He sat scowling. ‘What sort of car has he got?’
She giggled. ‘A red sports car. Like the one you sold.’
‘Hah!’
The following evening Isabella glanced out of the shop window. The flash car was outside again. She had just turned to serve a customer when there was a loud bang and the sound of shattering glass. She whipped round again. The sports car was ten yards further up the road concertina-ed into a lamp post with another car in its rear. Isabella covered her face in despair.
‘I can’t seem to see the car anywhere,’ remarked Isabella casually when she got in.
‘Ah. Yes. I was coming to collect you from work,’ explained Barney, ‘only someone was parked outside the shop on double yellow lines and I went straight into the back of him. Unfortunately.’
She bit her lips.
‘Silly me,’ he added.
You dreadful, dreadful man, she thought, shaking her head at him.
The Bishop descended upon Barney like the Day of Judgement and ordered him to take two weeks’ holiday. Barney unwisely demurred.
‘Listen, matey,’ said the Bishop. ‘Me – big powerful diocesan bishop. You – insignificant little junior curate. Do as you’re bloody told, or I’ll suspend your licence and make sure you never work in the Church of England again.’
Mrs Hibbert stared when her husband related this. ‘You can’t do that, can you?’
‘Oh, you’d be amazed what we bishops get up to,’ he replied airily.
And so Barney and Isabella spent two weeks in bed in a cottage in the middle of nowhere.
‘They’ve grown,’ said Barney, cupping her breasts in his hands.
‘Are you calling me fat?’ she demanded.
‘I’m calling you luscious,’ he replied, running his tongue down her cleavage.
Damn, she thought. If she was honest, her clothes were a bit tight at the moment. She’d probably been comfort-eating during those horrible weeks. Up till now she’d always been able to eat like a pig and stay slim. I’ll start dieting when we’re back from holiday, she promised herself.
It was not as easy as she thought. She tried hard, but the weight wouldn’t shift. If anything it seemed to be creeping up. But what the hell. She’d probably been too skinny before. I’m a woman, not a girl, for God’s sake. Besides, life was good. Barney went with her to their counselling sessions like a good boy. Another little pep talk from the Bishop persuaded him not to work quite so hard. And the new vicar was arriving in another month.
Yes, life was good. Isabella’s natural optimism had bounded back. She lay in bed one Saturday morning, languidly, running her hands across herself and thinking of Barney, who had just made love to her before sprinting off to church to say Morning Prayer. Suddenly her hand stopped. Dear God! What was that lump? Her heart pounded horribly. I’ve got cancer of the stomach! I’m going to die!
An hour later she was at the doctor’s for an emergency appointment.
The doctor was young and a member of Barney’s congregation. ‘What can I do for you, Isabella?’ she asked.
‘I’ve found a lump in my stomach,’ burst out Isabella.
‘Well, hop on to the couch and I’ll have a look.’
Isabella obeyed.
The doctor’s hands began to feel around gently.
‘Have you been putting on weight?’ she asked.
Isabella nodded miserably.
‘Noticed any changes in your breasts?’
‘Barney says they’ve grown.’
‘What about your periods?’
‘Oh, all over the place. I’m hopeless at keeping track.’
The doctor got out a little ear trumpet and listened to Isabella’s stomach.
‘It’s a growth of some kind, isn’t it?’ blurted Isabella.
The doctor straightened up and smiled. ‘Yes. We normally refer to it as a baby, though.’
‘What?’ Isabella sat bolt upright. ‘You’re kidding!’
‘No. I can hear the foetal heartbeat. I’d say you’re about five months pregnant. Congratulations.’
‘But I’m on the pill!’ Her hand flew to her mouth and she giggled. ‘Five months? Fu – Sorry. Five months?’ She leapt down off the couch and ran to the door.
‘Um, wait,’ called the doctor. ‘We’ve got some forms to fill in . . .’
‘I’ll make another appointment,’ said Isabella. ‘I’ve got to tell Barney.’
She ran all the way home. He wasn’t in. Damn! He could be anywhere. She hurried to the church on the off-chance and found him in the vestry, photocopying the service sheet. He looked up in surprise.
‘Good morning, Father,’ she said with a smirk.
