The Faithful

by Juliet West

  How did she do it? She must have found his address when she was snooping through the letters, then written to Tom pretending to be . . . goodness knows who. No, an anonymous letter – that would be it, purporting to be from a well-wisher, poisoning Hazel’s reputation with malicious talk of ‘entertaining’. Cowardly, devil of a woman. Astonishing, really. Hazel hadn’t thought it was possible to hate Lucia any more than she already did.

  Footsteps stopped outside her cell door. It would be the doctor, she imagined, with his leather bag of pills and potions. He was early, but that was good. After Tom’s visit, she needed something to make her numb.

  The door swung slowly open and a wardress stood, key in hand. She jerked her head to one side. ‘You’re to come to the front office.’

  The committee had reviewed her recent letter, and they were satisfied that she did not pose any danger to the British state. Hazel listened in disbelief. She looked at the man – the governor’s clerk or whoever he was – but his words swirled, as if she was underwater and he was speaking to her from a boat bobbing on the waves. She was to reside at a fixed abode, he said, and report to the nearest police station every Monday morning at nine a.m. She was not permitted to own a camera or a motor car.

  ‘And your address?’ The clerk looked up, raising his eyebrows when she failed to respond. What was her address? Not the Kensington flat. No, she needed to get to Sussex. She gave the Aldwick address and asked when she would be free to leave.

  ‘You may leave now.’

  It took a moment for his reply to register. ‘Now?’ she repeated. She looked around, expecting to hear sniggers, fingers pointing and the wardress laughing because she had fallen for the trick. But there was no laughter. From the road beyond the prison, motor engines chugged and a tram bell sounded. Her pulse began to race. She was free. Almost free. ‘My things. My purse?’

  ‘The wardress will fetch your belongings. Good day.’

  Hazel waited behind the counter of a locker room until the wardress reappeared with a jute sack tied with a name tag and number. ‘Here you are, Miss Alexander.’ She handed over the sack and smiled. ‘Good luck,’ she said. ‘I’ve a niece the same age.’ She smiled again, and Hazel looked at her more closely. It was the wardress with the moon-shaped moles, the one who’d been supervising – listening in – when Francine had visited earlier in the week with the news about Jasmin.

  ‘The committee, was it you . . . ?’

  The wardress straightened her back and her smile disappeared. ‘The committee is obliged to examine every case on its relative merits,’ she said. But there was something about her manner, a hint of conspiracy.

  ‘Of course.’ Hazel wanted to take the woman’s hands, to kiss them, but it would not do, she knew. It was important to keep her guard. ‘Thank you,’ she said, lifting the sack and clutching it to her chest. ‘Thank you with all my heart.’

  Outside the prison gates, Hazel fumbled inside the sack and found her handbag and purse. The money was still there, the five-pound note and the half-crowns she had saved for Devon. It was late afternoon. She would take the Tube to Victoria. And from there a train to Chichester, to the hospital where Jasmin was waiting.

  Visiting hours were over, but Hazel pleaded with the auxiliary until she gave way and went off to fetch the ward sister.

  ‘You’ve been away on war work, I hear,’ said the sister. She looked Hazel up and down in the corridor wondering, no doubt, why she wasn’t in uniform, why she looked dirty and unwashed and smelt of sour sweat. ‘I’m afraid your daughter is gravely ill. The wound is infected. Sepsis.’

  Sepsis. That was blood poisoning, wasn’t it? A cousin of Bronny’s had sepsis after a ruptured appendix. He’d died on his tenth birthday. But Jasmin would not die. Hazel would not let her die. She felt a rush of strength through her fear.

  ‘I must see her.’

  ‘It’s a question of infection, Mrs Alexander. You may wish to . . . smarten up?’

  ‘Please. Is there a bathroom here? I have clean clothes.’ She had tried to hide the jute bag by dangling it over her back, but now she let it drop in front of her. The name and number on the tag glared up, stark under the fluorescent light.

  ‘It’s out of the question,’ said the sister, frowning down at the bag. She looked up and met Hazel’s eye. ‘Mrs Alexander, it’s highly irregular for you to be here at all after visiting hours. However –’ she checked the time on her fob watch – ‘the patient has been calling for you. A visit may result in a more restful night. If you can return within the hour I will allow you to see her briefly. Any later than ten p.m. and you must wait until tomorrow.’

