s X-rays,’ said Dr Smart when they were all inside. ‘He’s got a couple of broken ribs and his arm is broken in two places. Those things will heal. What concerns us is the injury to his head. He’s fractured his skull, low down at its base. That has crushed the spinal cord, and the fracture has spread outward and upward. I have to tell you that I’m afraid there is little or nothing we can do for this.’
Charlotte’s hand went to her mouth, stifling a cry of anguish. Dr Smart looked at her with compassion, knowing what his words were telling her.
‘Is he going to die?’ She asked the question John dared not ask and to which Henry already knew the answer.
‘I can’t say, for sure,’ replied Dr Smart. ‘All I can tell you is that he’s deeply unconscious. We shall monitor that to see if there’s any change, but in my opinion, I think he’s unlikely to recover consciousness, and if he does, he will be quadriplegic; that is, paralysed from the neck down.’
Charlotte stared at him. She had been prepared for Billy to have a long and painful recovery from his injuries, perhaps to have difficulty with walking, but she had not really faced up to the reality of just how badly he was damaged.
‘I’m sorry,’ Dr Smart said. ‘I can’t tell you more because I don’t know. We shall do our best for him.’
‘Can I see him now?’ Charlotte asked, her voice breaking on a sob.
‘Of course,’ replied the doctor. ‘Come with me.’ He led the way to the cubicle where Billy lay and stood aside to let her in.
Charlotte stood in the doorway and looked at her Billy, dressed in a hospital gown, lying motionless on the bed. His eyes were closed and his face was the colour of alabaster, blotched with purple bruises, and there was a gauze dressing across one cheek. One of his arms was in plaster, and a drip line went into the other. His head rested on a pillow, supported by small pillows on either side.
The tears she had fought for so long welled in her eyes and flooded silently down her cheeks. After a long moment she stepped forwards and took a seat at the side of the bed. She took his uninjured hand in hers and raised it to her wet cheek. His skin was warm against her own; somehow she’d expected it to be cold. She heard John’s voice outside the cubicle. He’d said he was going home to Margaret when they’d spoken to the doctor. She gently replaced Billy’s hand on the bed and having dried her eyes and cheeks, she went back through the curtains.
‘Come in and see him,’ she said softly. John nodded and edged past her to the bedside.
She could hear him murmuring to Billy, though not the words he said, and she hoped that somewhere, deep inside, Billy could hear his father’s voice and knew he was there.
‘Are you going to take John home now?’ she asked Henry. ‘I’m not coming. I’m going to stay here, with Billy.’
‘Of course you are,’ replied Henry. ‘I’ll take John back and then I’ll bring them both here in the morning. Don’t worry about the children. Caroline’ll take care of them while Margaret’s with Billy.’ He took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘Be brave, Charlotte, brave as you’ve always been.’
Charlotte nodded wordlessly and as John emerged from the cubicle, she went back in and took her place at the side of the bed.
‘Billy,’ she whispered. ‘I’m here. Don’t leave me. Whatever we have to face, we can face together. I need you, Billy. The children need you. How will Johnny learn to ride properly without you? Edie needs her daddy, Billy. Don’t leave us, my darling. Stay with us and watch your children grow.’
She continued to hold his hand, smoothing his skin with her fingers. Can he feel this? she wondered. Remembering Henry had told John to keep talking to him, Charlotte continued to talk to Billy, lying so unresponsive on the bed.
‘We had a lovely afternoon,’ she told him. ‘We all had dinner at the farm and Marjorie Bellinger came too. Your mother found your old snakes and ladders board; Johnny soon got the hang of that and we played it most of the afternoon. He’ll want to play with you when you get home again.’
The curtain was pulled aside and the doctor came in. ‘Don’t move,’ he said. ‘I just need to check his reflexes.’ Charlotte watched as he lifted Billy’s lids and shone light into his eyes; saw him pinch his ears. Billy didn’t move.
Beyond the curtains came the sounds of people coming and going as the rest of Casualty went on round her, other people with problems of their own, but in the cubicle all she could hear was Billy’s rapid, shallow breathing.
When the doctor had disappeared again, Charlotte continued to talk. She reminded Billy of their life together; how they’d first kissed at the summer dance in the village back in 1942; how they’d climbed through the wreckage of a bombed house to rescue a woman and her baby; how Billy had nearly been killed as the building collapsed round him. ‘You survived that, Billy,’ she told him firmly. ‘You can survive this. Come on, my darling, come back to me.’
She spoke of their wedding day; of the day Johnny was born and Billy’d first held his son in his arms, afraid he might break! ‘Edie’s going to be beautiful when she grows up,’ she told him. ‘You’ll be so proud at her wedding.’
