BITTER WATER
Douglas Clark
© Douglas Clark 1990
Douglas Clark has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1990 by John Farquharson, Ltd.
This edition published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.
For James Richard
Table of Contents
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1
Kent was living up to its reputation as the garden of England. The early morning sun was already warm even though most people had not yet breakfasted. June had been bountiful. More than a week of glorious weather had reassured even the most cautious that French windows and patio doors could be opened wide at so early an hour without fear of cold blasts entering houses to chill and disturb the inhabitants. There was a busy stillness all about. Bees and other insects noising their activities pianissimo; birds done with the dawn chorus and quietly settling down to the never ending chore of feeding themselves and their nestlings; shadows cast by trees and bushes marching silently round the arcs prescribed for them by the sun; the sky cloudless, the blue unbroken even by vapour trails and, momentarily, no noise of aeroplane engines as background music for the idyll.
“The trouble with builders,” said Margot Carlyle angrily, “is that they never seem to do anything as you really want it done. You can envisage it and explain in minute detail, but builders, in spite of all their protestations of being prepared to carry out your instructions to the letter, always change the specifications or wilfully misunderstand them, so that one finishes up with what can best be described as an abortion.”
Her husband, Hugh Carlyle, laughed aloud. A big throaty laugh, coming from a big heavily built man in his prime. “My dear girl,” he said, “you have made that speech, or one strikingly similar in tone and burden, every day on which the sun has shone warmly for the past two years. And, let’s be honest, the object of your wrath is not a builder. It’s nothing more than a ramp of concrete six feet long.”
“That is exactly my point,” retorted Margot, steadying his wheelchair as it took to the slope. “It is much too steep for you to manage comfortably on your own. And why? Because it is six feet long and not the eight feet I stipulated.”
“They had their reasons, my dear. The extra two feet would have taken me too close to the edge of the pool. They thought it would have been unsafe for me.”
“Nonsense,” said Margot severely. “They could have taken the ramp at an angle from the French window to get the necessary length.”
“It would have been awfully difficult, old girl.”
“Not in the least difficult.” She strained against the gathering momentum. “They could have built a level platform and then led off downwards at right angles.”
“There’s a manhole cover in the way.”
“They could have bridged that quite easily,” she said as she brought the chair to a halt.
“Certainly they could, but it wouldn’t have left enough clearance for raising it should the need arise.”
She made no reply as she turned the chair onto the path round the pool. “Now, are you going by yourself, or do you want me to hang on?”
“I’ll manage, Mags. The brakes will hold me. I’ll be out in time for breakfast.”
“A quarter of an hour?”
“Make it twenty minutes and you’re on. Can we eat out here? It’s a beautiful morning.”
Margot Carlyle stood by the chair and looked up at the sky, shading her eyes with her hands. She was a handsome woman. Not big. In fact, small-enough-made to emphasise an excellent figure. In her early forties, she looked no more than thirty-two or -three. Her hair, skin, eyes … all were those of a woman in her prime. But she was a bundle of strength. Hugh Carlyle had often been surprised at the power of the small hands and slim wrists.
“I don’t see why not,” she said at length, having satisfied herself that no errant breeze was likely to blow to do him physical harm. “I’ll bring out the infrared grill and the toaster.” She put one hand on his shoulder. “Will kidneys and mushrooms suit you? I find eggs are difficult out of doors.”
“Anything, my lovely.” Briefly he laid one hand on hers and said: “Now, if I don’t get in there smartish my twenty minutes’ll be up and I shall miss my grub.”
She left him to it, knowing his spirit of independence and his preference for managing things himself as far as possible. Various additions had been made around the pool to help him do so. The chair could be steered between tubular steel banisters which allowed him to raise himself on his arms and edge slowly onto a small seat that could then swing out over the water and, at the touch of a button, lower him down almost to the surface at the shallow end. He did it competently. Slowly, but with the facility which comes from practice.
In the water he was a different man. Here, the malaise which affected his legs on dry land was no longer so apparent. The buoyancy of the water and the strength of his great, muscular arms allowed him to swim quite adeptly. But first, the exercises for the near-useless legs. Using the buoyancy to lift them, he flexed the flaccid muscles. Bending, stretching, massaging. He doubted the value of the daily drill, unsure whether it improved matters or prevented them from worsening. But his physiotherapist insisted on the hydrotherapy and he enjoyed the water, aware that in this medium he was nearer to normality than on land.
Because he was wealthy enough to build and equip the pool, Maisie Firth, his private physiotherapist, had been able to plan his routine carefully to suit his specific disability. It was up to him to execute the exercises in accordance with her wishes. The spasticity of the leg muscles caused an increasing weakness which Maisie was sure only exercise could stem. She had explained how the muscles, too weak to work against gravity, could only be aided by hydrotherapy or slings and counterweights slung over pulleys. For this reason the pool had been adapted for his use. For the winter months, when bathing outside was impossible, he had installed the biggest domestic bath available so that he could continue unrelentingly with his underwater exercises. In addition, there were the passive movements Maisie had prescribed. Margot had been taught how to massage his legs and move them so that the affected muscles were stretched smoothly and rhythmically. It was during these twice-daily sessions that he had come to realise and appreciate the firm but gentle strength of his wife’s hands and wrists.
