Call and I'll Come

by Mary Burchell

  “I wanted to tell you that you had only to call and I would come. But I was ashamed—it was so silly—I had nothing to offer and you had everything. That was the awful part. You always had to give and give, and I always had to take and take. I’ve only been allowed to do something for you three times in all the time I’ve known you.”

  “Don’t, Anna.” His voice was rough with agitation. And then, as though he couldn’t help it: “What were those three times, child?”

  “When I stood by you in court today.” She was speaking almost in a whisper. “When I—held you in my arms last night, and managed to make you sleep.” For a moment her voice failed entirely.

  “And the third time, Anna?” He, too, spoke gently now, like the Tony she knew.

  “You let me—light your—cigarette, the very first time I saw you...—” And then she was crying, desperately, helplessly, with her hands pressed childishly against her face.

  “Anna!”

  At the sound in his voice she raised her head again. For a moment his eyes were off the road. He was staring at her. So that it was she who saw what was going to happen—she who saw the black hulk of the stationary lorry as it seemed to rear up in front of them.

  A second before the shivering impact she flung herself across him. She felt the back wheels of the car leave the road as the whole thing stood on end.

  And then the world seemed to fall apart in crashes of rolling thunder, and she sank through endless, lightning-shot clouds—into nothing.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Slowly Tony opened his eyes, and tried to think what had happened. It was dark except for a streak of light from a car lamp, which seemed to be at a preposterous angle. There was a rough voice asking him again and again if he were all right. And there was something lying, soft and inert, against him. Anna!

  He knew suddenly, and struggled frantically into a sitting position, lifting her in his arms as he did so, though they felt ridiculously weak and shaky.

  “Anna! Anna! Anna!”

  He wondered for a moment who it was who kept on repeating her name. Then he realised that it was he himself.

  Somebody was holding a flask to his lips, and he took a gulp of raw-tasting spirit that scorched his throat but made him able to think much more clearly.

  He saw that there were a couple of men standing beside him, scared and anxious.

  “I’m all right,” he said thickly.

  “But the girl ain’t,” one of the men said. “Better get her across to that cottage there. There’s a light gone up in the window now. They must have heard the crash. Here, let me take her.”

  “No!” Tony looked almost murderous as he clutched Anna’s figure against him and staggered to his feet.

  Little, limp, sagging figure that hung so pitifully still in his arms. She seemed to weigh on his very heart. But he couldn’t let anyone else hold her, he couldn’t let anyone else hold her. She was his—alive or dead.

  He lurched up the path to the open cottage door, where a scared-looking woman, with a grey pigtail down her back, and a dressing-gown thrown on over her night clothes, stood, exclaiming: “Oh, for the Lord’s sake, what a terrible business! Is she dead? There. Bring her in and put her on the sofa. And one of you men go for the doctor. He’s straight down that road, almost half a mile down on the left.”

  Tony had put her on the sofa now, and stopped to wipe the sweat out of his eyes. Only it wasn’t sweat—it was blood, he saw, when his fingers came away crimson.

  He submitted to having a bandage bound quickly round his head, but all the while he never took his eyes off Anna. And when the woman went out to the kitchen, to heat water in readiness for the doctor, he hung over her, looking at her as though he would compel her to open her eyes by the sheer force of his own pleading gaze.

  And then, as he watched her, memory slowly rolled back the curtain ... Night-time in a cottage room ... Anna lying hurt upon a sofa by a dying fire ... and he himself gazing at her with his soul in his eyes.

  “Oh, my little love,” he exclaimed softly, and he came and knelt beside her, so that he could put his cheek against her cold quiet hand.

  The year between didn’t seem to count any more. All those strange, disturbing scenes held no significance. Anna trying to understand his family. Anna in his office saying that she had stayed the night with Frayne. Anna as a successful singer, with that fool of a foreign conductor looming in the background. Anna defending him in court.

