Time Passes Time

by Mary Wood

  The police had found the cause of the first splash the man who had saved Patsy had heard: the body of a woman. They’d identified it as Rita . . . Why, Patsy? Why did you go to her?

  Her eyes travelled down Patsy’s body. The revulsion of the other part of the story shuddered through her. Patsy had been raped. Oh, God!

  It all beggared belief. Again her mind screamed the question, Why, Patsy? Why? What did you think you were doing? Anger shot through her.

  ‘Patsy! Bloody well wake up now. Are you listening? Eeh, lass, if you think you can lay there and drift away, you’ve another think coming. Wake up!’

  Shock at her own words jolted her. She hadn’t meant to utter them; she hadn’t meant to sound so cold-hearted. Mam looked up, as did Ian. The astonishment of their expressions nearly made her laugh, but she daren’t, as she’d never stop. Mam opened her mouth to speak, but a movement from the bed stopped her. The tension as they stared at Patsy enclosed them like a vice. Patsy’s swollen eyes flickered. There was no way she could open them, but the movement told them she was there. ‘Eeh, Patsy, it ain’t often you do as I say, lass, but I’m so glad as you did this time.’ Now she could touch her.

  She stepped forward, and Mam and Ian moved aside. A gentle brushing of Patsy’s hand was all she would allow herself. The doctor, who had moved to the other side of the bed, took charge to make checks – checks she knew were for all the vital signs. An arm came round her. A dry-sounding voice said, ‘Not your conventional bedside manner, young lady . . .’

  She smiled up into her dad’s face. ‘The best one for this stubborn miss, though.’ He nodded and his smile held relief. ‘You girls will be the death of me.’

  The man looked ordinary – well, if you could say having a gash down your face and looking like death was how you should look. ‘She’s conscious, my sister. The one you saved.’

  His smile took some of his stunned look away. He must be wondering what had happened to him, how he’d come to go through such an ordeal. He hadn’t anyone with him. Harri stepped closer. ‘Thank you. Eeh, that don’t sound much like what I have inside me, but I can’t express it different.’

  ‘She’s going to be alright, then?’

  ‘Aye, physically. How she’ll get over this ordeal, though, is sommat else. We don’t know what happened or why she was where she was, but the main thing is she’s going to be alright.’

  ‘Thanks for telling me. I’m Greg King . . .’

  ‘Harri Chesterton. Patsy is me half-sister. Are you badly hurt?’

  ‘Well, your sister did a good job on my face, but otherwise no. I just feel as though everything didn’t happen to me – that I watched it happening to someone else, and yet the way my limbs are trembling I know it did happen.’

  ‘That’s a coping mechanism – part of the body’s defences. You’ll have to take care when the reality hits you. It was a brave thing you did.’

  ‘It didn’t feel like it. I thought I was an idiot and cursed myself for not ignoring it and carrying on. My dog drowned.’

  This statement pierced Harri’s armour. Her eyes blurred, and the wetness soothed the prickly dryness of them before it brimmed over and ran down her cheeks. Her throat constricted. ‘I – I’m sorry.’

  Greg didn’t speak. His hand stretched out. Taking it made him real to her. A man . . . A hero, yes; her saviour, yes – but just a man, hurting from loss like she was. The tightening of his grip took this thought away, and she knew he wasn’t just a man. He was special. His eyes held all that she needed in the depth of them: a kindness, an understanding, a kindred spirit.

  ‘Ah, you’re awake?’ Her dad’s entrance broke the moment. She withdrew her hand, but hadn’t wanted to. Whilst her dad and then her mam and Ian thanked him, her mind took in more details of him. Though he was lying down, she could see he was tall. His face looked squared off, with the straight line to his chin – a chin that held a dimple. His eyes, blue, but not at their best with their blood-filled appearance, held a twinkle. A good-looking man and a nice one. No, more than nice . . . God! What am I thinking? It must be the shock.

  ‘Well, thank you again, Greg. An inadequate word for what you did for us . . . for Patsy.’