He had finished the course of exercises and was dog-paddling about the pool, using the strong arms as his only motive power, when Margot again appeared to plug in the toaster at the guarded external power point.
“The kidneys are done,” she told him, as he came to the rail close to where she was standing. “I cooked them indoors, after all, but I’ll bring the grill out, just the same, to keep them hot until you’re ready.”
“Coming out now, Mags.”
“You must towel off and change before you have breakfast.”
“Must I? It’s warm enough just to put on a robe.”
She insisted. “You must be dried and in proper clothing. I’m not letting you take the risk of catching even a summer cold. Come along. I’ll help you.” She sounded firm rather than dictatorial, but it was a firmness born of anxiety. Hugh’s doctors had been adamant. Every precaution must be taken against any chance of infection. Even minor illnesses, such as colds, could be much more troublesome for him than for others. She intended to play her part conscientiously and without fuss. She had done so now for some years, ever since the need arose. She realised that probably she was sometimes a little short on cheerfulness. Usually when she remembered the whole man too vividly to ac
cept willingly this handicap: a progressive disease which had turned the young lion she had married into a physical cripple.
Mentally, Hugh Carlyle was jovial, although the doctors had told her that this cheerfulness could be pathognomic, specifically characteristic of sufferers of this particular disablement, the presence of which went some way towards confirming the diagnosis of the disease. Certainly Hugh did not give the impression of viewing his condition as seriously as she did. But this attitude was so like the attitude of the man of earlier days: cheerful, witty, good-humoured, good-tempered and as energetic as it was possible for a human to be.
Mentally she was the cripple, because she grieved constantly. Her knowledge of his disease caused her to question fate as much as any man or woman who wonders why his or her loved one should be stricken in the prime of life by any serious disabling or fatal illness. The cause of his condition, according to the doctors, was unknown. Margot knew from her reading that there were several schools of thought. Some said infection was the cause, others that it was due to an allergic reaction of the nervous system, whilst another opinion, quite widely held, stated that it was the result of a metabolic upset or even a deficiency disorder. Not to know exactly was painful, because Margot was an intelligent woman liking to know about whatever concerned her, particularly something as closely as this. Perhaps wrongly, she felt that ignorance as to the cause prevented her from taking some comparatively simple remedial action and this, in turn, engendered a feeling of helplessness. She had read what she could, but found it all little more than background information: the disease is more common in temperate climates; sixty percent of patients show the first manifestations between the ages of twenty and forty; onset is exceedingly rare below fifteen or over fifty; the incidence is much more common in women than men. And so on.
She went indoors to fetch the little portable grill and then, having plugged it in, waited at the chair as he swung himself easily out of the water. She had carefully draped a bath towel on the seat to stop it getting too wet and then put a bathrobe round his shoulders. He propelled himself to the ramp, and might have been able to manage it himself, but she helped him up and across the threshold of the French window.
The room had been turned over to him. Not as a bedroom, though it did contain, against one wall, a divan on which he could rest should he need to. Desk, two armchairs, even filing cabinets specially built on stilts so that no drawer was below the height of his knees and so that the footrest of the chair could go underneath to make reaching the contents easier.
“I’m almost dry, Mags, and I must say the kidneys smell good. Amazing how a swim sharpens the appetite.”
“Your trunks are still sopping.”
They came off easily. A tie at each side allowed the garment to open out so that it could be flicked from beneath him.
“Ups-a-daisy.” He looked at her closely. She had never said that before when she needed him to shift his weight. It was unlike her. Not her sort of expression.
“Something is bothering you, Maggie. Is it because I’m putting on weight? Getting to be too much for you?”
She kissed him on the forehead. “Never that, my darling. And your tummy is as flat as a pancake, much to my great delight and surprise. I suppose it’s all the exercises which keep you …”
He lifted an arm and put it round her shoulders, drawing her down to him. “You’re burbling, Mags. Running on, in fact, so what is it that’s bothering you? And don’t say nothing is, because I know the signs too well.”
“I’m worried lest you are doing too much.”
“Too much, old girl?” He removed his arm and looked up at her as she straightened. “In my condition?” He laughed. “How can I? I don’t do a quarter of what I’d like to do.”
“No, perhaps not.” She heaved the elastic of his pants up at the back and then eased his trousers up his legs, leaving him to wriggle his backside into them and fasten the belt clips. She did not expand on her reply. Silently she handed him a pale blue, freshly laundered bush shirt, made to order, with pockets on both breasts and both skirts so that he could carry all his impedimenta on his person without recourse to trouser pockets.
“I’ll serve breakfast. Be careful coming down the ramp.”
The little table, placed on the grass to the left of the ramp, was exquisitely laid, and the trolley carrying the grill and toaster was pushed close so that he could reach to feed more of the thick-sliced bread into the pop-up machine should he want it.
