We've Come to Take You Home

by Susan Gandar

  ‘Jess…’

  It reached a hand out towards her.

  ‘Jess…’

  THIRTY-SIX

  SHE PUSHED OPEN THE first set of double doors.

  ‘I am not Jess. And I don’t want to be. Not now. Not ever.’

  And then the second.

  ‘My mother is Rachel Foster.’

  She marched up to the nursing station.

  ‘My father is Michael Foster.’

  ‘And you’re Samantha Foster, you live at 7 Seaview Road and your mother called an hour ago…’

  Mac swivelled round in his chair. He wasn’t smiling.

  ‘She said you went up to your room and the next thing you were running out of the house like a bat out of hell. You didn’t say where you were going, what you were doing, nothing…’

  She’d had to get away, run away as far as she could, as fast as she could.

  ‘I want to see Dad…’

  Mac stood up.

  ‘He’s still in theatre. But he should be back –’

  The telephone on the desk buzzed.

  ‘Hello, County Hospital, Intensive Care Unit. Yes, speaking.’

  Mac smiled at her.

  ‘We were just going to ring you. Yes, Sam’s here, just arrived, safe and sound. I’ll pass you over…’

  She took the phone.

  ‘Hello, Mum. Yes, I’m fine. I’m sorry…’

  Another phone on the desk started buzzing. A nurse, one she hadn’t seen before, reached over to answer it.

  ‘I wanted to be with Dad. No, he’s not here. He’s still in theatre. Yes, that’s what Mac said…’

  She handed the phone back.

  ‘Mum wants to talk to you.’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Foster. No, there’s nothing to worry about. Like I said, it’s just a routine procedure, one they do every day. Yes, I’ll ring you as soon as your husband arrives back on the ward…’

  It had started, these slips into another life, this Jess’ life, at the fair on the ghost train, the same evening she’d come home to find her mother telling her father to pack his bags and not come back. Maybe if he got well, if he came home, the slips would end.

  ‘Yes, she’s fine. No problem at all. Yes. We’ll see you later.’

  He put the phone down.

  ‘You can stay here, wait for your father to come back and your mother to come and collect you, on one condition…’

  She followed Mac down the corridor, between the cubicles, to the end of the ward. Her father’s cubicle was empty but lying on the bed, in the opposite cubicle, was an elderly man.

  ‘This is Terry. Terry may or may not be his name but it’s better than nothing. He was found lying unconscious out on the street and was brought in by ambulance yesterday morning. No ID, no papers, no wallet, no nothing, just the clothes he was wearing and ‘Terry’ written inside the neck of his shirt. He’d had a heart attack but he’s stable now, doing just fine. He’s up here because we’re waiting for a bed to become free downstairs and then he’ll be transferred.’

  The old man’s eyes were closed and he was snoring.

  ‘So what’s the condition?’

  ‘We’re hoping, if he knows that someone’s here, if he can hear someone talking to him, that he’ll regain consciousness. He’s got no one, no friends, no family, nobody, so just give it a go, talk to him, just say whatever comes into your head. I’ll come back later to see how you’re getting on.’

  Mac walked off and she was left, standing there alone, in the cubicle. There was just one chair and it was at the far end of the bed. She moved it closer to the old man and sat down.

  ‘Hello, Terry. My name’s Sam.’

  She stared down at the grey face thick with stubble.

  ‘My dad’s here, in the same ward as you…’

  The old man snored on.

  ‘…In the cubicle opposite. He’s not here now, he’s downstairs with the doctors. They’re drilling a hole in his head…’

  She shouldn’t be going on about her father. But what else was there to talk about? She didn’t know anything about him. Bleep. Bleep. Bleep. Heartbeat steady. Breathing regular.

  Where he lived? Who were his friends? Whether he had any family? Bleep. Bleep. Bleep. And, even if she did think of something to say, did they really believe that he would be able to hear her?

  The bleep of the monitor, hooked up beside the bed, caught for a moment and then continued on as before.