  Greg nodded at her dad. She had the feeling that it was all too much for him. The others sensed it and withdrew. She smiled and went to follow them, but his plea stopped her, ‘Don’t go . . . I mean. Well . . .’

  Nothing about the moment felt awkward to her, and she didn’t want it to for him. ‘I won’t, but I warn you, you don’t know who you’re asking to be your bedside companion. I’ve a reputation, you know!’

  This brought the colour to her cheeks. As usual her feet had stepped in with a clip that could be taken two ways and made her sound very forward. But he laughed – a painful sound. ‘Oh? Well, you haven’t heard about mine yet!’

  This stopped her blush. She sat down. ‘Tell me about your dog.’

  Though tired to the bones of her, Harri would not have chosen to spend the night any differently. Patsy had been moved to the intensive care unit from the resuscitation ward, and Greg had been put into a quiet room in a side ward. Going from one to the other, making sure they were both alright and letting them know she was there for them, had meant her legs ached with all the walking, but her heart was at ease.

  She’d learned a lot about Greg. A bachelor in his thirties – something that had pleased her more than it should – he ran the London branch of his father’s chain of jewellery shops. His parents had retired to Cornwall and he’d spoken to them on the phone. They were travelling up tomorrow. He had a sister, a lecturer at the university in Bristol, but she was abroad as the long summer break was in progress. A friend had been in to see him and had contacted one of his senior staff to make arrangements for the next day’s trading and that had put his mind at rest. He’d be allowed home tomorrow. Home was an apartment above the shop.

  He’d held her hand often, sometimes for reassurance, and at times just because he’d wanted to. Even the trauma that they were going through didn’t stop her heart singing at this.

  A good moment came when the tube that had passed into Patsy’s stomach through her throat had been removed and she’d managed a few words. Though what she said set up more concerns and fears.

  In between saying that she was sorry, again and again, she became very agitated about a girl called Lizzie. ‘She needs help, Harri . . .’ Her distress worried Harri into talking to the officer sitting outside the ward.

  ‘We are looking for her and her brother,’ he told her. ‘They’re not at the house, and there’s no sign of them. The girl’s in a wheelchair, so she must have been taken somewhere. If she’s on that boat they probably have her by now, but I’ll see if the doctor will allow me to talk to your sister: any information she has is vital to us. The girl could be in danger.’

  This hadn’t been comfortable to hear. It wasn’t all over, then? But why she had thought it was, with another body and what had happened to Patsy, she didn’t know. No. More like it had just begun, and they had more to face . . .

  Sixteen

  A Love Across the Generations

  Jacques and His Grandmother, Lady Daphne Crompton

  Lady Daphne sat upright in her chair. The waiter had been very attentive, and she had all she needed: tea served in beautiful bone china, with biscuits of the finest, and all the possible choices for how she might like to take her tea: fresh lemon slices, white cubed sugar, a jug of hot water, milk and a tea infuser. Perfect. Peeling her gloves off, she began to relax. She was to meet Jacques at three-thirty, but had arrived three hours early to make sure she was ready. Davidson was seeing to checking her into her room. Once she’d had her tea, she would go up and rest for a while before freshening up. Carmen, her Spanish maid, would see to laying out her clothes and running her a bath. Plenty of time. No rush, no harassment.

  The journey had tired her, though the comfort of her Rolls-Royce had cushioned that, as had being able to do sections of her journey
on the parts of the new motorway that were open – a marvellous road, and one long overdue for this country.

  The surroundings were familiar to her. Did anything ever change at the Ritz? Oh, the shopping trips she and her dear sister Laura had made to London in the old days! And staying here had been part of them. Sometimes Lady Gladwyn, her friend and confidante, had accompanied them, and when she had, the evenings had been full of parties of the grandest kind. Lady Gladwyn had been very well connected.