  They had all narrowed down suddenly to the little Anna that was his. The enchanted girl who had put her hand against his heart and made him hers for always. The Anna who had knelt beside him in the firelight, happy because he had let her light his cigarette.

  All she had asked was to be allowed to give, poor child, and she had held so pitifully little between those thin hands of hers that she had been ashamed even to offer it.

  Instead she had had to receive and receive. To be grateful, to be humiliated by the bounty of the man she wanted to serve.

  He’d meant so well. He’d meant so well. But oh, why had he been such a blind fool?

  Her fingers stirred slightly against his cheek, and he started up.

  Her eyes were open now. Wide, smoke-fringed, hazel eyes—dark in her white face.

  “Tony.” Her voice was very quiet.

  “What, my darling?”

  “Are you there?”

  “Yes, yes.” He pressed her hand feverishly against his cheek again.

  "Was there an accident?”

  “Yes, Anna. But I don’t think you ought to talk much,” he said a little agitatedly.

  “Why?” The question came very coolly and quietly. “Am I badly hurt?”

  “I—I don’t know. No, my dear. I—hope not.”

  “You sound frightened.” She looked at him with those large, shadowy eyes, and then she smiled very faintly. “Poor boy. You look as you did when you had to tell me Mother was dead.” How odd, he thought; she was thinking of that time, too. “Why do you look like that?” she said gently. “Are you frightened to tell me that I am going to die?”

  “Anna, don’t!” Tony spoke almost violently. He was desperately afraid. He didn’t know much about illness, but it seemed to him that there was something terribly serious in those deepening shadows round her eyes, and the way the smooth golden tan stood out on her thin cheeks.

  “But what does it matter?” she said impatiently and very wearily. “You can’t mind really—not after the things you’ve said. And I”—to his inexpressible terror her voice began to fade—“I should be almost—glad.”

  “Oh, darling—my little darling—don’t say such things!” he implored her.

  That she should suppose he didn’t mind if she died!

  But surely now she could hear the pain and terror in his voice. But she didn’t seem to be hearing anything. Her lashes were lying heavily on her cheeks again and it was as though she were drifting farther and farther away from him.

  Just once she opened her eyes, and said very sadly: “I wish Manora would come. She’s always so kind.” But she didn’t sound as though she expected anything to happen as she wanted it, and she closed her eyes again almost at once.

  It hurt badly that she should ask so pathetically for anyone but himself, but he, too, wished in that moment that Manora would come—wished it passionately, if that were what Anna wanted. He’d never liked the sound of the woman much, but evidently to Anna she represented some refuge of kindliness and strength. And, in an odd, humble way, he suddenly felt grateful to her.

  The sound of the garden gate swinging back brought him stumbling to his feet. He went out eagerly into the little hallway as the woman of the cottage came from the kitchen.

  But it wasn’t the doctor. It was just one of the men who had gone to fetch him.

  “Doctor was out,” he reported laconically.

  “Oh no!” Tony scarcely recognised the hoarse, despairing exclamation for his own.

  The man looked pityingly at him, and
added quickly: “But Bob’s got out his motor-bike and gone for Dr. Channing. He can’t be very long.”

  A painful gratitude to the unknown Bob pierced Tony’s wretchedness and impatience.

  “It’s very good of him,” he muttered. “Only time’s so important—so terribly important.”

  “Don’t you worry, sir. Dr. Channing’s the cleverest doctor in the district,” the man began, while the woman patted him kindly on the shoulder.

  But Tony turned away and went back into the room where Anna was. He shut the door behind him and leaned against it. They meant well, but they couldn’t comfort him. Only Anna could do that—and she was lying there so quietly with her eyes shut.

  He wanted her frightenedly as he had never wanted anything since the occasional bewilderment of childhood. It was something like that feeling—the same unreasoning desire to be held close and reassured.

  It was ridiculous, of course, because it was he who ought to hold her close and reassure her—tell her that her terrible idea of his not caring was all wrong.

  He couldn’t face the fact that he might never be able to explain that to her now ... How he had loved her so desperately all the time, only he had thought he had known what was best for her.