  And if he could hear her, would talking to him make any difference?

  The bleep stopped and then re-started. But it was no longer a bleep – it was a loud, angry scream. And the old man who had been locked away in his coma was sitting upright, straight as a rod, with his arms outstretched, his eyes staring and his mouth opening and closing as if trying to say something.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THE CRASH TEAM RUNNING down the ward pushing a red trolley laden with equipment, the doctor shouting instructions, the nurses filling syringes and inserting tubes, the old man’s body convulsing as the electricity shot through it; the hospital was the last place she wanted to be.

  She banged the button to the side of the lift. Nothing. She banged the button again. And still nothing. At the far end of the corridor there was an emergency exit sign and below it a door. She ran, twisting and turning, down the stairs, past department after department, Obstetrics, Paediatric, Orthopaedic, Vascular, Cardiology…

  Some more stairs, a set of doors, turn right, down a corridor and she was in the hospital’s main reception.

  ‘Excuse me…’

  A policewoman was walking towards her.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  A policeman joined her.

  ‘I’m sorry…’

  Why were they questioning her?

  ‘It’s late, shouldn’t you be at home?’

  She’d done nothing wrong.

  ‘I’m visiting my father. He’s a patient here.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  The policewoman was doing the talking, the policeman the looking up and down.

  ‘Sam. Sam Foster.’

  The policeman was turning away. He was talking on his radio.

  ‘Which ward is your father on, Sam?’

  The policeman was checking up on her.

  ‘Intensive care.’

  The policewoman’s face softened.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It was a car accident. A girl ran out in front of him. He braked but his seatbelt jammed and he hit his head…’

  ‘When was he admitted?’

  ‘Yesterday morning, early, he was on his way to work…’

  The policewoman glanced over to her colleague. He shook his head.

  ‘Where are you off to now?’

  ‘Home.’

  She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  ‘OK, Sam. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’

  The policewoman smiled.

  ‘I hope your dad pulls through.’

  A bus was drawing up at the stop outside. She couldn’t see what number it was but it would be warm and dry and none of her fellow passengers would know or care who she was, what she was doing or where she was going.

  The bus drove on down the main road. Valley Cross, North Way, Sutton Avenue, she didn’t recognise any of the names. Past a clock tower encrusted with pigeons, a row of shops selling nothing that anyone would need or want or even like – zebra-skin rugs, presumably fake, and posters of crushed Coco Cola cans – and a concrete lump of building which looked like a prison but which turned out, seconds later, when they drove past a noticeboard, to be a town hall.

  A girl was waiting at a pedestrian crossing. The traffic lights went from amber to red. The bus slowed and stopped. But the girl didn’t move. She just stood there, at the side of the road, staring up at Sam sitting in the bus. The lights changed to green and the bus moved forward. But still the girl stood there.

  You’ll recognise her when you see her.

 
Sam jumped out of her seat.

  ‘Stop, please, stop.’

  The driver ignored her.

  ‘Please stop the bus. I need to get off…’

  It was the girl she’d seen that morning, standing on the opposite side of the road to the house.

  ‘Next stop’s Beacon Road.’

  ‘Please, it’s an emergency…’

  ‘That’s what they all say.’

  The bus-driver slammed his foot down hard on the accelerator. Sam slammed her hand down even harder on the buzzer by the doors. Maybe the two old ladies in the church weren’t mad.

  ‘Are you deaf or dumb or something?’

  She put her hand back on the buzzer. She pushed it once. She pushed it twice. Maybe the girl standing at the crossing was, in some way Sam couldn’t yet understand, waiting for her. She pushed it again and again. The bus screeched to a halt. The doors slammed open.

  Sam ran back up the street and then left onto the main road. The pedestrian crossing was immediately ahead but there was no sign of the girl. But she hadn’t had time to go far. Sam ran down to the next corner. She looked left, Firfield Way, nothing. She ran, straight ahead, along the main road. She looked down a second street, Hazel Avenue, and then a third, Tudor Close.

