by Mary Hayward
“Hello you two,” her flatmate interrupted.
“Drinks are on the bar. Coming over?” The flatmate strolled back to the rest of the group. Joyce and I followed.
“Joyce, we need to talk more.” As we walked, I stopped and turned to face her.
“After the party,” Joyce said, “come round and we’ll talk about things. Yes?”
She hesitated, glancing at her flatmate, who was waving to her from the bar.
I felt there was something more she wanted to tell.
“All right, I’ll come round then, Monday,” I said. “It’s my birthday, and I’ll pop in then.”
“Can you come?”
“Yes, I’ll definitely come, I’ve got the day off—lunch?” I pulled her hand; I wanted to make sure she was paying attention to me.
“Great, come round 12:30. My flatmate will be at work.”
“All right.” I walked back to the bar with her.
She gave me the address of the birthday party on Sunday: Straight Road, not far from Gallows Corner.
I arrived at the party the next day, with Terry. I didn’t want to acknowledge that my own marriage was in trouble, and I put on a brave face, hoping we could sort it out. I still loved Terry.
Joyce was on top form. The music was at full volume, and couples were already writhing in the living room. Drinks were flowing freely at the little bar in the corner of the room. I didn’t think much about our worries, because we had started talking about them, and besides, I thought that we would have more time.
As Terry and I were leaving in the early hours of Monday morning, she shouted in my ear: “Happy birthday—see you soon.”
29
The Shooting
NOTHING PREPARES YOU FOR IT. You never know what form it will take, this challenge that comes to you in life. You just have to bear it, stand firm and do what a friend does—be there and do whatever it takes.
The telephone rang at 3 a.m. Terry took the call. Joyce had shot herself in the chest, and she was asking for me. It was my birthday—I was thirty. Terry and I dropped Colin off at Florrie’s, and then drove to Harold Wood hospital. I was half asleep and wondering if it was all a dream.
Terry and I burst through the big double doors. They slammed behind me. I didn’t ask where she was—I just followed the screams.
A nurse came over. I let her know who we were. We were told to sit and wait, and no—we couldn’t see Joyce!
Terry and I were taken to the big square waiting room. Joyce struggled in the trauma area next door. I listened.
“Joyce, Joyce. Look at me, Joyce!”
Scream!... “Agh! Aaaagh!.. No, Ner, Ner, Nooooo!”
“Hold still for me Joyce!—Joyce, hold still love—I’m going to turn....”
Scream.
“Move it nurse… move it, quickly now... that’s it.”
“We’re going to look at your back.”
“No, no, don’t fight me!”
“Lift her leg will you nurse?.. that’s right… move it… move it.”
“Aaaah!... Aaaah!”
“Right!.. okay!.. Oh!... right nurse… hold the drip.”
Swish, open, swish, clip, clop of shoes on the polished floor.
A man’s voice, commanded, short and sharp: “X-Ray—CHEST, FRONT and SIDE—Now… urgent—Go!”
A high-speed trolley rattled past and the room fell silent, save for the distant echo of crashing doors.
She’d asked for me—I don’t know why she didn’t ask for her Mum. I never did find out. Was I her surrogate mother? We were almost the same age.
Foolishly, I never realised that she looked up to me; she was the outgoing bubbly one with all the ideas!
Vividly, as if yesterday, the tragic sound of her screams were painfully etched upon my very soul. Never in my life have I heard such distressing sounds as the cries I listened to that night—so stomach churning, gut wrenching, searing bloodcurdling screams, on and on. Echoing around the waiting room, in one relentless torrent of writhing agony, it bored deep into my helpless and impotent self. Each scream tore into me, so piercing it felt like a red hot poker burning deep into my mind. It was like a spear ripping into my own flesh, being twisted, and opening up, filling me up with such sorrow and grief, until I felt the unreserved burden of friendship, that was the bond between us, bearing down until I thought I could take no more.