The doctor came in twice more, each time smiling encouragingly at Charlotte. ‘You should think of going home and getting some sleep,’ he said the third time.
Charlotte shook her head. ‘No, I’m not tired. I’ll just sit here with Billy.’ But she was tired and without meaning to she began to doze, jerking herself awake each time she found her head drooping towards the bed. Forcing herself to stay awake, she continue
d to hold his hand cradled in hers. Outside, the sounds died away, and the nurse they had seen before put her head through the curtains.
‘Are you all right?’ she whispered, as if she might wake Billy up.
‘Yes, thank you,’ Charlotte replied, ‘we’re fine, aren’t we, Billy?’
‘That’s good,’ said the nurse and went away again.
Silence slipped round them, Billy and Charlotte. Still stroking his hand, Charlotte suddenly recognised it for what it was. The silence of death. Billy was no longer breathing. Though he hadn’t been moving, a new, deep stillness settled over them and she knew that her Billy had left her. She and her children were on their own. She laid her head down on the bed beside him and wept.
Dr Smart found her, half an hour later, with Billy’s hand still in hers, tear-streaked but now dry-eyed. She looked up as he came in and he knew for certain that there was nothing more he could have done. Billy’s death warrant had been signed from the time he’d landed, head first on a heap of age-old stone that had once been a wall.
24
It was much later that Felix awoke, stiff from dozing in his chair, and began to wonder where Daphne was. The fire was dying in the grate, the gentle plop of a last coal falling into the embers rousing him, and it was a moment before he remembered the dreadful happenings of the afternoon, bringing him back to the present with a jolt. The much depleted whisky bottle standing on the table and the empty glass at his hand bore witness to how he had tried to blot out the events of the day; time had passed, though he didn’t know how much, and still the house was silent. Where was Daphne? Where could she have gone? Apart from his mother, she knew no one in the village. Could she have gone to the Magpie? It was unlikely that she’d enter a pub on her own, especially in a place where she had no friends or acquaintances. Perhaps she’d come home while he’d been dozing. Felix struggled to his feet, the tilting of the room reminding him how full the whisky bottle had been when he’d carried it through to his chair. He made his way unsteadily to the hall and switching on the landing light, called Daphne’s name. There was no reply. Slowly, he began to negotiate the stairs, holding fast to the banister as the hall threatened to spin out of control. When he reached their bedroom he paused in the doorway. He could hear breathing, punctuated by occasional snorts and snores, emanating from the darkness. He pushed the door wider, allowing the light from the landing to flow in. What it revealed brought him up short. Daphne was lying, fully clothed, flat on her back across the bed, her eyes shut, her mouth hanging open, breath rasping from the back of her throat. On the bedside table stood empty bottles: one gin and several tonic. His first instinct was to cross the room and shake her awake, but as her snores and snorts continued, he changed his mind. Daphne had, for some reason, drunk herself into a stupor and he doubted he could drag her from its depths.
He went back onto the landing and into his own room. He had to admit he was drunk, too, and any confrontation now would almost certainly escalate into a blazing row. Better to wait until morning when they’d both slept it off. Before he collapsed onto his bed, he went to the bathroom where he drank off two tumblers of water. Standing at the basin he looked into the mirror. Peering back at him was a haggard face, pale, with red-rimmed eyes and a darkening five o’clock shadow, though as he screwed up his eyes to focus on his watch, he was amazed to find it was almost eleven o’clock. He thought he’d got home sometime around six. Where had the intervening hours gone? He didn’t know and just now, he didn’t care. He went back into his room and stripping off his soiled clothes, he followed Daphne’s example, falling onto the bed and into a heavy, troubled sleep.
He awoke several hours later to the sound of Daphne next door, throwing up into the lavatory. Felix felt he should go to her, hold her head if nothing else, but the room still revolved disconcertingly when he tried to sit up and so he closed his eyes against its swirl and stayed where he was.
When they finally made it downstairs that morning, both of them were still struggling with hangovers. Daphne sat at the kitchen table, her head in her hands. Felix brewed a pot of strong coffee and poured them each a cup.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.
‘Pretty much as you look,’ she replied tartly. ‘What time did you eventually get in? I thought you’d be home long before it got dark. In the Magpie, I suppose, celebrating the murder of a fox!’
‘No,’ Felix said and drank some coffee to steady him. ‘No, there was an accident, I had to stay and help.’
‘Oh,’ Daphne said dully. ‘Somebody fell off, did they? What a shame!’
‘Billy Shepherd,’ answered Felix. ‘He’s been rushed to hospital in Bristol.’
‘Billy Shepherd?’ Daphne screwed up her eyes in concentration.
‘You met him outside church on Christmas Day.’
