‘A bit.’ She seemed to have no breath. Her forehead was burning hot. ‘Thirsty.’ She was barely audible.
Rachel held the glass for her to drink, then said she would fetch a compress for her forehead.
‘Don’t go. Please.’
So she rang the bell for Eileen to bring her two bowls of hot and iced water and napkins. Sid had another attack, cramming her knuckles into her mouth. As soon as Eileen had gone, she let out a subdued shriek of agony.
It was unbearable. It must be borne, Rachel told herself. Somehow these next hours must be got through. She hoped that bathing her forehead would distract Sid from the waves of pain. She told Sid that the hot and cold compresses would make her feel much better, discovering as she did so that her voice had a new, calm authority that she had not known she possessed. Tea arrived, and she helped Sid to sit up – to try to eat a honey sandwich. She did try, and failed, so she sent for the jar of honey and stirred two spoonfuls into the lemon tea. ‘You have to drink this, darling. I shall expect you to drink all of it.’
And Sid, with her eyes trustfully on Rachel’s face, did make a great effort to do so. The really agonising pains seemed to come in waves, rising to a peak when she could not help crying out, and then Rachel would squeeze her hand hard and tell her to scream if she wanted to. As the pain slowly diminished, Sid would try to apologise, but she had little breath now. A few scalding tears would trickle down her face, and Rachel would wipe them away as she uttered endearments. She felt that she had never loved Sid so much as she did now.
When the doctor had administered the morphine, Sid asked whether it was a dose that would last all night. No, he said, but he would be back last thing to give her a shot for that. ‘I have hired a nurse for you, Nurse Owen. Unfortunately, she cannot come until late tomorrow as she has to do Christmas lunch with her family. But she will come afterwards, and she will be able to give you the medicine you need. I shall pop in meanwhile, of course, to see how you are doing. You’re running a bit of a temperature by the look of you, Miss Sidney. We must see if we can get that down.’ He put a thermometer in her mouth; it read 102 degrees when he removed it. ‘A couple of aspirin every four hours should do the trick there.’
Rachel walked to his car with him. ‘The nurse will be living in?’
‘Yes. She will do the night duty for you. You can’t go on like this, my dear. Nobody can do a twenty-four-hour job with a patient as ill as this. In any case, I don’t think it’s going to go on much longer, which should be a comfort to you. A tumour on or near the spine can be one of the worst pains in the world.’ He glanced down to see that her hands were tightly clenched together, rigid.
‘I should like you to take one of those sleeping pills I prescribed for you. You need at least a couple of nights’ proper sleep. I’ll be back about eleven.’
Just as he was getting into his car, she clutched his sleeve. ‘Dr Murphy, thank you so much for taking such trouble.’
‘Not at all. Only wish I could do more. See you later. Go on in, before you become a snowman.’
The snow was falling steadily, and was settling now, decorating the trees, speckling the brick path to the front door. It was dark, and Rachel could only see her way because of the lights inside. A nurse in the house, she thought. What would that mean for their relationship? A return to secrecy – to the façade of simply being good friends? No, it could not. She would only care about what Sid felt: nobody else could matter at all.
She found Sid much calmer, cheerful even. She wanted to stay on the sofa so that she could doze if she felt like it.
‘I’m so glad that a nurse is coming. It means you won’t have to deal with any more bedpans. I’ve so hated you having to do that.’
They had been a very new addition to her nursing, as Sid, in spite of her increasing weakness, had insisted upon being helped to the lavatory.
‘I didn’t hate it.’ She kissed Sid’s forehead – not burning so much now. ‘I’m going to give you the sickness pill because we’re going to have an early supper and I really want you to eat it.’
‘Would it be possible to have a small omelette?’
‘Of course it would. You swallow these and I’ll go and tell Mrs Tonbridge.’
Supper – compared to the rest of the day – was a success. Rachel made Sid eat her omelette with a spoon, as her hands were so shaky that she dropped most of it if she used a fork. During the meal they listened to the carol service broadcast from King’s College, Cambridge.