‘I wish you wouldn’t call me that,’ he said irritably. ‘It’s a silly High Church affectation.’
She giggled. ‘Better get used to it, big boy. Because that’s what you’re going to be.’
‘What?’ He dropped the sheets on to the floor.
‘Yep. I’ve just seen the doctor. I’m five months pregnant.’
He stared, as if casting his mind back, then his wonderful slow grin dawned. He caught her in his arms and swung her round and round. They crashed dizzily against the photocopier, weak with laughter and tears.
‘This calls for a celebration,’ he said. He went to the church safe and unlocked it.
‘Barney Hardstaff, you can’t!’ she said.
‘Want to bet?’ He pulled out the bottle of vino sacro. ‘Now just remind me,’ he said, edging her towards a convenient table, ‘exactly how it was you got pregnant . . .’
There you are, Will. A soppy ending for you. I hope you like it. She felt oddly like crying. Well, that’s it, she thought. It’s over. They’ve gone. Goodbye, Barney and Isabella. Annie glanced at her watch – nine thirty – and went downstairs for a cup of chamomile tea. The car problem must be worse than Will had thought. Perhaps if it broke down altogether she’d get out of meeting his family. The doorbell rang and she went to answer it, wondering who could be calling at this time.
Their dark shapes loomed through the glass. She opened the door as if in slow motion and saw them waiting for her. Two police officers.
CHAPTER 30
Something was taking care of her, some kindly force shielding and guiding her, for although her body trembled and her teeth chattered, she was calm. Deep in her heart she was calm.
There’s been an accident.
The two police officers, one male, one female, drove her to the hospital. Their radio played out a drama. Three youths breaking into a warehouse. A chase across rooftops in Bishopside.
There’s been an accident. The car. He must have crashed. It would all be explained when they got to the hospital.
The policewoman held Annie’s arm as they went into the building. Long corridors. A waiting room. Rows of chairs.
‘You sit down and I’ll find us a cup of tea.’
‘Is he dead?’
‘No.’ The policewoman smiled. ‘He was asking for you. He can’t be that bad, can he? I’ll find a doctor to explain what’s going on. You just sit there, pet.’
‘Why won’t you tell me?’
Burns unit.
The car had caught fire.
He’s not dead. He was asking for you. The doctor will explain. All this had happened years ago and she was dreaming it, watching the nurses and doctors passing backwards and forwards acting out their scene, backwards and forwards. Her hands were cold. Other people sat watching too. The end was already decided. It would be all right. It would not be all right. It didn’t seem to matter which.
The tea was too hot and sweet. The thick-rimmed cup burnt her lip. At last a doctor came. She was young, younger than Annie. She sat down.
‘Annie Brown? William’s been asking for you.’
‘I want to see him.’
‘I’m afraid they’re still sorting him out. What do you already know?’
‘Nothing,’ her voice wailed. ‘Nobody will tell me –’
�
��Ssh,’ said the policewoman gently.
‘Well, it seems there was a house fire and William stopped to help. There were some children trapped and he went in before the Fire Brigade got there.’
‘No!’
‘He was incredibly brave,’ said the doctor.
The policewoman was holding Annie’s hands. ‘Ssh, it’s all right, pet.’
‘He got two of the children out before he was forced back,’ the doctor went on. ‘He had to jump from an upstairs window.’
‘Is he all right?’
‘Um, cuts to both hands. Third-degree burns on one arm. He’ll need skin grafts.’ She paused. Annie saw she was still new to all this having to break it to relatives. ‘Annie . . . Look, I’m afraid he’s fractured his spine as well.’
‘Oh, God!’
‘We’re not sure yet how bad it is. If it’s a stable fracture then he’ll be all right in a month or two.’
‘If it’s not?’
‘Then I’m afraid he could be paralysed.’
The doctor carried on talking. Annie could hear her voice explaining about the spinal column, the various possibilities, percentage chances – Annie nodded and nodded. The woman could have been saying anything, anything at all, the words were not going home. It was about someone else. It wasn’t true.
The doctor left.
‘Drink your tea, pet,’ urged the policewoman.
Annie sipped and shuddered at its sweetness. The policewoman chatted about Annie’s baby, when was it due, had she chosen any names yet.