  Life was very different now. It wasn’t just old age. The dowagers of her past had still lived a grand existence, and it was this ‘grand existence’ itself that had gone, and she put it all down to the rising up of the lower classes. Working classes, they called them now. They had too much, in her view, and were always striving for more. They lived far above their station, and one found oneself often sitting next to them in places they would not have been allowed to set foot in in her younger days. It would all end in tears, she was sure of it. At least having Alec Douglas-Home as their Prime Minister meant they had one of their own still at the helm, but for how much longer? That wretched Harold Wilson was gaining ground and popular support for the Labour Party. Oh dear, sometimes she longed to go back in time.

  Jacques whistled under his breath as he entered the Ritz, the sumptuousness and grandeur of the place was more than he was used to. Standing at the reception, he looked up into the never-ending spiral of a beautiful ornate staircase.

  ‘Lady Crompton has a table reserved in the hall for tea. Come this way, sir.’

  As they walked through to the hall, the thick tread of the carpets and the splendour of the decor made him relieved that he’d chosen his suit rather than his casual denims for this meeting. The Ritz being the venue had given him a little insight, but even so, for a man who liked the casual look and rarely chose the formal, it had been a toss-up which to wear.

  His first look at his grandmother gave him a feeling he didn’t expect. Love? Yes, he would say that was it. The serene lady was sophisticated in her manner and dress, wearing what he had heard termed a ‘costume’ – a sage-green satin-look jacket trimmed with black and a matching skirt. She sat bolt upright, trying to look unaffected by everything that was happening, but she came across as frail and vulnerable, yet with her past beauty still evident in every part of her elegant appearance. Her precise, dainty features defied age, showing only traces of lines, and her hair was a shining blue-grey, swept off her face in a soft way and gathered into a bun.

  She stayed still as he approached, feeling uncertain, he suspected, and that would be an uncomfortable state for one used to being confident in her surroundings. ‘Lady Crompton?’ As she glanced up at him he found himself looking into knowing, wise, dark eyes, lightened by age on the perimeter but still sharp and keen.

  He took the tiny, blue-veined hand she offered to him gently in his and proffered a bow, something he’d never done in his life. Her tinkling laugh held a mockery of his action, but when he looked up he saw it was an amused gesture tinged with a little pride.

  ‘Sit down, dear. You are very handsome, and yes, I do see something of my daughter in you, though I can see you have inherited more of the French look you assign half of your parentage to.’

  ‘A quarter French. The other quarter is Polish. Have you come to believe I am, or may be, your grandson?’

  ‘A little of me believes it. You would be part of why things are like they are. Shame can do strange things to people’s minds.’

  ‘Are you talking about my mother? Has she problems?’

  ‘Shall we establish you are who you say you are first? Then I will talk about my daughter to you.’

  Her hand went up and a waiter attended immediately ‘Madame?’

  Without conferring, she ordered afternoon tea, then stopped and said, ‘Wait a minute. Don’t you Americans drink coffee no matter what the hour? Or maybe you would prefer something else?’

  ‘What I feel like is champagne! This is a great occasion for me . . .’

  Her ‘tut’ amused him. He already loved her beyond measure, and to think she was what they had been led to believe most English ladies were: refined, prudish, stiff-upper-lipped and . . . But no, he couldn’t say emotionless. That didn’t describe how he’d seen her shake a little as she’d fought for control on first seeing him, but she was full of propriety, yes. Wonderful!

  ‘Coffee will be great, thank you. Erm, strong and black, please.’

  ‘The way they serve it, you will be able to determine its strength yourself, Jacques.’

  Another barbed reprimand, but he didn’t mind. It was what he would expect from a grandmother if her grandson stepped out of line. Even if she was unsure that’s what their relationship was, she was taking on the role like a natural.

  ‘Shall I show you what I have now?’

  ‘Yes. But please remember, Jacques, this isn’t easy for me . . .’

  ‘I know. I understand. I am a shock to you, but you are doing very well. Best get it over with, eh?’

  ‘Your “getting it over with” will be just a beginning for me and my daughter . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been insensitive. I didn’t mean to be, Gran— Lady Crompton.’

