The Best Of Times

by Penny Vincenzi

  “You said that last time,” said Charlie.

  “Charlie, will you please stop being so difficult.”

  “I’m not. I’m just telling the truth. And why shouldn’t Daisy get her stuff if she wants to?”

  “Could Charlie take me?” said Daisy.

  “I’m not taking her,” he said.

  “Charlie, that’s not very helpful.”

  “So? I don’t want to; I’m going to go on the computer, look at my Warhammer stuff.”

  “Charlie, you are not going on the computer.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m about to need it, that’s why.”

  “That is just so mean. Anyway, I’m not taking her to get her stupid comic.”

  “It’s not a comic.”

  “Daisy, it’s a comic.”

  Laura suddenly lost her temper.

  “Charlie, stop being so difficult. Now, get your coat and Daisy’s and take her to the shop.”

  “No.”

  “I hate you,” wailed Daisy. “You’re so mean.”

  “Charlie, I’m not telling you again. If you don’t take her you don’t get your pocket money, and then you won’t be able to buy any more Warhammer stuff.”

  “That’s blackmail.”

  “I don’t care. Go and get the coats. And, Charlie, look after her properly; don’t walk miles ahead.”

  She’d at least get ten minutes’ peace. And maybe if she finished sooner, she could go and meet them all at the science museum for tea.

  It was a difficult job, this one: a very dull modern flat that the owner had requested be given “some character. Only not too modern. Maybe a bit pretty, even. Curtains, not blinds, that sort of thing. But still contemporary; I don’t want it to look like something out of the seventies.”

  Such instructions were fairly common.

  Charlie and Daisy walked along the sidewalk, Daisy chattering, Charlie kicking a stone, ignoring her.

  ***

  “Charlie, if I got a kitten, which I think I might-Mummy said just possibly-what shall I call it?”

  He shrugged.

  “I thought Paddypaws would be a nice name.”

  “It’s a stupid name.”

  “It’s not. It’s sweet. Well, what would you call it?”

  “I don’t want a stupid kitten.”

  “Kittens aren’t stupid.”

  “Course they are.”

  “Well… what pet would you like?”

  “I don’t want a pet.”

  “Everyone wants pets.”

  “I don’t. Well, maybe a boa constrictor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A snake.”

  “A snake! You couldn’t have a snake; where would you keep it?”

  “In my room.”

  “Charlie, you’re so stupid.”

  “Oh, and you’re not, I s’pose. Look, here we are. I’ll wait outside. Be quick; don’t start looking at all the other comics.”

  “They’re not comics.”

  He shrugged.

  She came out, clutching several magazines and a bag of sweets.

  “OK. All done.”

  He began to walk faster; Daisy had to half run to keep up with him, and dropped one of her magazines.

  “Charlie! Wait for me!”

  “Well, buck up then.”

  “I can’t buck up. I’ve dropped one of my magazines.”

  He stood, arms folded, elaborately patient, while she picked everything up, then set off again.

  “Look, here’s a picture of a kitten-look, isn’t it sweet?”

  “No.”

  “It is. And… Charlie, please wait; you’re doing it again. I can’t keep up…”

  “Well, walk faster then…”

  “I am walking faster. Oh, no, now the cover’s ripped off; it’s got the necklace on it. Charlie, wait, wait…”

  But he didn’t wait; and he didn’t see the crumpled cover of the magazine caught by the wind and blown across the road; nor did he see Daisy dashing into the street after it. He only heard things: a car, driving fast, faster than usual down the road, a scream, a screech of brakes, a hideous silence. And then he turned and he did see: the car halted, slewed across the street; a man, not much more than a boy his face distorted with fear, getting out of it; and Daisy, lying horribly, horribly still where it had flung her, facedown, her long, fair hair splayed out, one small hand still clutching her bag of sweets, and her pastel-coloured magazines filled with pictures of smiling little girls fluttering away down the street.