After the programme, Rachel suggested Sid going up to bed while she was still feeling good, and Sid agreed at once. She had become much more compliant, calmer, completely trusting that Rachel knew best for her. The stairs took time because she had become so weak, but at least she seemed not to be struggling with severe pain. She gripped the banister with her right hand, and Rachel held her left arm, and with a couple of short rests they reached the top.
When Sid was safely in bed, her teeth brushed, clean pyjamas and her knitted woolly hat firmly on her head, she wanted to sit up and talk, so Rachel draped her in one of the Duchy’s paisley shawls.
It was approaching late evening, and the doctor was due during the next hour. But it was not soon enough: the pain came back, and soon Sid was shifting restlessly, cramming her hand into her mouth in an effort to muffle her cries. She had earlier complained of being cold; now she was burning, her mouth parched and cracked. Rachel fetched a bowl of cold water and wiped her face with a flannel in an attempt to cool her, and put water from her finger onto Sid’s lips, which she seemed to like. Supposing, Rachel thought with panic, the snow was so bad that Dr Murphy couldn’t get to them?
She tried everything she could think of: rocking her in her arms, bathing her forehead, talking quietly with endearments – the doctor would soon come and then the pain would go away …
It was nearly eleven when she heard the car, and ran downstairs to meet him. ‘She is much worse, Doctor. Her fever is bad, and the morphine you gave her isn’t even lasting four hours and I don’t know what to do! Oh, it is good of you to come!’
‘It’s very good of me to come. I got stuck in our lane and had to dig myself out. But I’m here now and—’
There was a shriek – not at all muffled now – from Sid’s room.
‘We can’t have that,’ he said, and mounted the stairs at a surprising speed.
Sid had thrown off her bedclothes and was trying to clutch the small of her back.
‘Miss Sidney, I’m sorry you’re having such a rough time. I’m going to see to it with a stronger dose so that, with luck, you’ll get a good night’s sleep.’ He was preparing his syringe as he spoke. ‘You’re very brave, Miss Sidney,’ he soothed. ‘I know that it’s a devil of a pain. Now just hold still if you can.’
He was saying just the right things to her, Rachel thought. Although she shook her head, a very faint smile came and went.
‘Now I want you to drink a good glass of water,’ he said. ‘The fever has dehydrated you, and that always makes things worse. Hot or cold, I don’t mind which. I’ll pop in again tomorrow morning.’
As Rachel was seeing him out, she asked, ‘Couldn’t I give her an injection if she needs it in the night?’
‘No, my dear, I’m afraid not. It’s against the rules. In any case, I don’t suppose you’ve given an injection of anything in your life, have you?’
She hadn’t, of course.
‘She should be out of pain quite soon, and then she’ll sleep. The dose I started her on was minimal, this time it will be different. Goodnight to you.’ And he went.
She poured a glass of Malvern water and added a slice of lemon. By the time she reached Sid’s bedroom, she found her calm. ‘The pain is going,’ she said. ‘I can feel it go, further and further away, and soon it won’t be there at all. Such bliss!’ She drank the water and when it was finished, she said, ‘This is our last night together, isn’t it? Before the nurse, I mean.’
‘Yes. She’ll be here tomorrow even
ing.’
‘Do you know what I would like most?’
She didn’t.
‘I would like to go to sleep in your arms, my darling. More than anything, I would like that.’
‘I won’t be a moment.’ Minutes later Rachel climbed into the bed and took Sid in her arms. She seemed so fragile that she was afraid of hurting her. But Sid snuggled up to her, with her head on Rachel’s shoulder and gave a sigh of contentment.
‘Do you remember that rather tiresome sentimental song the children used to sing round the piano when Villy’s father stayed?’ Rachel said.
‘I do. He hated it. “My True Love Has My Heart”,’ Sid said. ‘You are my true love, and you have all my heart.’ And later, when she was nearly asleep, she said, ‘Hold my hand, keep me. Don’t turn off the light.’