I put my head in my hands as if to shut out the noise, and in doing so I hoped I could stop the pain for Joyce, but really I was saving myself.
They wouldn’t let me in. I couldn’t see her. I was trapped outside, tortured and tormented. I could hear every whimper, every howling groan, and although I could not see her face, I could sense the look of terror in her eyes. Like a mother watching her dying child, I was fettered in my frustration, not being there to comfort her, or whisper a kind word, or to hold her. I so wanted to let her know I was there.
My mind became a frenzy. I couldn’t take it anymore! Dizzy, I put my head between my legs, hoping that when I looked up, it would all have gone away.
I couldn’t bear to hear her, yet I felt that I had a duty to suffer and stay with her. It was my burden too and I shared in her pain.
None can know what that night was like for me. Joyce suffered. Yet my mind had been branded by a hot iron, as if it were my life-long punishment that I would carry, to hold the mental torrent of guilt and shame. I shouldn’t have told her that my marriage was in trouble.
Oh, how I regret telling her. How could I believe she would do this? How could I have missed the signs? Why didn’t she tell me before she did it? I was sure I could have stopped her, and yet all the questions that haunt me now, are still locked in my heart.
I sat there listening to Joyce, who was my shadow-self. We were like two little soldiers, and now she lay dying, a casualty of our struggle. I cry for her today as much as I did then. It is my wooden leg. It shall forever be there. I cannot escape from it but I can share it with those who knew Joyce, and loved her as I did.
I continued to wait outside. Terry sat silently beside me, lost in his own thoughts. He did what he could to comfort me, but there was nothing he could do. They wouldn’t let me see her. They were going to operate. I had to go home and come back later in the day.
When I managed to get to her ward she was in Intensive Care, lying in the bed. I sat there and just held her hand. I kept asking myself why she did it, over and over again. I wouldn’t let myself cry in case she heard me. But inside I hurt, inside my sorrow filled me up, and yet I had to give her hope.
After a few days Joyce started to improve. She was conscious.
She told me that one night they nearly lost her. They wanted her to pass a stool, but she couldn’t go. She enjoyed the drama of it; as if soaking up all the attention she was getting. Some of the staff didn’t like her because she had attempted suicide. I felt upset that they found it necessary; after all, she wasn’t out of danger yet, despite appearances. The police were unsympathetic and said they would prosecute for illegal possession of a firearm. I didn’t understand why they had to do that, as if to punish her a second time. Hadn’t she punished herself enough?
After that I wanted to cheer her up. I had been given a lovely pyjama outfit as a wedding gift. I hadn’t worn it, and so I gave it to her, and she looked so pretty in the bright orange pyjamas.
I asked her where she got the gun.
“At the party,” she said.
“What, at the party we were all at?”
“Yeah, the guy who owned the house had a collection of guns in a cabinet—he showed me.” She looked down and fiddled with her fingers. “He was a member of a gun club, and had a license and everything.”
“So how…” I couldn’t understand how she had managed it on her own.
“I stole the rifle out of the cabinet as everyone was leaving. No one saw me; they were busy getting their coats and shouting out to each other.”
“But how did you get the ammunition? Surely it was somewhere else.”
<
br /> “No, there was a little box of bullets at the back.”
For a moment I didn’t know what to say. “But how did you get the rifle out of the house?”
She started to get upset. “Hid it in the sleeve of my coat,” sniff, “and managed to sneak it out hiding in the crowd.”
I felt myself getting upset at the thought of it. I still didn’t fully understand how she could have planned it all.
“So did you go to the party knowing this was what you were going to do?”
“Mary, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. It doesn’t matter now.”
That shut me up. “Okay, don’t worry,” I said, and we went on to talk about other things. Nevertheless, I found the whole conversation rather disturbing.
A few weeks had passed since she shot herself, and she had been taken into a side ward. I arrived quietly, and I didn’t think that she had noticed me. She was staring straight ahead, as if in a distant daydream. I sat down and stared into her big lifeless eyes.