  ***

  They were sitting there in Emergency together when Jonathan arrived: Lily and Charlie. Lily hurled herself at him, crying, “Daddy, Daddy, do something, please, please, make her better, make her better.”

  Charlie was sitting, arms folded, shoulders hunched, his head somehow sunk down into his body. He didn’t look up.

  A young man with a shaven head was sitting two chairs away from them; he was a greenish colour.

  “Where’s Mummy?”

  “In there,” said Lily. She nodded towards a set of double doors. “With Daisy.” Her blue eyes were enormous with fear.

  “Charlie, what happened?”

  “She… she ran into the road.”

  “Into the road. But… how, why…”

  The young man stood up, came over.

  “You the dad?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hit her,” he said.

  “You hit her. With your car?”

  “Yeah. I’m… well, I’m sorry. She just… ran out. I couldn’t help it. I really couldn’t; I’m sorry. Really sorry. I…” He started to sob himself, like a child.

  “Yes, all right, all right.” Jonathan could feel a steely professional calm taking over; just as well, they couldn’t all be hysterical. “Try to pull yourself together. How… how bad is she, what sort of injuries?”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t. I didn’t… well, I didn’t go over her, if that’s what you mean. Just hit her.”

  “The ambulance man said internal injuries,” said Charlie. His voice was hoarse, odd. Then he suddenly leaned forward and threw up.

  “Poor old chap. Don’t worry…”

  A weary-looking woman came over, looked at the pile of vomit, and sighed. “That’ll need clearing up.”

  “Yes, indeed it will. Maybe you could find someone to do it,” said Jonathan. “Look… Charlie, go into the toilet; have a wash… I must go and find Mummy. And Daisy. Lily, you stay here. I-Oh, look, here’s Granny. She’ll stay with you. Hello, Stella. Could you get Charlie some water? He’s just been sick.”

  “Yes, of course. How… how is she; what’s happened?”

  “I don’t know. I only just got here. I’m going to try to find out.”

  “You can’t go in there,” the woman on reception called to him as he pushed open the double doors Daisy had indicated. “That’s for medical staff only.”

  “I am medical staff,” said Jonathan, and disappeared.

  ***

  Laura was standing outside a curtained cubicle, very pale, very calm. She looked at him and almost smiled.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello. How is she?”

  “We don’t know. Internal injuries, that’s all they’ll say. A doctor’s with her now.”

  “Is she conscious?”

  “No.”

  “Has she been? Since it happened?”

  “Not… not really. Well… a bit, in and out. Mostly out.”

  “Oh, God. Jesus. Laura, how-”

  “It was my fault. Really.”

  “Yours?”

  “Yes. She wanted to go to the shop, get some sweets. I didn’t have time.”

  “She didn’t go alone?”

  “No, no. She went with… with Charlie.”

  “Charlie!”

  “Yes. Don’t look like that; he’s taken her before. And Lily. Several times before… Well, you know he has, it was you who said he could in the first place.”


  It was true. He had. It had been a huge adventure… for Charlie. They had watched him from the gateway as he had walked carefully and proudly down the road, never taking his eyes off Lily, calling her back if she went so much as five yards ahead of him. They had had to keep ducking out of sight, in case he saw them; when the kids were nearly back Laura and Jonathan both fled into the house, laughing-Laura to the kitchen, Jonathan to his study-and pretended they hadn’t even heard them come in, expressing huge surprise when Charlie called out, “We’re back.”

  Different times. Happy, safe times.

  “Anyway, she ran into the road; she’d dropped her comic. Some lad was driving up-much too fast, I imagine.”

  “Yes, he’s out there.”

  “To give him his due, he stayed with her while Charlie came for me, insisted on coming to the hospital; he’s all right, really, nice boy, just desperately frightened… Has Mummy come…?”

  “Yes, she’s there. Charlie’s just thrown up.”

  “I’m not surprised. He’s beside himself. He was hysterical; I couldn’t stop him crying, screaming, almost, at first. Then he went terribly quiet, sort of disappeared into himself…”

  “So what actually happened? I mean, why did she run into the road?”