  That anxiety struggled painfully in the back of his mind, but even that was partially blotted out by the overwhelming desire just to be held in her arms, just to be told with such sweet, illogical comfort that “it was all right”.

  He came over slowly and sat down heavily in a chair near her sofa—sat there staring at her with boyish, scared eyes, quite helpless to do anything, and with hope slipping bit by bit from him.

  It wasn’t any good. He didn’t deserve that she should open her eyes. He’d been so stupid, so lacking in understanding, holding her roughly and carelessly instead of warmly and tenderly.

  Even Frayne—even those raffish foreigners whom he had always despised—had understood her better. She’d asked so pitifully for Manora because “she’s always so kind.”

  Poor little Anna. There hadn’t been much kindness for her. And she asked so little, really—so very little.

  He buried his face in his hands, and sat very still. Everything was so quiet in the cottage. He wondered vaguely if anything would ever break the silence again. And then—“I—thought you would come,” Anna’s voice said slowly. He started violently and looked up. Her darling, wonderful eyes were open, and she was smiling that faint, shy smile at him.

  “I’ve been—calling you,” she said. “Did you know?”

  Sudden, ridiculous tears stung his eyelids.

  “Yes, I—I knew,” he stammered, and came and knelt beside her again.

  She looked at him very wistfully and said: “I tried not to say your name, but I was frightened and wanted you so much.” And then he saw suddenly that this was his moment.

  “I was terribly frightened too,” he whispered. “Did you hear me calling you, my dear—wherever your timid little spirit has been wandering?”

  “What—did you—say? Did you want me?”

  There was a look in her eyes that drove all eloquence from his lips. He suddenly hid his face against her in helpless abandon. It was selfish of him. It was probably bad for her. But he couldn’t help it.

  “Oh, Anna, Anna, Anna. There’s nothing to say but your darling name. I’ve been calling to you desperately in my heart ever since you left me. Won’t you listen to me? It’s I who need you, my beloved.”

  “Tony”—she moved feebly, and put her arm close round him—“what are you saying?” And then, as he moved convulsively, she said: “All right, don’t try to explain, my dear.”

  She lightly kissed his rough, tumbled hair just where it showed above the bandage.

  “Does your poor head ache badly?” she asked him tenderly. He nodded. But he leaned his aching head against her and knew the most perfect peace. He could feel the quiet, measured beat of her heart, and he knew that if that stopped his world would stop.

  The minutes slipped away, and then he whispered almost childishly: “May I explain now?”

  “Yes, Tony dear, if there’s anything to explain.” Her voice was tranquil and infinitely tender.

  “Oh yes,” he stammered eagerly, “there’s so much to explain—so much.”

  “Well—you tell me, then.” She gently ruffled his hair with loving fingers.

  He searched in his mind for words. “It’s just that I need you and want you so terribly,” he began desperately. “Oh no, I’ve told you all that before. That wasn’t what I meant to tell you. It’s about—that ridiculous thing I said—that you’d only to call and I’d come.”

  “Wasn’t that true, Tony?” she asked, putting her cheek down against his hair.

  “Oh yes, of course it was true—every word of it. Only—don’t you see?—it implied that you would be the only one who would be in need.”

  She laughed softly and said: “Do you remember almost the first thing you told me was that I looked like a beggar-maid?”

  “Oh, Anna! And one of the first things you told me was that I looked like a prince. I don’t know which was the sillier remark, dearest. We neither of us said anything about my desperate need for you.”

  “Well, we didn’t know anything about it, did we?” she said gently.

  “I’ve known for a long time,” he whispered pleadingly.

  “Poor boy! My poor Tony. And yet you wouldn’t tell me.”

  “It wasn’t until I lost you that I knew so clearly.” He turned his fingers nervously in her thin ones, “And then, almost immediately, the world was growing so bright for you.”

  “Bright?” Anna laughed a little and shuddered.