“What did you want to tell me the other night?”
“I gave little Peter back to Pete.” She looked down at her hands.
I sat silently, listening.
“I thought that I could get Pete back. Now he is saying that I am a bad mother, and he is stopping me seeing my little boy.” She looked so sad.
“You loved Peter more than anything. It’s terrible for you.”
She glanced up at me.
“Joyce,” I held her hand, “is that why you did it?” Fireworks crackled through the open window. It was bonfire night.
She struggled to sit up for a moment, but failing, she fell back and I could tell that there was something important she wanted to say. I propped up the pillows behind her and made her comfortable.
“You...” she cleared her throat “…did everything right Mary.” She spoke slowly.
I gave her a puzzled glance. It wasn’t what I expected.
“You got engaged, then got married, then had a child, and I…” She paused for a moment.
I helped her take a sip of water.
“I thought that if your marriage didn’t work,” she started to cry, “what bloody hope was there for me!”
I looked at her, stunned. I handed her a tissue from her bedside cabinet, and she wiped her eyes.
“But Joyce...” I said. She interrupted.
“You got married and then had a child, don’t you see?” She paused to regain her composure. “Don’t you see? You did it properly.”
I handed her another tissue.
“I foolishly had a child first and thought it would make it all right to get married.”
“But Joyce...”
“It didn’t work. Don’t you see? I did it wrong.” She spoke between her tears.
I didn’t interrupt. I thought it best to just let her say what she wanted to say.
“You got married and because you loved each other, you had a child. That’s how it is supposed to work. But now look what’s happening to you…”
She lovingly reached out to me, and put her hand on my arm, as if to comfort me.
“Mary,” she patted my arm, “if it didn’t work for you, then what chance do I have?”
“Oh, Joyce, this isn’t like you.” I lent forward and took a tissue for myself and wiped away a tear. “Joyce, we were two little soldiers and we still are. It will come right, you will see, we will do it together.”
“Can we?” She looked up, wiping a tear.
“I am down in Brentwood now, we can meet up.” I held her hand.
She smiled at me and her face lit up.
“We will sort each other’s paths out. We will come through, we always do.”
“You were the vivacious one, the one who attracted all the fun!” She looked up at me swallowing. I wanted to give her hope. I reached out and held her hand.
“Look,” I said, “what about a holiday, just us girls, to Majorca or something? Let’s plan it and I’ll bring some brochures in tomorrow, something to look forward to.”
“What about Colin?”
“Florrie will look after Colin, that’s not a problem.”
She looked encouraged and struck a smile, and I saw a glimmer of hope in her eyes.
“We will do it then.” I raised my eyes and glanced up at her.
As she turned back at me I saw a small flicker as those deep brown eyes sparkled once more.
The next day was Sunday. Terry said I was spending too much time at the hospital with Joyce. He thought I should be at home cooking the dinner for him and caring for Colin. To be fair I had been visiting every night for nearly three weeks and I suppose Terry thought that as she was getting better, maybe she would be out of the hospital soon.
I remember thinking, ‘What does he care?’ This argument made me twenty minutes late for the hospital.
30
The Samaritans
IT WAS 19th NOVEMBER 1978 and as I rushed into Joyce’s room, I glanced at her bed. They must have moved her; or she was up and walking round the ward. The Ward Sister came over to me as I looked through the window at Joyce’s bed. It was all freshly made up. I couldn’t understand why the bed was made at that time of night, for they didn’t make the bed at that time.
The Sister asked who I was. I told her I was Joyce’s best friend. Then she told me, compassionately, that Joyce had died just ten minutes before I’d arrived.
My hand flew up to my mouth and I bit my lip. I couldn’t breath. My nose stung and then my eyes began to water.
“Oh, oh, nooo! No, no. Oh, no!” I cried. “She was getting better—how could she die?”
The Sister just stood there for a moment and held my hand. Then she turned to continue with clearing up the rest of Joyce’s things.