After manoeuvring himself to the table he took the vitamin pills she had put by his plate and drank the fresh orange juice. Then she put the kidneys and mushrooms in front of him.
“Good grub,” he said, after a moment, obviously enjoying it. He looked across at her. “You not having any?”
“Toast and honey will do me.”
He put down his knife and fork. “Come on, sweetheart. Something’s bugging you. What is it?”
“I am a bit worried,” she confessed.
“About me? Why?”
“You’re looking strained. Tired.”
“Am I? Surely not.”
“You are doing too much.”
“No, no, Mags. The doctors have told me to keep on the go.”
“Eat your breakfast while it’s still hot.”
He ignored the instruction. “They said it is dangerous not to. What was it, exactly? Inactivity could lead to urinary infection, constipation and probably pneumonia? Or some such catalogue of ills.”
“I know all that. Now, eat your breakfast, Hugh. It’s getting cold.”
He speared a segment of kidney and then put his fork down. “I know what it is, old girl. You need a holiday. A real one, I mean. Without me. For years now you’ve never been away anywhere except to the cottage. You refuse to leave me and we only go to the cottage because it has all the aids for me installed there. You need a complete change.”
She shook her head and smiled gently. “I don’t want a break away from you, my darling. Always, when you’re not here, I’m longing for you to get back.”
“Even when your pals come to keep you company for the day?”
“Even then.”
“You seemed very happy to entertain Wanda Masters and her little boy on Tuesday. I’ve not seen you so full of vim, vigour and verve for a long, long time.”
“Wanda is one of my oldest friends. We’ve always been very close. And look at the fuss you made of her. And of young Michael, when you came home in the middle of the afternoon.” She smiled again. “Honestly, Hugh, you enjoyed their visit more than I did.”
“Nonsense, old girl.”
“You mean you didn’t like them coming?” She smiled.
“You know exactly what I meant. I think the world of Wanda and I like the little chap. But to say I enjoyed their visit more than you did is nonsense. You revelled in their company.”
Margot laughed aloud. “And who was it who didn’t stop at giving Wanda two complimentaries for tonight’s opening of Round the Barley? Who was it who not only papered the house, but actually gave her a residence?”
“Gave her one?”
“You offered her Housmans for about half the price it would fetch on the open market.”
“And who promptly took her to look it over?”
“I couldn’t do anything else but take her. I wanted the poor girl to see what you were offering before she felt she needed to give you an answer, however conditional.”
“I noticed you were full of its praises and running on about how nice it would be to have her living nearby and how good the country air would be for Michael.”
“Of course, and I meant every word. I’m not complaining about your offer. I’m delighted that you thought of it. But I can understand why Wanda was a bit taken aback.”
“She told us she and George were thinking of moving out of their little place in London because it wouldn’t be big enough much longer. From that I deduced an increase in family. I’ve got a nice oast-house, converted into a d
omestic dwelling, but standing empty. As it has been for over a year now. Nobody has offered what you and the agents call the market price, so it seemed reasonable that I should offer it to a friend in need at what, I reckoned, was a realistic price. That is, the price they would want, and could afford, to pay.”
“With ten thousand knocked off after that?”
“It will need a bit of decorating and the garden has gone to pot.”
“Wanda loved it.”
“So I gathered. But she was a bit cagey …”
“Wouldn’t you be? Wouldn’t you be wondering whether there wasn’t some hidden snag attached to such an offer?”
“Of course. And to show I meant what I said about it I spoke to George yesterday morning.”
“At the Yard?”
“Just to reassure him that it was a good property and that he could have it surveyed at any time. And to reiterate the price, of course.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
He grinned widely. “I’ve been too busy, old girl. You know, as you said a few minutes ago.”
“Oh, you idiot.”
“I thought Wanda would ring you and tell you all the developments. My idea was to leave it strictly to them from now on. Don’t want to seem to be steamrollering them.”
“I expect she’ll ring today. If you spoke to George yesterday morning they’ll have discussed it last night and she’ll ring as soon as she can this morning. Anyhow, we’ll probably see them tonight.”
“Maybe. But to get back to your holiday.”
“I don’t want a holiday alone. Would you like another cup of coffee?”
As he handed his cup over to her, he said, “Then we’ll have a break together.”
“What do you mean?” She put two sweeteners into the cup of black coffee before handing it over to him.
“A cruise. If we were to book a deck cabin so that I could push the chair in and out, use the lifts for the dining room as long as we make sure that the ship has promenade cabins—and have a handhold made for beside the bed. You know the sort of thing. Two lengths of strong metal tubing, one fitting inside the other. Ideal for ships with steel decks. The tubes, with endplates fitted, could be extended hard up against the deck and ceiling. A simple screw-type locking device in the middle to keep it absolutely rigid, and I could haul myself in and out of bed as I do here. At the end of the trip we just unlock it, telescope it down and bring it away with us for next time. I’ll get somebody on it today and …”
Bitter Water Page 1