Rachel took the proffered hand and kissed it, before wrapping her fingers round the frail, hot bones. Another small sigh and her eyes were shut. She had thought that she would never sleep with Sid in her arms (how odd: always before it had been the other way round, her in Sid’s arms), but her own exhaustion, and the tremendous relief that she was at last relaxed and free of pain induced a kind of serenity and peace, and almost at once she joined Sid in a deep sleep …
She woke suddenly because she was cold. They were both cold. She shifted to pull the blankets round them, and Sid’s head fell on her breast. She was still holding Sid’s hand, and when she gently released it, it, too, fell with an awful involuntary ease to her side. Rachel propped herself up on one elbow and, with the other hand, stroked Sid’s head, her shoulders, her body. It was all cold and still. She was dead.
The shock was so great that for minutes she did nothing but stare at Sid’s face, which was calm, smoothed of fear and pain. She looked suddenly far younger, more as she had been when they had first known each other.
It was ten past six: the doctor would not come until half past eight. They had two and a half hours alone together. Rachel lay down and once more took Sid’s body in her arms. It was all for the best, she told herself; there had long ceased to be any chance of recovery. She must have died in her sleep; there had been no more pain; they had been together, had had one last evening. Sid had died without having to go into a hospital; she had escaped being nursed by a stranger. In many, many ways it could not have been better.
Although she made no sound, Rachel discovered that tears were pouring down her face, and she was rocking Sid’s cold, unresponsive body, for a desperate moment trying to ward off her grief and panic at being left alone.
This would not do. She wiped Sid’s face where her tears had fallen and then lay quietly beside her. As though by some magic, she was filled with love for this friend and lover who had given her so much. The feeling was intense and it came as a balm that soothed her heart.
HUGH, JEMIMA AND FAMILY
‘Mummy, I’ve been awake nearly all night and I really need to open my stocking.’
Jemima turned towards the door where Laura stood shivering in her red flannel nightdress.
‘I told you, you have to wait until seven o’clock.’ This was the old Home Place rule designed to give the grownups the chance of a decent night’s sleep. It had been all very well, Jemima thought, as she yawned, and began sitting up, fine when the bedrooms were full of children who could complain to one another, but hard if you were the only child. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘But you’re to stay in bed until I come to fetch you. And don’t wake Daddy. He’s very tired and so am I.’
‘You often say you’re tired. I suppose it’s your age, and you can’t help it. All right, I promise to stay in bed until seven. There!’
When she had gone, Jemima glanced quickly at Hugh, who had not been woken, thank goodness. Poor darling, he seemed permanently tired these days, but asleep, all his worry lines were smoothed out. He had helped make up the stockings for Tom and Henry as well as Laura, had decanted the port, wrapped presents, wired the lights to go on the Christmas tree and prepared the turkey, while she had made brandy butter and cranberry sauce. Might as well turn the oven on now, she thought. She always cooked the bird for four or five hours at a very low temperature. She got out of bed very carefully, tucked the blankets up to her husband’s neck, and put on her towelling peignoir – not very warm, but better than nothing.
There was complete silence from Laura’s room, and also from the spare room in which Simon was sleeping. He had arrived last night – late, because the train from Norfolk had been held up due to the snow. Tom and Henry were very much awake in their large room on the top floor; they were playing some game that involved a number of challenging shouts followed by fits of laughter. Their voices were in the process of breaking and veered uneasily between a squeak and a baritone. They were always engaged upon vast projects: this holiday they were writing a book, which they called A Thousand and One Things to Do When It Rains, but so far they did not seem to have got much beyond designing and painting the cover, which was surprisingly beautiful. When Hugh had asked which of them had done it, they looked surprised and said they had done it together. They were good boys and she was deeply proud of them. Hugh had had a lot to do with their upbringing, and this made her especially glad that Simon had agreed to come for Christmas, too.
Once the turkey was in, she made some tea for herself and Hugh. It was going to be a long, ceremony-fraught day: breakfast followed by present-giving, then lunch, and a drive to Richmond Park where they were to meet Zoë and Rupert for a walk, then everyone back for tea until it was time to get Laura to bed.