  “I told you, to get her comic; it was blowing away.”

  “She knows better than that.”

  “I know she does. But Charlie said she was all bothered, as he put it; she kept dropping things.”

  “Chap must have been going a hell of a lick. Or he’d have seen her.”

  “I know, I know.”

  They stood there, staring at each other: she wild eyed, ashen, shaking, he frozen faced, shock-still. Unable to reach each other, comfort each other; each filled with the torment of guilt.

  “I’m so, so sorry, Jonathan.”

  “Laura, it wasn’t your fault.”

  “It was, it was… I wasn’t there…”

  “Neither was I,” he said, his voice hardly audible, “was I?”

  He took a deep breath, stood silent for a moment, then: “What does the lad say? The driver?”

  “He says he doesn’t know what happened. But he said… well…”

  “Yes?”

  “He said Charlie came running back to the car. So it sounds like he’d gone ahead. Not… well… not with Daisy. Not looking after her. But-”

  “Oh, Christ.”

  “Yes. He didn’t want to go, Jonathan; he was arguing with me, saying he wanted to go on the computer, do his wretched Warhammer stuff. I… well, I made him. I shouldn’t have; I should have seen what might happen… Oh, God.”

  She dropped her face into her hands, began to cry.

  “Don’t,” he said, and his voice was odd, cracked, “Don’t cry. It’s all right. It was an accident. These things happen.”

  “They don’t have to. They-”

  The curtains opened abruptly; a doctor came out. Behind him they could see Daisy, very white and still, a nurse standing by her, checking her pulse.

  “I’m her father,” said Jonathan quickly, “and a doctor. What’s the verdict?”

  “Well, it’s hard to say with any confidence. We need to do a brain scan. See if there’s any real damage to the skull. It could be just the violence of the contact, rather than a direct blow; it’s the equivalent of a very hard shaking. She’s certainly in shock… medical shock, that is. Only half-conscious, very distressed. Her blood pressure’s very low, which is worrying; it would indicate some internal bleeding. She has some broken ribs, which could cause liver damage. Or indeed lung damage. One of her legs is broken and one arm as well. And I think possibly her pelvis.”

  “Oh, God,” said Laura, “poor little girl.”

  “We’re setting a drip up immediately. Send her down to X-ray. And we’re probably going to intubate her; she’s having a bit of trouble breathing. I’m getting my colleague, Dr. Armstrong, down to have a look at her; he’s the main chest and lung consultant here. You’re lucky; he’s often in the country on Saturdays, but he’s on call today…”

  “I know him,” said Jonathan. “Tony Armstrong. Good bloke,” he added to Laura. “Really excellent.”

  The young doctor looked at him, and he seemed to be having trouble speaking. Finally: “I’m afraid this child is very sick,” he said, “very sick indeed.”

  CHAPTER 49

  It was very quiet on the ward; they called it a ward, ICU, standing for Intensive Care Unit, but actually it was a long corridor, outside some doors. Behind each door was someone very ill indeed, in need of the intensive care. Like Daisy. He hadn’t been allowed into the room where she was, but he had got a glimpse once when his father came out: it was a mass of machines and screens. She lay on a high bed, her eyes closed; there was a tube in her nose, which his father said was helping her to breathe. Her hair was spread out over the pillow.

  Charlie felt so afraid and so sick that he didn’t know what to do with himself. Keeping still was awful, because his head just filled up with what he had done; he saw pictures over and over again, and they seemed to go backwards in time, first of Daisy lying in the road, near the car, then Daisy running along behind him, asking him to wait, then Daisy trying to show him pictures in her magazine, then Daisy skipping out of the gate ahead of him, calling, “bye, Mummy.”