  Hazel turned and ran from the hospital, down the long drive, past the lawn with its towering cedars. Ahead rose the spire of the cathedral, bone pale in the fading light. An hour was not enough time to get from Chichester to Aldwick and back. Night was falling and the streets were unlit, cars crawling along Broyle Road with their headlamps dimmed. On the right of the road was a pub. She could just make out the name on the pub sign, the small board underneath pronouncing ROOMS. She would try the Bell, and if they didn’t have any vacancies, the landlord might know of a guest house nearby.

  ‘If you don’t mind the attic,’ said the landlady through cigarette-clenched lips.

  ‘Is there a bath?’ asked Hazel.

  ‘Lavatory on the downstairs landing but there’s a sink in the room. You can top and tail at least.’

  Hazel nodded her thanks as the landlady handed over a small towel and a sliver of soap. She was so grateful she couldn’t speak. If she tried to speak she would cry.

  The attic was stifling hot and spiders scurried around the eaves, but after the dank of Holloway, the room seemed close to heaven.

  Hazel arrived back at the hospital with fifteen minutes to spare. The sister gave a brisk nod and asked a nurse to take Mrs Alexander to Ward 3.

  ‘Ten minutes, no more,’ she said.

  Night had fallen and the ward was dark, pungent with the hot sweet smell of sickness. Blackout blinds were fixed to the windows. It couldn’t be right, thought Hazel, for ill children to be entombed like this, in a room with no air. The nurse switched on a dim torch and led Hazel to a bed under the farthest window.

  Jasmin’s head was bandaged, and she lay sleeping on her back. Even in this feeble light, Hazel could see the high colour on her cheeks, the clammy sheen above her brow.

  She reached over to stroke her daughter’s cheek but the nurse stepped forward, palm raised.

  ‘Please don’t wake her,’ she whispered. ‘Finally dropped off twenty minutes ago and she’s a devil to get back to sleep. I’ll find you a chair.’

  Hazel sat on the chair beside the bed and fixed her eyes on Jasmin. Her small hands lay on the blanket, fingers curling lightly upwards. She was wearing a nightie that Hazel didn’t recognize, the neckline crudely stitched. Tears welled in Hazel’s eyes and she was unable to stop them. This was a new kind of torture. To be so close, yet unable to touch, to embrace, to speak. But she was here. And she would be here again tomorrow, and the next day. Every day until Jasmin was better.

  The minutes ticked past. Hazel shifted in her seat and the chair moved, metal legs scraping on the floor. The sound was enough. Jasmin’s eyes flickered open.

  ‘Mummy?’

  Hazel put a finger to her lips, then blew her a kiss. ‘Yes, it’s Mummy, and I’m here for you now,’ she whispered. ‘Go back to sleep. You’ll have a lovely sleep and I’ll see you in the morning.’ Jasmin smiled and closed her eyes.

  Now the nurse was marching down the ward, signalling that her time was up. Hazel followed the nurse into the corridor. The floor began to vibrate beneath her feet: a fleet of aircraft passing overhead. It couldn’t be the enemy or the siren would have sounded. Furies or Spitfires, scrambled from Tangmere?

  ‘What do you do in an air raid?’ asked Hazel.

  ‘We pray.’

  All night Hazel sweated and coughed in the hot attic room. She couldn’t sle
ep but she didn’t mind, didn’t need the oblivion of the prison doctor’s potions. By five the sun had risen and she climbed from bed. She lit a cigarette – the landlady had sold her five Black Cats from a jar behind the bar – pulled back the lace curtain and stood at the open sash window. Birdsong filled the glittering dawn. Every note imaginable, an explosion of joy. Her cough eased as she inhaled the cigarette smoke, listened to the birds – a robin’s rich trill, the peep-peep of blue tits – then a low rumble. The sound was coming from inside the room, she realized. Her own body. When did she last eat? Well, there would be time enough for breakfast: visiting at the hospital was not until eleven. She doused the cigarette end with a trickle of water from the tap, then climbed back into bed. Finally, she fell into a deep sleep. At eight she was woken by the landlady knocking on her door, asking if toast and marmalade would be sufficient because they were completely out of bacon.