  ‘A lot has happened since the war. Oh, a lot happened during it that changed our lives and our relationships drastically too. I have lost a son . . . well, and a daughter, really . . . Oh dear, why am I talking to you like this? I intended to keep this very business-like, but . . .’

  ‘It is hard to do that with your own, ma’am. And we are family, I know that. You only have to let me prove it to you and you will know it, too.’

  ‘I think I do, Jacques.’

  What this had cost her to say he didn’t know, but the saying of it sent a warm glow surging through him, so much so that he forgot himself again and leaned towards her. ‘That means a lot to me. To have you recognize in me something of yourself . . . of your family, without proof . . .’

  ‘Stop that! I don’t go in for all of this sentimental nonsense . . .’

  The pretty lace hanky she brought out of her bag and touched her nose and the corner of her eye with told him a different story. Time to show her what proof he had.

  He laid the photos out in front of her and waited.

  Though he knew she wouldn’t want it to happen, a little tear did escape her as she turned each photo over and looked at the inscription of who was who. Still she didn’t speak, until she lifted his passport and checked his name. ‘So, it did happen. A wartime love affair and here you are . . .’

  ‘Yes, Grandmother, here I am!’

  ‘Well, I suppose we had better deal with the situation.’

  This wasn’t the reply he would have liked, but he could see her inner turmoil.

  ‘I won’t embarrass you or ask anything of you, Grandmother. I—’

  ‘Grandmama, please! As in “mam” and “ma”.’ This came with a little smile. ‘And of course you will cause me embarrassment, but I am prepared for that and it isn’t your fault. But I hope too that you will bring my daughter back to me.’

  He sat listening to her quiet, dignified tones with shock and a churning of his emotions as she told him of her estrangement from his mother. ‘We never quarrelled, but for some unknown reason your mother refused to see me. It broke my heart, but in the end I had to accept that by persisting in trying I was only making things worse for her. Now I am wondering if she held a deep shame in her at having had you out of wedlock. This, mixed with the pain of losing her lover and her son, might account for Theresa’s rejection of me. Maybe somehow I made her relive her shame over and over and therefore the pain. Poor darling, she must be living a private hell and I can’t help her.’

  At this point his own eyes prickled with unshed tears. He reached out and gently took her hand. She didn’t resist. They stayed still just looking at each other. Someone dropping and breaking a piece of china splintered the moment, but not before they had sealed the deep feeling they shared.

&nb
sp; ‘Oh, this is such a public place, and we are embarrassing ourselves. I am booked into a suite. Let us go up. My staff will take care of us.’

  ‘Are you sure, Grandmama? I don’t want to tire you. Would you like me to come back later?’

  ‘No, Jacques, I don’t want you to go anywhere. I want you to stay with me for ever. You may be my little family embarrassment, but now that I have found you I intend to hold my head up high and never lose you. Help me to get up, dear.’

  His heart sang. He’d found the other half of him . . . well, not the whole half, but a big part of it.

  Exhaustion hazed her eyes at times, but she insisted on carrying on. They covered a lot of ground. He told her of his Polish family and his grandfather, his French grandmother, and what he knew of his mother and father’s love for each other and of his life now, and he listened to her telling of his late Uncle Terence and the family Terence had left behind – his cousins! My God, so many people to get to know! And then she went on to tell of his late grandfather, someone she had loved dearly and missed to this day. This prompted another regretful moment in him – something he hadn’t had when she’d spoken of his Uncle Terence and his suicide, although he didn’t know why.

  Finally she told him about Hensal Grange, now no longer in the family, which was the grand country home left to her by her sister, whom she’d adored and who had been involved in a little scandal. When she finished, she sat back. She looked . . . happy. Yes, that’s how he would describe the look that had settled on her face and the aura that surrounded her.

  He couldn’t help himself. He stood up, pulled her to her feet, and hugged her, taking care not to hurt her. She allowed it for a moment then slapped him gently. ‘You Americans, all sentiment and flattery . . .’ He laughed out loud. Her tinkling laughter joined his. It was as if the years of not knowing each other had slipped away. They were family, and he knew they had a great, unforced love between them.