  She’d been fine then: he hadn’t done it then, hadn’t killed her. He hadn’t argued with her, told her she was stupid, hadn’t got crosser and crosser with her, hadn’t not seen the car, hadn’t not seen her running after the page of her magazine; she’d been safe, held in the past, happy, laughing, alive, alive, alive…

  At this point he felt so terrible he had to get up and walk down the corridor, away from the pictures; he kept going into the lavatory, thinking he was going to be sick, standing there, bending over the bowl, staring down into it, wondering how he was going to get through the next five minutes even, let alone the rest of his life. He hoped he could find some way of dying too, maybe run under a car himself; that would be right, really; that would make it fair, his death traded for hers; he certainly couldn’t contemplate years of this, or even many more hours…

  His grandmother had gone, taking Lily with her; his parents sat on the chairs in the corridor outside the room. They had been told they could have a parents’ room for the night, but they’d both refused, said they wanted to be near Daisy.

  It was when they’d said that that he’d known: known that it was so bad that she really was likely to die. Until then, he’d realised it had been terribly serious, that she was very, very badly hurt, in danger of dying; but now he could see from their faces, hear from their voices, that it was actually more likely that she would.

  They’d told him to go with Lily, but he refused; he didn’t actually argue-he didn’t seem to be able to say anything anyway; he couldn’t remember speaking since it had happened-he just shook his head and then folded his arms and stood there, daring them to make him go against his will.

  “Darling,” his mother said, “you’ll be better with Granny, and the minute we know anything we’ll call you, promise, even if it’s the middle of the night…”

  But he’d shaken his head again, furiously, and his father had said quite gently, “Laura, let him be. He’s better here.”

  His father had been terribly nice to him-they both had; he wished they hadn’t. He wished they’d both attack him, shout at him, beat him up, injure him really badly so he’d hurt too, so he might need intensive care too, and then when he was all wired up, he could pull the wires all out so he couldn’t breathe or live any longer.

  He walked back to them now, after another visit to the lavatory; his mother was holding his father’s hand, her head on his shoulder. For a minute he thought she was asleep, but then he saw her eyes were staring down at the floor.

  “Hello,” his father said. “You OK?”

  But still he couldn’t speak; just nodded and sat down next to his mother.

  His father had explained
as much as he could to him; Daisy had had a brain scan, and her skull had what was called a hairline crack in it. She also had some damage to her liver, which had caused it to bleed inside her, and that meant giving her some blood. The most worrying thing, it seemed, was that she had some broken ribs and one of them had punctured her lung, which could lead to an infection. “And you see, as she’s very poorly, she’ll have trouble fighting that. So they’re giving her some antibiotics as well.”

  The other things, the broken leg and arm, sounded like nothing in comparison.

  He wanted, more than anything, to say how sorry he was, but somehow he couldn’t. It was such a useless thing to say, because it wouldn’t do any good; it wouldn’t bring Daisy back or make her better, and anyway, it was too easy; saying sorry was what you did when you’d spilt or broken something or not done your homework. Not when you’d broken your sister, broken her so that she could never be mended again.

  The man who’d been driving the car was still downstairs; Charlie felt almost sorry for him. He had been driving a bit fast, but it hadn’t been all his fault; Daisy had run into the road in front of him. It had been Charlie’s fault for not looking after her, not seeing what she was doing, what she might do. She’d been crying in the end-no one knew that except him-he’d heard the tears in her high little voice as she called, “Charlie, please, please wait,” and thought how stupid and annoying she was, and how he wasn’t going to give in to her, make her more of a spoilt baby than she was already. It was completely his fault.

  Suddenly he really couldn’t bear it any longer; he managed to speak, to say, “I’m going for a walk, OK?”

  His mother said, “Darling, don’t go away, or at least let one of us go with you.”

  But he’d shaken his head said he’d be OK, and his father had said, “Let him go, Laura; he’ll be fine. Charlie, don’t go into any of the wards; just go down to the front hall, I would, and if you get lost, just ask anyone where ICU is and they’ll show you.”

  He’d nodded and stood up, and walked rather quickly down the corridor, into the lift. It felt better walking away from it; it felt like he could escape.