  After breakfast she walked to the telephone box at the top of North Street. Her father answered after just two rings, and she felt comforted by the surprise in his voice. He sounded pleased – delighted, even – when she told him she’d been released.

  ‘You’re out? Oh, that’s marvellous.’ He must have muted the receiver with his hand, because his voice became muffled. ‘Hazel. Released,’ he called to someone – Francine? – and then he was back. ‘You’re in London?’

  ‘Chichester. I caught the train yesterday evening, went straight to the hospital. I found a room for the night.’

  ‘You should have called sooner. But how is Jasmin? Is she any better?’

  ‘She was asleep. The nurse didn’t say much. I’m visiting again at eleven. Is Mother there?’

  ‘I thought she was at the hospital. You saw her?’

  Hazel paused. ‘I must have missed her somehow.’

  ‘All-night vigil, she said.’

  ‘We’ll cross paths this morning, I expect.’

  ‘And afterwards you must come back to Aldwick.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Shall I collect you?’

  ‘Could you?’

  The pips went and she garbled a goodbye, replaced the receiver. Her father seemed to want to see her. He had asked after Jasmin, had appeared concerned. It sounded for all the world as if he had forgiven her. That was what came of a crisis, she supposed.

  There were still some coppers in her purse. The operator would be able to put her through to the Chronicle. She pictured Tom’s face across the prison table yesterday, when she’d told him about Jasmin. The disbelief, the mistrust. Yet there was no malice. A part of him had believed her, surely?

  She began to dial the operator, but her hands started to shake and in a panic she replaced the receiver. It would be better to ring Tom after the morning visit. She would have more information then. Might feel more composed.

  As she walked up the hospital drive a car swept by and pulled in at the main entrance. The passenger leaned across and kissed the driver, and he put his hand up to her face, caressed her cheek.

  Hazel was closer now, and as the woman climbed from the car she recognized the white sandals, the flower-shaped buckle at the ankle. The engine revved and the car spun around in a U-turn. Hazel kept her head down as the Brough passed. Now Francine was just a few paces ahead; she was climbing the stone steps up to the hospital entrance, adjusting her hat to the required angle. Why wait and let her go in first? Better to meet now than inside the hospital where people would be watching, listening.

  ‘Mother!’ Hazel called.

  There was no response. Francine lifted her hand towards the brass door plate.

  ‘Francine!’

  She turned around this time, narrowed her eyes and then gasped. ‘It’s Hazel! Darling, how . . . ?’ She flew down the steps and kissed Hazel’s cheek. ‘Well, this is wonderful. Have they let you out at last?’

  ‘So it would seem.’

  Francine took Hazel’s hand. ‘I’m so, so pleased. It will be a huge comfort to Jasmin. Now, darling, I must warn you, she doesn’t look at all well.’ She glanced down at her wristwatch. ‘We’re a few minutes early, and they’re terrible sticklers. Shall we take a wander around the lawn?’

  Hazel nodded. ‘I saw Jasmin last night,’ she said. ‘I came to the hospital. Father thought you’d be here, keeping vigil.’

  ‘Did he? I was here. Until tea-time.’

  ‘And then you were with Charles.’

  ‘Ah.’

  There was no sound but the whisper of wind in the cedar branches. They walked slowly beside the flowerbeds, and when they reached a sprawling hydrangea, Francine plucked at a pink petal and began to speak.

  ‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you about Charles, for a long time after your –’ Francine hesitated – ‘your accusation. I confronted him, you know. I told him I knew what he’d done and I was appalled, wanted never to see him again. And I didn’t see him for months, many months, but he came to the flat pleading forgiveness.’ She let the petal drop and fingered the chain around her neck. ‘He’d been very drunk that night, he said, and he was possessed by a sort of madness. Oh, it’s a poor excuse, I know. I’ve felt so torn, Hazel, you must know that. It’s been agony. But he does love me.’

  ‘I don’t want to see him, ever. I don’t want him near Jasmin.’

  ‘I can understand that, darling. Truly. Though you mustn’t worry about him being Jasmin’s father. He says he can’t possibly be.’