  And there she was. Sam could just see her, walking up a garden path, halfway down the road. Sam ran down the terrace. She stopped outside the house. Standing there, looking out of the ground floor bay window was the girl. And she was smiling.

  Sam didn’t think twice, she pushed open the gate, walked up the path and rang the bell. There was no answer. She rang it again. The door opened.

  ‘Hello?’

  It was a girl.

  ‘Long coat, lace-up boots, brown hair…’

  But this one had short reddish-blonde hair and was wearing leggings.

  ‘You’ve got the wrong–’

  ‘But I saw her, just now, looking out of the window. She walked into this house just seconds ago…’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, you’ve made a mistake.’

  The girl had stood there, looking out of the window, smiling, inviting Sam in. So why was this girl, the one standing here at the front door, lying?

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  September 1917

  ‘I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR hours…’

  They had arranged to meet at their usual place, the corner of Wakehurst Street and Northcote Avenue, at ten o’clock sharp. It was now eleven.

  ‘Ellie, I tried to get away but she wouldn’t make up her mind about anything. Did she want potatoes, didn’t she want potatoes. Did she want meat, didn’t she want meat, and if she did want meat, did she want beef or pork. I wanted to tell her that she would be lucky if she got cat. And then she got onto bread. Did we need some, didn’t we need some, and I just wanted to say if you don’t get a move on, you silly old bag, there won’t be any bread. But I didn’t.’

  She couldn’t. If she had she would have been out of a job.

  They linked arms and walked together, baskets swinging, past the old man playing the barrel organ with a monkey, dressed in a moth-holed woollen suit, spitting and gibbering on his shoulder.

  A crowd had gathered outside the butcher. Men, women and children stood in a circle, laughing and jeering at two women shouting abuse at each other. The younger woman grabbed the older woman’s hair. The older woman scratched her nails down the younger woman’s face. The younger woman kicked. The older woman kicked back. A little boy began to cry.

  ‘Come on now…’

  Two men walked out of the crowd. They pulled the two women apart.

  ‘That’s enough.’

  Walking towards them, down the street, was a young soldier.

  ‘Look at him, that’s what I call a man. He’s got everything a woman needs or wants…’

  ‘Ellie, that’s an awful thing to say.’

  ‘Awful? What’s awful about it? It’s the truth. Just look at that one over there…’

  A young woman was pushing a wheelchair along the pavement on the opposite side of the street. Propped up in the chair was a man. Or what was left of a man. He was hunched over, as if his spine had been snapped in two, and his head was lolling on his chest. He had just one arm and one leg.

  ‘Look at that poor bastard. Whatever they pay him it won’t be enough. And what sort of life is she going to have?’

  ‘Ellie…’

  ‘Pushing that thing around for the rest of her–’

  ‘Please, Ellie…’

  The tears were coming.

  ‘I mean just look at him. It’s not right…’

  She couldn’t stop them.

  ‘I’m going to have… a baby…’

  It was out.

  ‘A baby?’

  Ellie leaned forward. She lowered her voice.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course I’m sure.’

  ‘But, Jess, you might have made a mistake. Got the dates wrong? What about your monthly…’

  She’d crossed the days off, one by one. And then the weeks, one by one.

  ‘Nothing for two months.’

  ‘Two months? Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you say something?’

  And now Ellie was whispering.

  ‘Who is he?’

  Ellie was like a sister, even a mother, to Jess, all rolled into one. She wouldn’t have survived the first few weeks in London without her. And it would have seemed the most natural thing in the world to tell her about Tom. But she had kept her promise.

  ‘It’s not that one, him with the earring, who delivers the coal, because, Jess, I’ve got to tell you now–’

  ‘It’s Tom. Tom’s the father.’

  Ellie froze.

  ‘Tom? That Tom?’

  ‘Yes, that Tom.’

  Ellie’s eyes widened.