Daphne’s eyes widened. ‘The fair-haired man with the German wife?’
‘Yes, him.’
‘Yes, I remember. Will he be all right?’
‘I don’t know, Daphne. Doc Masters said it was bad; he could end up paralysed.’
‘But that’s awful!’ cried Daphne. She picked up her coffee cup, drained it and poured herself more.
‘So, what happened to you?’ Felix asked, not wanting to speculate further on Billy’s injuries. ‘You seem to have had a party all by yourself.’
‘And why not?’ snapped Daphne. ‘You were out hunting and short of spending the rest of the day with your mother, there was no one else to party with.’
‘But a whole bottle of gin?’ Felix was incredulous.
‘It wasn’t a whole bottle,’ Daphne replied defensively. ‘It wasn’t full when I started.’
‘As near as dammit!’ retorted Felix.
Daphne glared at him. Her curse had been late and she’d had some idea of encouraging its arrival with large quantities of gin. It seemed to have worked, too, but that wasn’t an explanation she could offer him.
‘I got bored,’ was all she said. ‘Bored! Bored! Bored!’
The row was on the horizon, the thunderclouds of recrimination building and the storm might have broken but for an insistent ringing on the doorbell.
Felix got to his feet to answer it and glancing out of the window saw a Rolls parked in the drive.
‘I think it’s Sir Michael,’ he said.
Daphne, now dressed only in a bathrobe, made a dash for the stairs, scooting up them at great speed as Felix struggled with the bolts that secured the front door. On opening it he found it was, indeed, Sir Michael standing on the doorstep.
‘Ah, morning, Bellinger,’ he said, and without waiting for an invitation, he stepped into the hall.
‘Sir Michael.’ Felix was very much aware of still being in his dressing gown, with tousled hair and an unshaven chin. ‘Come in.’
He led Sir Michel into the drawing room, pulling back the curtains to allow grey daylight to seep in.
‘Come to ask you what happened yesterday,’ Sir Michael said without preamble. ‘John Shepherd’s been on the phone. I hear young Billy’s been taken to hospital and his horse had to be shot. Bad business all round. Can you throw any light on it? Couldn’t ask John, he was just leaving for the hospital.’
The two men sat down on either side of the cold fireplace and Felix put the Master in possession of the details as he knew them.
‘And you think this man on the skewbald caused the accident? Young Shepherd was hunting a novice horse, you know.’
‘He’d hunted him before, several times at the end of last season,’ Felix said. ‘And he was settled and going well yesterday.’
‘Still, he can’t put the blame on someone else for his own fall.’ It was clear to Felix that Sir Michael intended to distance the hunt and anyone who’d been riding with it from any involvement with the accident. ‘How is the boy?’ continued Sir Michael. ‘D’you know?’
‘I haven’t heard this morning,’ answered Felix, trying to control his anger at the Master’s attitude. ‘I shall ring the doctor in
a while.’
‘The doctor? Why the doctor?’ Sir Michael sounded surprised. ‘Surely the people to ask are his parents when they get back from the hospital... or his wife.’
‘I really don’t think you understand the severity of Billy Shepherd’s injuries,’ Felix said tightly. ‘To be quite honest with you, Sir Michael, I don’t think there’ll be any news yet, and if there is, I doubt it’s going to be good.’
Before Sir Michael could reply, the drawing-room door opened and Daphne appeared. In the fifteen minutes since Sir Michael had arrived she had managed to dress, put on her make-up and brush her hair into flowing waves about her face. She paused, framed in the doorway, then her hand flew to her mouth as she said, ‘Felix, darling, I didn’t realise we had a guest. I heard the doorbell, but I thought it was the paper boy.’
The hell you did! thought Felix as she stepped forward and extended her hand to Sir Michael.
‘How d’you do? I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Daphne Bellinger.’
Sir Michael was on his feet in an instant, returning her smile and introducing himself. Felix, amazed at Daphne’s unexpected appearance and her transformation, all signs of bleary-eyed hangover masked with skilful make-up, hair shining and smooth, suddenly realised that he should have performed the introductions and said lamely, ‘I don’t think you’ve met my wife, have you, Sir Michael?’
‘No, indeed,’ beamed Sir Michael, falling prey to Daphne’s wide blue eyes and shy, tentative air. ‘I hear we’re going to have to teach you to ride, my dear,’ he said, still holding her hand in his own.
‘Oh, Sir Michael, I’m not sure—’
‘Sir Michael came to find out what happened to Billy,’ Felix interrupted, and as if suddenly remembering himself, Sir Michael let go of Daphne’s hand.
‘Oh, such a dreadful thing!’ wailed Daphne. ‘I do hope the poor man will soon be better.’
The Married Girls Page 27