Waiting, waiting. The nurses and doctors passed to and fro. It was midnight. The doctor came back. ‘Annie, he’s asleep. He’s been sedated. I honestly think it would be better if you went home and got some sleep, too.’
‘I want to see him!’ Her voice rose. ‘I want to see him!’
‘Well . . .’
They led her at last to his bedside. His face was ashen, sunk to one side in sleep. His bandaged arms lay on the sheet. He looked dead.
‘Will,’ she whispered. ‘Will.’ She kissed his forehead but he didn’t stir.
‘Come along now, flower,’ prompted the nurse. ‘Let’s get you home.’
‘You’ll phone me if . . .’
‘Why, aye.’
The policewoman was waiting, smiling.
Annie pointed to the toilet door. ‘I’ll just . . .’ She went inside and locked the cubicle.
Blood.
No!
Her hand clattered the bolt back. The policewoman turned.
‘Please get someone. I’m bleeding.’
Faces floated over her. Nurses. Johnny. Barney. She must be dreaming. She swam up towards the light but couldn’t break the surface. Down, down she sank again.
I must get up. She fought to a sitting position. But she was still on her back. Over and over she tried, pressing against the solid air, dragging herself upright only to find she was still lying down. I must get up. There was something, something important . . .
At last she woke properly. I’m in hospital. Why? It rushed upon her – Will! The baby! – and she cried out. A nurse hurried into the room.
‘Will. I must –’
‘No, stay lying down. Are you getting any pains?’
Annie shook her head and sobbed, ‘I want to see him.’
‘He’s been asking for you,’ said the nurse. She was shaking a thermometer. ‘But you’re not going anywhere till the consultant’s seen you. He’s doing his rounds now.’ She slipped the thermometer in Annie’s mouth. ‘Cup of tea? Lunch is in an hour.’
Annie lay waiting. Tears slid down her cheeks. Will. He was lying in another bit of the hospital more helpless than she was. He might never walk again. Confined to a wheelchair. Will, who couldn’t bear to be pitied or patronized. Had they told him about the baby? How could he bear it if she miscarried now? Suddenly she was weeping out loud, the thermometer bobbing in her mouth. Don’t let me lose the baby! Please don’t let me lose it!
The nurse came back and rescued the thermometer.
‘That’s right. You have a good cry.’
She sat on the bed and stroked Annie’s hand. In the depths of her despair Annie felt a flicker of life. She stopped in mid-sob.
‘I felt it move,’ she choked.
‘Why, that’s wonderful,’ said the nurse.
The door opened and Barney came in. Annie remembered he was only the consultant.
‘How are you?’ He checked her blood pressure and asked a series of questions.
‘Well, Annie,’ he said at last, ‘I’m afraid there’s not much we can say with a threatened miscarriage, except stay in bed.’
Her face quivered. ‘What chance . . . ?’
‘About fifty-fifty. But the bleeding seems to have slowed down, you’re not getting any contractions, you felt the baby move – I’m cautiously optimistic.’
The door opened and someone wheeled in a machine.
‘Ah, thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ll just do a quick scan.’ More cold gel. ‘Yep. The baby’s still there. Placenta in the right place. Good. Like a look?’ Annie craned her neck, but could distinguish nothing. ‘Heart beating there. Spine. That’s a leg. Aha. Want to know the sex?’
‘Oh! I . . . Yes, all right.’
‘It’s a boy. Hang on in there, son. Your father needs you.’ He switched off the machine and smiled at Annie as he wiped away the gel. ‘Any questions?’
‘Can I see Will?’
‘Mm. I’m not happy about that. I’d rather you stayed put for a couple of days,’ he said.
Her lip trembled again.
‘Things are looking good. I saw him this morning. He can move his legs. Look, why don’t you phone him?’ He smiled again as he rose to leave. ‘We have the technology . . .’
Five minutes later the nurse wheeled in a telephone.
‘Will?’
‘Annie!’ His voice was faint. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes. How – ?’
‘The baby?’
‘They think it’s fine. The consultant did a scan.’
‘Thank God. Christ, I’m so sorry, Annie.’
‘Don’t. How are you?’
‘Still here. I can move my toes.’
‘He told me.’
