Swansea Summer

by Catrin Collier

Uncertain whether she was joking or not, he looked her in the eye and she smiled.

  ‘Do me a favour, turn your back to the house.’ As he did, she stepped in front of him and tipped the contents of her glass on to the daffodils. ‘Thank you, I only hope it doesn’t kill them.’

  ‘I had no idea lecturers felt press-ganged too.’

  ‘Swift demotion for all non-attendees,’ she replied. ‘By the way, that last piece of work you did on Thomas Hardy was excellent. Another straight A to add to your collection. You do know the hopes of the entire department are pinned on you to get a first.’

  ‘I hope I live up to your expectations.’

  ‘Don’t try being modest; it doesn’t become you. Do you have a cigarette you can spare? I’ve run out.’

  ‘Of course.’ He pulled the gold cigarette case his grandmother had given him for his twenty-first birthday from his inside pocket and flicked it open. Hilary Llewellyn was about the same age as his mother but she couldn’t have been more different. She dressed as if she didn’t give a damn about clothes, usually in shapeless black skirts and sweaters and coloured stockings, and he had never seen her without the large pair of men’s horn-rimmed spectacles that had a habit of slipping to the end of her nose. Her fingernails were clipped short and remained unpolished, and she wore her hair scraped into a tight knot that emphasised her sharp, angular features. The first time he’d seen her tall figure striding into a lecture theatre he’d thought her intimidating, but in the three years she’d lectured him and the year she’d been his personal tutor he’d discovered a kindness behind her innate professionalism. She alone in the English Department had the knack of being friendly with her students without being overfamiliar. She treated everyone the same, student or fellow lecturer, as though they were her equals, and unlike some her colleagues never tried to conceal her passionate support for a Socialism that bordered on Communism.

  As she never mentioned the time before she had lectured in the university, nor discussed her personal life, all sorts of rumours circulated about her. That she’d been a secret agent during the war; that she’d lost all her immediate family in some ghastly tragedy; that she wrote steamy novels under a pseudonym and was a passionate advocate of free love – although no one had ever actually seen her with a man who wasn’t a colleague or student.

  ‘I needed that.’ Throwing her head back, she blew smoke upwards at the darkening sky. ‘Any parts of the course you’re not confident with?’ she asked briskly.

  ‘None. Apart from …’ He hesitated.

  ‘The Brontës?’ she supplied.

  ‘It’s obvious?’

  ‘Only because of the look on your face when I gave you a B for your essay on Wuthering Heights.’

  ‘It’s still the only B I’ve ever had.’

  ‘You deserved it for underrating female writers. No one can excel at everything and some’ – she shook her head at Robin as he strolled out to join them – ‘like our Mr Watkin Morgan here, excel at nothing.’

  ‘It’s a practised art, Miss Llewellyn,’ Robin replied nonchalantly.

  ‘You may practise it but I wouldn’t call it an art.’ She lifted her empty glass. ‘“Once more unto the breach …” Much as I enjoy your company, I’d better return before Mr Edwards notices my absence. The revenge of a department head can be mean-spirited and time-consuming.’

  ‘Leave her to us now, son.’

  ‘I’m going with her.’

  ‘Not in my ambulance, you’re not. Now, stand back and let us do our job.’ Concerned only for the welfare of their patient, neither the ambulance driver nor his mate had time to spare for Jack.

  ‘She is my wife.’

  ‘I don’t care if she’s the Queen of Sheba, son. There’s no passengers travelling in this ambulance.’

  The guard who’d arranged for the ambulance to meet the train took pity as the driver pushed Jack aside and asked, ‘Where are you taking her?’

  ‘Swansea General.’

  He touched Jack’s arm. ‘I’ll get a taxi for you, sir. You’ll be there before her. Do you have enough money …’

  ‘Money … yes.’ Jack looked around in confusion as the driver and his mate lifted the stretcher Helen was lying on into the ambulance. ‘But I haven’t got Helen’s luggage …’

  ‘Don’t you worry, sir. I’ll check your cases into Left Luggage and bring the tickets to the hospital.’ The guard whistled at the row of waiting taxicabs. Opening the door as the first in the queue pulled up alongside them, he pushed Jack into the back seat. ‘Swansea Hospital and see if you can get there when that ambulance does.’