  Hazel stopped. Charles couldn’t be Jasmin’s father? How had he convinced Francine of that? Her mother began to speak again. ‘He was rather blotto, you see—’ but Hazel thrust out her hand, hissing at her mother to be quiet, and Francine closed her mouth with an indignant pout.

  It was too hateful to speak of. She would not discuss it, because in that moment it did not matter, could not have mattered less. All that mattered was the certain fact that she, Hazel, was Jasmin’s mother, and she was free, and she must see her baby and make her well.

  It was visiting time at last. Hazel turned away from Francine, towards the hospital and the narrow bed where her daughter lay waiting.

  37

  When Tom arrived at the office, Gerald was already on the telephone, scribbling as he spoke.

  ‘Thomas, my man!’ he said as he put the receiver down. He stood up and took his jacket from the coat-stand. ‘Hello and goodbye.’

  ‘Going out?’

  ‘Interesting tip-off.’ He tapped the side of his nose in an imitation of Crow. ‘Need-to-know-basis.’

  Tom smiled. He wouldn’t put it past Gerald to have invented the tip-off; he had a mistress in Holland Park, and would often return from a hush-hush interview smelling of French scent.

  ‘You’ll be back this afternoon?’

  ‘Doubtful. Off to the Home Counties.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Everything A1? You’re looking rather bewildered this morning, old chap.’

  Tom shut his mouth and sat down at his desk. Gerald was in a hurry, and he needed time to explain about Hazel. He’d have to wait until this evening or tomorrow: whenever he could get Gerald on his own.

  ‘Everything’s fine, thanks. Just a bit weary. Wretched siren.’

  All morning his thoughts crashed and collided. He tried to summon a fraction of Petra’s calm from the previous night, her wisdom, but calm was impossible. Should he visit Jasmin? He was a stranger to her. What comfort could he offer, in the unlikely event they let him in to the hospital? The infection was serious, Hazel had said. If it killed her . . . no, he couldn’t, couldn’t begin to think.

  He would write to the prison governor, at least. A letter might help Hazel’s case in some small way. He wound a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter but before he had struck the first key, the telephone on his desk rang.

  The line was crackly but her voice was unmistakable. Surprising that the prison should let her use a telephone, thought Tom. But then he began to absorb what she was saying. She was ringing from Chichester. She had been releas
ed yesterday evening, just a few hours after he’d visited the prison. ‘Thank you’, she said. ‘If you played a part – thank you.’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing to thank me for.’ He took a shallow breath. ‘I was just writing a letter now. Nothing’s been sent.’

  ‘Oh.’ There was a pause for a moment, and then she garbled something about a wardress. ‘It must have been her. Must have.’

  ‘You’ve seen Jasmin?’ asked Tom.

  Hazel began to cough. When she spoke, her voice was tight. ‘The fever is still very high.’

  ‘I want to visit. Can I see you, Hazel? See Jasmin?’

  It was Friday, and the three o’clock train was crowded. Sunlight angled in through the compartment window. A young boy with a crooked fringe sat opposite, crunching noisily on a carrot as he stared at Tom’s left hand. Tom tried to smile but the boy shrank away, cuddled closer to his mother’s side. Tom tucked the hand in his trouser pocket, though the heat made his scars throb.

  At Chichester he saw her before the train had come to a halt. She was standing on the platform in a yellow dress, her hair loose around her neck. Now he was opening the compartment door, and he was on the platform, and he saw that she was crying. As they clung together he could not stop his own tears. She kissed him then, and took his arm. They walked through the city, along the time-worn pavements, past the cathedral and on towards the hospital.

  Tom took a sip from his pint. She’d agreed to join him in the Bell after the hospital visit. They were on to their second drink and their conversation, stilted and emotion-choked at first, had finally begun to soften. It was the right time, he decided, to explain to her about the letter; the reason he’d stopped writing to her from Spain.

  ‘A letter came from home, you see, just after Christmas in Albacete. When I read the gossip about you – you and . . . other men – I suppose I just gave up. I was weak. Too proud.’

  ‘I can never forgive her for telling those lies,’ said Hazel. She circled a finger around the rim of her port glass. ‘I can see it clearly now. She’s twisted, jealous.’