  ‘The bastard, taking advantage of you, right there in his own home, it’s disgusting, an innocent girl like you…’

  Ellie’s hands were clamped on her hips, her head was thrust forward and her eyes were bulging.

  ‘You’re fifteen, too young to get married, definitely too young to be pregnant and you’ve got no home and no parents…’

  Jess started to laugh.

  ‘What’s so funny? Because, from where I’m standing, things don’t look so good.’

  ‘What you just said, about Tom taking advantage of me? That’s what you told me to do, “Get yourself in there, get yourself in the family way and then you’ll be looked after.” Remember?’

  ‘And that’s what you did?’

  ‘Come on, Ellie, I’m not that stupid. I may be a maid-ofall-work but I know what’s right and I know what’s wrong and I’ve still got some pride.’

  Ellie scowled.

  ‘And I suppose the next thing you’re going to tell me is that you love him?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I do. And he loves me.’

  Ellie’s laugh was loud and harsh.

  ‘That’s what they all say. Love? You wouldn’t know, Jessica Brown, what love was if it hit you in the face. What happens if he comes home like that one over there, with no arms, no legs and slobbering like a baby? Will you still love him when he doesn’t know who you are, when you have to wash him and wipe him and feed him his soup? Will you? Because, Jess, that’s what love is, really is, not this silly little dream, all hearts and flowers and wedding bells and sweet little babies you’re carrying around inside your head.’

  The wheelchair was sitting outside a shop. The woman was nowhere to be seen but the man was still there, propped up, his head lolling.

  ‘And what if he doesn’t come home at all? What if he gets blown to pieces on some battlefield?’

  Jess had never seen Ellie cry, not ever, however long the day had been, however tired she was.

  ‘Did you think about that when the two of you were banging away at each other…’

  And now tears were streaming down her face.

  ‘Ellie, what’s the matter?’

  Jess put her arms r
ound her.

  ‘Tell me, what’s the matter?’

  Ellie pushed her away.

  ‘I didn’t want you to know…’

  She pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve.

  ‘I was engaged, a year ago, I had a fiancé, Oliver, he wrote me a letter to say he was coming home on leave and he wanted me to get the church sorted so we could get married.’

  Jess waited while Ellie snuffled into her handkerchief.

  ‘He was due back Wednesday. I waited and waited and then the telephone rang, in the afternoon. My mistress called me and I was so excited, I thought it was him. But it wasn’t…’

  Ellie blew her nose.

  ‘It was his father. Ollie’s ship had been torpedoed, the one bringing him back home from France…’

  She pushed the handkerchief up her sleeve. She picked up her shopping basket.

  ‘Danger and delight, Jessica Brown,’ she hooked her arm inside Jess’, ‘grow on one stalk.’

  THIRTY-NINE

  ‘ARE YOU SURE?’

  Jess sighed.

  ‘Ellie, I can’t do anything else. If he loves me, he’ll write to his parents, tell them that I’m expecting, and then they’ll have to look after me.’

  ‘But what if–’

  ‘He doesn’t love me? Well, then, what will happen will be what always happens when an underage girl like me, with no family and no home, gets herself pregnant. I’ll be kicked out onto the streets, and I’ll have nowhere to go except the workhouse. My baby, if it’s born alive, and if I don’t die having it, will be taken away from me. And I’ll spend the rest of my life shut up behind four walls, my head shaved, dressed in nothing but a sack…’

  If only half of what she was saying was true. Having to go into a workhouse was not something anyone should joke about. Jess had seen the one in Lewes. Her mother had lowered her eyes and pulled on Jess’s hand, rushing her past the imposing grey-stone entranceway. She’d explained that it was a place nobody would choose to go to unless they were really desperate. It was where the poor, the old and the sick ended up if they had no one to look after them. Most of those who entered never left. They ended up dying there.

  But the workhouse wasn’t just for the old. It was where she would be sent, an unmarried girl expecting a baby.