  ‘Thank you for a most entertaining evening, sir.’ Robin shook Mr Edwards’s hand vigorously as he backed out through the door.

  ‘Such a shame you and Mr Griffiths have to leave so early …’

  ‘Unfortunately there was no one else to pick up my sister from the cinema, Mr Edwards, and my father won’t allow her to travel on a late bus out of town on a Saturday.’

  ‘I quite understand.’

  ‘Goodbye, sir.’ Practically pushing Joe behind him, Robin left the house and walked down the path.

  ‘Are we really picking up Angela?’ Joe asked as Robin opened the door of his sports car.

  ‘Don’t be an idiot.’ Robin slid into the seat and slipped his key into the ignition. ‘But I couldn’t have stayed in there for another minute without screaming. Fancy a game of pool and a drink at my place?’

  ‘Why not.’ Joe glanced at his watch. Lily would still be in the Albert Hall. He’d watched her go in earlier with Judy and Katie, and taken comfort in the knowledge that she wasn’t with Martin. ‘I have nothing better to do.’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you still here, sir. I thought I’d have to leave these with the receptionist.’ The guard handed Jack a tea-stained envelope. ‘Your Left Luggage tickets,’ he explained.

  ‘I can’t find anyone who knows anything about my wife.’ Jack opened the envelope. ‘I must owe you …’

  ‘Nothing, sir. It’s all part of the service. You can pick up your luggage whenever it’s convenient.’

  ‘You must be out of pocket.’

  ‘Not me, sir. I’d like to stay but my lift’s waiting. There’s a nurse who doesn’t look as if she’s doing much. Why don’t you ask her about your wife.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Jack called back, as he took the guard up on his suggestion and charged up to the nurse. ‘My wife is here …’

  ‘This is Casualty,’ the staff nurse barked officiously. ‘If she’s a patient she’ll be on a ward. You’ll have to go to the main entrance …’

  ‘She was brought in by ambulance,’ Jack interrupted.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Over two and a half hours ago.’

  ‘Then she’s most probably on a ward. All enquiries should be made at Reception at the main entrance.’

  ‘They sent me here. Her name is Helen Griffiths – Clay … She was taken ill on the London train. I know the ambulance brought her straight here. Please, couldn’t you find out …’

  ‘This is a hospital casualty area, not an information bureau.’

  Jack had never hated a stranger as much as he hated this self-important nurse at that moment. ‘She must be somewhere …’

  ‘Our primary consideration is the welfare of our patients, not their relatives.’

  ‘There has to be someone who can tell me where she is.’

  ‘Have you enquired at the Casualty Reception desk?’

  ‘Twice, they told me to take a seat.’

  ‘Then I suggest you do so.’

  Unable to close his mind to images of Helen lying white-faced, unconscious and abandoned on a stretcher in a forgotten corner of this maze of antiseptic-smelling, impersonal corridors and cubicles, Jack was at breaking point. ‘For how much longer?’ he pleaded.

  ‘We are very busy.’ As the nurse turned away, a swing door to the right of the desk opened. It closed quickly but not before Jack saw four staff nurses standing idly
gossiping. His hands were already clenching into fists when a young doctor, grey-faced from lack of sleep, white coat flowing behind him, stethoscope dangling from his neck, ambled into the area. Heading for Reception, he buttonholed the woman behind the desk.

  ‘Is anyone with Mrs Clay?’

  ‘Me!’ Pushing past the nurse, Jack ran up to him. ‘How is she? Can I see her?’

  Barely able to keep his eyes open, the doctor squinted at Jack. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Jack Clay, her husband.’

  ‘Husband?’ The doctor gave Jack a dubious look.

  ‘We were on our honeymoon …’

  ‘Then you’re not from Swansea.’

  ‘We are,’ Jack answered irritably, wondering what that had to do with anything. ‘Helen is going to be all right, isn’t she?’

  ‘She’s in theatre.’

  ‘I don’t understand …’

  ‘We’re not sure what is wrong with her, Mr Clay.’