It was half past six – just time for half an hour in bed with Hugh. They always gave their presents to each other then, when they were on their own. She had knitted him a black alpaca jersey and bought him a very pretty Russian snuffbox for his headache pills. He gave her a beautiful cashmere dressing gown and a cameo ring set in gold with a shell backing. ‘You can have breakfast in your dressing gown, and if you’re feeling really extravagant, you may wear the ring as well. I’m going to wear my jersey and use my pretty box all day.’
‘Isn’t it wonderful how we give each other things we really want? Think of all the poor wives opening boxes of black chiffon nightdresses that are too tight for them, while their husbands receive ties they wouldn’t be seen dead in.’
‘It’s a hard life for some,’ he agreed. Then, raising his voice, ‘Here comes Miss Ghastly.’
Laura was wearing a Father Christmas costume, with a large white beard, not so securely hooked behind each ear.
‘Oh, no, it’s Father Christmas. Silly me. Merry Christmas, Father Christmas.’
Laura burst out laughing and her beard fell off. She sprang onto the bed. ‘A clockwork mouse,’ she said, ‘and a pack of weeny little cards, and chocolate money and a tangerine – I had to eat the money because I was starving to death. I wouldn’t have otherwise. How ghastly am I, Dad?’ She stroked his face with sticky fingers. ‘How ghastly am I?’
‘Probably the ghastliest person I’ve met in my life.’ He gave her a kiss. Her face was hot with excitement. She sighed contentedly. ‘And you never know what ghastly thing I’ll do next, do you?’
‘Haven’t the faintest idea. Now, sweetheart, I’ve got to get up.’
Jemima, who had been watching them with great affection, said it was time for breakfast.
‘I want to have it wearing my beard.’
When she had finished undoing Laura’s pigtails and combing out her silky honey-coloured hair, she said, ‘You can go upstairs and tell the boys to come down for breakfast, too. But don’t wake Simon. He’s tired and said he would save up for lunch.’
JULIET AND NEVILLE
‘I don’t mind in the least. I can’t think why you’re bothering to talk to me at all.’
Everything she said was not what she meant, he thought. It made conversation very exhausting.
He had a bit of a hangover. It was true that he hadn’t done anything about her for weeks – probably months – but he hadn’t expected her to be so icy a
nd dramatic about it. He tried again. ‘My darling Juliet, you have to understand that most of my time is not my own. I work in a very competitive field—’
‘And you’re in love with someone else.’
‘What on earth makes you say that?’
‘I’ve heard people talking about you. Your new girl. You take her everywhere with you, even have her back to your flat.’
There was a longish silence, while they trudged through the snow in Richmond Park. ‘You might like to know – you might care to know – that I’m not in the least in love with Serena.’
This much was true: he did not need to say that Serena was in love with him, that they had had the odd tumble in the sack because she had been so importunate. ‘I am working with her a lot this season because the new magazine wants to feature her as their top model so of course we’ve gone about together.’ He took her shoulders and pulled her round to face him. ‘You know perfectly well that you are the person I love. And it’s not my fault that you’re seventeen.’ Beneath her absurd make-up, her eyes were full of tears and her lower lip was trembling. ‘Even if you look like a cross between a panda and a clown, I still adore you.’ He gave her a shower of hurried little kisses, ending with a kiss on her mouth. It was like watering a garden after a drought: her face lit up, positively sparkled with excitement and joy. She flung her arms round his neck. It had come right.
‘He’s called a Belgian hare, but really he’s a rabbit.’
Laura gazed at him, entranced. ‘Can I stroke him?’
‘He might not like it. He’s awfully new, you see. Mummy gave him to me for Christmas. I wanted a parrot, but they were too expensive. Dad gave me a python. I’ll show you him in a minute.’
‘I’m not sure if I like snakes.’
Georgie gave her a severe look. ‘But I’m sure I’d get to like one,’ she said hurriedly.
The Cazalet Chronicles Collection Page 225