  “Well, I mean—fame coming to you and all that sort of thing,” he explained awkwardly.

  “Do you know why I tried so hard to be famous?” she said.

  “I think I can guess.” It was he who spoke very tenderly now. “But, my little love, why did you suppose you could be any dearer to me because you were a celebrity?”

  “It wasn’t that. I—I thought—”

  “What did you think?”

  “Well, that if you could be proud of me in that way, it wouldn’t matter so much about your having to be ashamed of me in other ways.” She spoke very low.

  He stared at her, a little flush of indignant astonishment putting colour into his pale face.

  “But I was never ashamed of you—not for one minute in all my life. How could you think such a thing?” he demanded. “Did I ever say the least thing to make you think so?”

  “No—no, not you yourself.”

  “Who, then?” He had forgotten it was not good for her to talk—certainly not good for her to be questioned so determinedly.

  “Oh, Tony, never mind now.”

  “But you must tell me. It’s only right.”

  “Well, it was something Katherine said—”

  “Katherine!”

  She winced a little, and immediately he was all contrition. “I’m sorry, my sweet. I didn’t mean to be so violent,” he said much more gently. “But please tell me what Katherine said.”

  “She was talking to your aunt—they didn’t even know that I heard, so you mustn’t blame them. Your aunt was crying because—because you’d married me.”

  Tony pressed his lips together angrily and then just said: “Go on.”

  Anna’s fingers tightened on his.

  “She said how awful it was when a man spoiled his whole life by marrying a common little outsider. And she said he usually didn’t manage to struggle free before—”

  “Before what?” Tony asked grimly.

  “Before there was a common baby, too.” Her voice sank to a whisper and she looked away from him.

  There was a long silence. Then he put his fingers against her thin cheek and gently turned her face towards him, so that he could look into those dark, hurt eyes of hers.

  “Anna, did you really suppose I should have found your darling babies—common?” he said quietly.
>
  Her eyes slowly filled with tears.

  “I didn’t know,” she began.

  He leaned forward and kissed her roughly on her mouth. “Now do you know?”

  “Yes,” she said rather humbly.

  And then there was the sound of the gate again, and a slight bustle in the hall told him that the doctor had arrived.

  It jerked Tony’s mind back to the fact that Anna was ill—probably dangerously ill. Somehow the sharp edge of his terror about that had been blunted while her arm was round him.

  But now, as he got unsteadily to his feet, panic flooded over him again. He felt very sick and giddy, and his head throbbed unbearably, but that was all nothing, compared to the chill at his heart.

  The doctor gave one look at Anna and then glanced at Tony with a sort of surprised disapproval.

  “I hope you’ve had the sense to keep her very quiet,” he said.

  Tony was dumb, weighed down now by a sense of guilt as well as fear. It was Anna who said gently and untruthfully: “Oh yes, Doctor.”

  “Glad to hear it,” said the doctor dryly, as though he didn’t attach much value to her assurance.

  Then Tony was turned out of the room, and went to pace nervously about the kitchen, just as he had, all that time ago, when Dr. Irwin had been looking after Anna.

  The woman of the cottage was sympathetic but pessimistic, and, while Tony gratefully drank the strong tea she made him, he wished irritatedly that she wouldn’t talk. It reminded him of the terrifying way Anna had hung in his arms when he had carried her in. Like someone—dead.

  But it couldn’t be like that now. Not when he’d just found her, and some of the awful misunderstanding was removed at last. It couldn’t—couldn’t—couldn’t. He found himself repeating the word in his aching brain in time to the measured beat of the old-fashioned kitchen clock.

  And presently he sank his weary head in his hands, and sat there very still for what seemed eternity.

  But at last the door of the other room opened. Tony was out in the passage immediately.

  “How is she?” He shot out the words somehow.

  The doctor patted his arm. “She’ll do very well. It’s going to mean some weeks in bed...” The floor sank away from Tony for a moment ... The next thing he knew was that the doctor had him firmly by the arm, and was leading him to a chair.