I stood there in disbelief. I was sure Joyce could not be dead. I searched the faces, yet I failed to spot her amongst all the others patients. Joyce had to be there, she couldn’t have gone. Not without me seeing her. I hadn’t said goodbye.
Les had left without saying goodbye, and now it was happening again. I felt my legs weaken and buckle beneath me and suddenly I felt dizzy. I wanted to cry but the tears didn’t come. I couldn’t speak, my mind screaming inside with the pain. Oh, how the sorrow filled me.
I was stunned, devastated. My whole world collapsed in ten minutes. I stood there, struck down as if by some dreadful stroke. Shaking, speechless, and then a numbness descended; my emotions shut down and my world went into a haze. I didn’t feel anything anymore.
I staggered, half stumbling out into the still night air, and wandered over to the car. Terry appeared to see the shock etched on my face and he must have known she had gone. We drove home in silence. Did I feel angry that he made me late? I didn’t know. I didn’t see any point in blaming him—she was dead.
I felt utterly alone, abandoned and destitute as if back down in Langhedge Lane, only this time I didn’t have the fight for it; all the stuffing had been taken out of me. I was exhausted.
If I could go back and change the world, wind back the clock just a few hours, if I could be given the chance to talk to her… I would have given anything for that. I would have done that for Joyce. Not one person understood the strength of the unspoken bond we had between us. That silent understanding, as much as if we had been of one flesh and of one mind.
I returned home and had to face the split up of my marriage. I didn’t know how long I spent just sitting and looking out of the window wondering what to do. Nothing prepared me for it, there was no rehearsal, it just knocked me off my feet and I knew I had to carry on. But I couldn’t.
I didn’t go to work. I remember thinking that divorce would never happen to me. I thought that marriage was for life. Divorce was unknown in Terry’s family, until Terry felt he needed someone else. We would be the first.
He suggested we live separately, come back in later years, and tell the family we had decided to split. It was a lie and I wasn’t having any of it! Terry and I had a good family and I was part of it
. I was always committed to my principles, and I told him so. Yet there was part of me that just wanted to let it all drift. Joyce was dead, and what did I care what he wanted to do?
I phoned my bother Les, and he suggested I go and see a solicitor; that’s all he said.
I trudged through the snow and saw a lady solicitor. I told her that Terry had left me and gone to live with his lady friend, and I was left alone with Colin. I couldn’t afford to run the flat, and I didn’t have any money to pay her.
She told me to take my son and go, and not to worry about Terry, and don’t worry about paying her anything.
Stunned at her kindness, I thanked her and walked back home.
Speaking to my motherin-law Florrie, she advised me to go abroad for six months, and leave Colin with her in the hope that Terry would somehow see sense. It seemed a stupid idea. I couldn’t see that working. If Terry didn’t want me now, he wouldn’t want me later.
I left Colin with Florrie, and went to the flat to pick up some things. Terry was there, and we started talking. I loved him. I didn’t want to end the marriage, and so I ended staying the night and we made love. In the morning I put a hand across to him to make love again, and he clearly didn’t want to. He had just done it as a favour for me, to save his own feelings.
He got straight up to leave for work. I told him I would be gone before he got back.
I said goodbye to all the rooms. I didn’t know why—it was silly; perhaps I was saying goodbye to my marriage. I gently closed the front door and was walking down the flight of stairs to the exit door, when I spotted Terry. He was walking back to the flat with Lin, or perhaps it was Teresa, I didn’t know. We stopped as we passed on the ramp. I said “Hello”. That was the last I saw of him until the divorce.
I wandered onto the street, knowing my marriage was over.
What was left for me?
I had lost my marriage, my home, my best friend and soul-mate. Most people, when they lose their marriage, at the very least, have their best friend to turn to. I had lost everything. If ever I needed Joyce, it was now.
The strength that sustained me through childhood, where was it now? I had nothing, no one, no money, no home, and no hope.