  ‘You’re operating and you don’t know what’s wrong with her!’ Jack reeled at the prospect of a surgeon slicing open Helen’s perfect body.

  ‘Your wife’s symptoms could be related to anyone of a number of conditions. Her personal possessions have been sent down to the main Reception desk. I suggest you pick them up, go home and telephone us in the morning.’

  As he walked away, Jack grabbed his arm. ‘Please, I must see her.’

  ‘That is impossible. She could be in theatre for hours and even when she comes out she’ll be sent to recovery, and relatives are only allowed to visit patients on a ward.’ The doctor was a final-year medical student. He’d been on duty for over thirty hours. All he wanted was his bed and he felt totally unequal to dealing with a distraught husband who looked as though he should be playing football in the street, not going on honeymoon. He closed his hand over Jack’s and removed it.

  ‘Please, I can’t just walk away …’

  ‘You’ve left your details at Reception?’

  Jack nodded.

  ‘You have a telephone number where you can be contacted?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The doctor was surprised. Not many people, let alone newlyweds, were on the telephone. ‘If there’s any change we’ll be in touch. If you haven’t heard anything by morning you can call us. There’s no point in telephoning before.’

  Jack stood rooted to the spot as the doctor left. An image of Helen lying butchered on a slab flooded his mind. The waiting area grew misty, wavering around him as a peculiar buzzing filled his ears.

  ‘You can get to main Reception down that corridor.’

  ‘Sorry, I …’

  Realising he hadn’t taken in a word she’d said, the nurse repeated, ‘Main Reception, to pick up your wife’s clothes.’

  ‘Yes … yes, thank you.’ Forgetting his earlier antagonism towards the woman, Jack forced himself to put one foot in front of the other. Helen was in theatre and there was nothing he could do for her except pick up her clothes. Just as he and Martin had picked up his mother’s when she’d died among strangers in this same building.

  ‘Another pint?’

  Martin shook his head. ‘I’ve had enough.’

  ‘Last time we’re inviting you to a booze-up, mate.’ As his fellow apprentice went to the bar, Martin picked up his coat and left the Antelope. Crossing the road, he walked down to the beach. A cold breeze ruffled the waves as they slurped in between the pebbles on the foreshore but the stars shone down from a clear, cloudless night sky and he decided to walk home. Aware he’d been a wet blanket, he wished he hadn’t joined the others to celebrate the end of the exams and done what Sam had suggested, taken Lily out and – and what? Asked her outright about Joe?

  ‘Thought it was you.’ Sam stepped out of the darkness to join him. ‘Going home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bit early to leave a celebration, isn’t it?’ Sam fell into step beside him.

  ‘Didn’t feel in the mood for drinking. Anyway, you’re a fine one to talk. Looks like you’ve cut your evening short too.’

  ‘Only because I had to,’ Sam said sourly. ‘I’m on nights, remember.’

  ‘I forgot. So where have you been?’

  ‘Fish and chip shop with a mate and I couldn’t even join him for a pint afterwards. The duty sergeant has a nose like a bloodhound and he plays merry hell if he smells booze on anyone’s breath at the start of a shift. But I have two days off starting tomorrow. How about we take the girls somewhere?’

  ‘Have you asked them?’ Shivering, Martin fastened the top button on his overcoat.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I’m afraid that if I ask your sister to go out with me on a date she’ll say no, whereas a foursome with you and Lily puts a different connotation on the situation.’

  ‘Jack and Helen will be back tonight.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘They may have made plans that include us for tomorrow.’

  ‘You’re not going to help me with Katie, are you?’

  Martin smiled. ‘No.’

  ‘I’d help you if you were after my sister.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t have one.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘A word of advice.’ Martin reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. ‘If you’re after Katie, the first thing you should know about her is she despises people who try to get others to do their dirty work for them.’

  Loaded with his own and Helen’s suitcases, and a brown-paper carrier bag marked Patient’s Property, Jack walked unsteadily up Craddock Street and rounded the corner into Carlton Terrace. There were no lights on in Helen’s house or Roy Williams’s house or basement. Dropping the cases, he checked his watch, peering at the hands in the twilight. It was half past nine. Seven and a half hours since he and Helen had boarded the train out of London. If only they had caught the mid-day train as he had wanted to instead of eating that last meal in the Italian restaurant. Helen would have been safely in Swansea when the pain started and he would have got her into hospital that much sooner.