‘Jesus, I’m sorry to do this to you.’ He was weeping. ‘Annie, I missed one.’
It took her a moment to grasp his meaning. Oh, no!
‘I couldn’t get to her, Annie. I tried.’
‘You mustn’t blame yourself, Will.’
‘I could see her face. At the window. I was lying on the yard and I couldn’t move. I was looking up. Jesus, Annie, I could see her face!’
She was crying too. ‘It’s not your fault, Will. You did what you could.’ But she couldn’t reach him, couldn’t comfort him. All she could do was listen to that terrible broken sobbing. In her belly the baby stirred again.
‘It’s a boy,’ she said. ‘The baby. The consultant told me. You’ve got a son.’
But he couldn’t speak. In the end he just hung up and left her weeping for him, wishing in vain she could make things right.
It was in the papers. Local Hero – Bishopside Doctor in House Blaze Drama. Thirty-seven-year-old GP Dr William Penn-Eddis risked his life in an attempt to rescue three children from a burning house yesterday night . . . And in a different paper, the scoop: Star’s Brother in Heroic Rescue. It had a picture of Will looking pale and plain beside one of Sebastian in his latest film. Ee, said the nurses. Ee, I never. Have you met him? What’s he like?
Will was a hero. You must be proud of him, they said. Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. And he had risked his life for complete strangers. Almost leaving his own child fatherless. Was that love? whispered a voice in Annie’s head. Was it not a form of selfishness? What was a life worth? Will’s life against the lives of two infants. Two infants against one little girl he had failed to reach. Who could pay the cost of a single life? What did atonement mean? She’d never
grasped it. What was the point of the Crucifixion? She ground her knuckles into her forehead but she couldn’t drive out the questions.
They gave her sleeping pills again.
That night an angel came and sat in her room. In the morning he was gone. He left behind him the scent of hope.
After a couple of days she was allowed to go home. Plenty of rest, they advised her.
Johnny drove her back. ‘Will you be all right, pet? You can always stay with us.’
‘Thanks. I’ll be OK.’
Everyone wanted to look after her. Mrs Penn-Eddis was poised to swoop the moment Annie said the word. Nice old ladies from church had offered to pop in and do the dusting. ‘If there’s anything I can do –’ these words were on everyone’s lips. Except my mother’s, thought Annie. Even if I told her what had happened, she’d only find some way of blaming me.
After Johnny had gone Annie gathered up the post and took it through to the kitchen. The house had been frozen in time, waiting for her return. There was the cup of chamomile tea standing cold beside the kettle. She went upstairs and found her notebook lying open. The happy ending, she thought. I was writing him a happy ending. She sat down weakly and began to cry again.
When she had last seen him Will was about to have his skin grafts. He was mending physically, but Annie was worried by his mental state. When he was awake he was stupefied by painkillers, and when he slept she knew he must be running endlessly through burning buildings hunting for the child he would never reach. Flowers and tributes had flooded in, but in his mind he had failed. Annie went and sat with him, but he turned away his face and said nothing. There was nothing she could do to stop him torturing himself. She prayed he would be released, absolved, but guilt still stared wildly from his eyes. He would see no one but her. His mother rang every day, but he wouldn’t speak to her or allow his family to visit. Annie wept for them, hearing the terrible rending pain of motherhood in Mrs Penn-Eddis’s voice. She hated to think of their blighted anniversary celebrations.
At last she went back downstairs to cook something. She leafed through the post. Most of it was cards for Will, but there was a small parcel for Annie. Her heart sank when she recognized her mother’s handwriting gouged angrily with a biro into the brown paper. She opened it fearfully and found a little knitted white matinée jacket. ‘It’s not much, but it might come in handy,’ said the note fastened to a sleeve with a safety pin. Annie smiled in relief. Soon she would have to write and thank her and explain what had happened, but she couldn’t face it yet. That night as she fell asleep she could picture her mother knitting crossly, jerking the wool and muttering under her breath, ‘Hah! She’ll find out motherhood’s not a bed of roses soon enough.’ But perhaps there was a smile tugging at the corners of her lips? The thought going like a skipping song through her mind with every click of the needles: I’m going to be a Grandma, a Grandma, a Grandma . . .
The Benefits of Passion Page 32