  Martin would be down the Pier with Lily and the others. Roy Williams would be on duty or in the White Rose. John Griffiths – he suddenly realised he had to tell Helen’s father where she was. Stumbling under the weight of the cases, he staggered to Helen’s front door and rang the bell. The sound reverberated hollowly down the passage, echoing through the empty rooms.

  He sank down on the step. He’d given Martin his door key when he’d left, so he and Sam could use it as a spare, and he didn’t have a key to the Griffiths’ basement. He had told Helen there would be plenty of time to get a copy cut from hers when they came back from honeymoon.

  Feeling as though he were prying, and hating himself for it, he opened the carrier bag. Helen’s hat shone, a splash of white in the gloom, on top of her neatly folded gloves and handbag. Beneath them was her blue costume. He brushed his hand over the silk and Helen’s favourite perfume, Bond Street, wafted into the cool night air, bringing tears to his eyes. Struggling to compose himself, he replaced the gloves and hat and removed her handbag. The gold push clasp was fiddly, doubly so when the darkness prevented him from seeing what he was doing, and he was afraid of using force lest he break it. How Helen would laugh if she could see him now – defeated by a girl’s handbag.

  It took him ten minutes to work out that the clasp had to be swung back to release the catch. Lifting out a small red leather purse he had seen Helen use a hundred times in London, he set it on the step next to him. As he delved into the bag his fingers closed over her gold-plated powder compact, then he brought out a gold-cased lipstick, comb, small hairbrush, a tiny bottle of perfume, a lace-edged handkerchief, a card of hair clips – all intensely personal possessions he felt he had no right to touch. Swallowing hard, he slipped his hand inside again. The bag was empty. He peered inside but it was too dark to see. He felt around the silk lining. Surely she would have her keys. He shook the bag and heard a metallic rattle.

&nb
sp; They were folded into a buttoned-down pocket sewn into the lining. He took his time over replacing everything, trying to imagine Helen’s reaction if he had to tell her he had lost any of her precious possessions. But the only image he could conjure with any clarity was her lying unconscious on the stretcher being loaded into the back of the ambulance.

  Rising from the step, he realised he was shattered. He ached as if someone had been using him as a punchbag and there was a sharp pain between his eyes that stabbed deeper every time he moved his head. He walked back through the gate and climbed down the steep flight of steps to the basement. He tried both keys on Helen’s ring, the lock turned when he inserted the second. He reached out and switched on the light before stepping down into the kitchen.

  Closing the door behind him he sank on to a chair. The fresh paintwork and Formica kitchen cupboards sparkled back at him. The room even smelled new – new and clean and antiseptic. Helen had been in the flat scrubbing and cleaning the moment the builders left so they’d have an immaculate home to return to. Taking the carrier bag, he rose to his feet, made his way to the bedroom and switched on the light.

  He stowed Helen’s white court shoes in the bottom of her wardrobe. Her handbag and gloves he placed on the bedside table. Then he reached for a hanger for the costume. He slipped the jacket on to it, only to drop it back on the bed. He simply couldn’t bring himself to shut it in the wardrobe; it would feel as if he were relegating Helen herself to a cupboard – and the past.

  He sat on the bed and ran his fingers over the eiderdown that Brian and Judy had bought them, although he suspected that, like him, Brian had little say in the presents he bought with Judy. So much money, time and effort had gone into making the basement a perfect first home. But he couldn’t help wondering if he and Helen would ever live in it.

  ‘Helen, Jack, are you down there?’ John Griffiths called out, as he unlocked the door that connected the main house to the basement.

  Slumped on the bed, Jack rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. To his amazement they were wet. ‘Only me, Mr Griffiths,’ he answered, rising as he heard John’s step on the stairs.

  ‘I saw the light …’ John stepped into the passage; looked up and down the corridor and realised the rest of the flat was in darkness. ‘Where’s Helen?’ When Jack didn’t reply, he said, ‘You two haven’t had a stupid quarrel, have you?’