by Bill Douglas
Heather went and perched on the edge of a seat next to Newman. “Do they always have this palaver? John could have died by now.”
“It’s always the same procedure, even on an emergency visit. The only difference will be them bringing your husband down here to see you. I’ve never before known them let a visitor – even me when I admit a patient – onto their wards.”
He sounded angry. Nothing to how she felt. What were they playing at? She must see John – now! An age passed. Newman limped across to Mackenzie.
A clanking of keys? Yes – a door was opening in the far corner. A white-coated man appeared.
She leapt to her feet.
Mackenzie shouted, “Mr Niven’s here from Infirmary, Mrs Chisholm, and –”
She’d reached the open door.
The sullen-looking giant Mr Niven grunted and stood aside to let her pass. She watched impatiently as he fiddled with keys and locked the door behind them.
The next few minutes were a blur of walking in silence behind Niven along gloomy empty corridors. This was eerie, Dickensian, but at least she was being led to John. If only this giant would get a move on. He shambled, with no hint of urgency. Now and again she got a whiff of something nasty and unfamiliar – but this didn’t bother her. She’d brave Hell itself to see John.
“We’re here, Ma’am.” The man wrestled with his bunch of keys and unlocked the door marked ‘Male Infirmary’. “Wait there behind me,” he said, and opened the door a fraction, shouting, “Sir, she’s here.”
More delay! The door opened to reveal another white-coated man. Niven stood aside and motioned her to go in.
The other man extended a hand. “Mrs Chisholm, I’m Mr Macnamara, the Charge Nurse here. Come with me. Your husband’s near the other end.”
Walking between the rows of beds reminded her of visiting her uncle on a general infirmary ward, but here really stank. She risked glancing from side to side, glimpsing beds – some empty, others with huddled figures on them – until she saw a leering pyjama-jacket-clad man sitting legs apart on his bed. Cheeks warm, she kept her eyes on the Charge Nurse as he walked ahead of her.
That smell. Same as the corridors, but stronger. Sick-making. And was that howling – and a wolf whistle – somewhere behind her?
Macnamara slowed and halted by a bed where another white-coated man stood. “Your husband,” he said, “and the nurse is Mr Maclean.”
No! Propped up in bed was a strange figure. Something covered his face and a tube ran down to a machine.
“The mask is to give him oxygen,” said Macnamara. “And,” he pointed at the machine, “that’s the oxygen cylinder. He’s got pneumonia.”
She hadn’t been prepared for seeing John in this state. She resisted her impulse to rush over and hug him. That might kill him. She walked over and knelt beside the bed. She took his limp hand and held it, burying her wet face in the blanket covering his loins. “John,” she said. “It’s Heather.”
John’s breathing sounded laboured; his eyes were open but stared vacantly. She heard Macnamara say “A seat,” and, still clinging to John’s hand, rose to sit on a small hard-backed chair.
She wiped her face with her sleeve. Raising herself, she bent over to kiss his brow. It was hot, soaking. She sat back again, holding his hand and squeezing it gently. An unnatural pink spot blemished each of his paler-than-usual cheeks.
Did he know it was her? The unblinking eyes gave nothing away and his wet hand was limp. Did he mumble something? She held her ear close to the mask but couldn’t pick up anything coherent. “John, darling. It’s me, Heather. Can you hear me?”
No visible reaction. Macnamara’s voice intruded. “Your man’s delirious, with a high fever. He rambles, but it doesn’t mean he’s conscious.”
Surely John was dying. She relinquished his hand and stood up to face Macnamara. “He looks very poorly.”
“He’s on the critical list, but sure your man’s a fighter.”
John was a fighter all right, but was this his last battle? Her eyes blurred.
“Mrs Chisholm, we’ll leave you alone with your husband a few minutes.” Macnamara motioned to the nurse and they moved away.
Alone at the bedside, she sat down again, took John’s hand and kept pressing it, but she couldn’t feel any reaction. She kept talking to him, but got no apparent response. He mumbled again, but her best effort to make sense of this left her feeling more desperate. There was nothing she could do. John was dying.
She heard movement behind her. Macnamara. She bent over to kiss John’s brow, then followed the Charge Nurse in silence back along the ward.
He stopped outside the door of a room partitioned from the ward. “Come into my office a minute, Mrs Chisholm. There’s something I must ask you.”
She followed him into the office. They remained standing.
“Sure, your husband has a fair chance of survival. This last hour, the fever abated a little.” He coughed and looked away. “But just in case – what’s his religion?”
What? “Why?” she demanded.
“Well, if he’s Catholic and if it looks like he won’t make it, we’ll –”
No. “You’d better not let him die,” she yelled, advancing on the man. “You’ve made him ill. You cure him, or –!” Macnamara was staring down at her.
“All right boss?” Behind her. She swung round and collided into a huge solid white-coated figure. “Steady, Miss,” the man growled. She was a helpless rag doll under the powerful hands, one on each shoulder, that restrained her.
She collapsed onto the chair Macnamara pushed toward her. Her eyes swam. She’d lose her beloved John. And even her temper – which she never lost – wasn’t under her control.
She calmed and dried her face with a tissue. “Sorry.” She addressed Macnamara’s question. “He’s Roman Catholic – though I think he’s lapsed. We’ve not been to a church for ages.” Now she was regretting that.
“Thanks, and I’m sorry for upsetting you.” Macnamara looked haggard. “I’ll let our RC chaplain know right away. Our Church of England man called earlier and – because your husband was unconscious – gave some kind of blessing.”
“The last rites,” Heather murmured. Confirmation of her fears.
“I don’t think so. Sure it’s only Catholic priests give the last rites.”
She had a question. “How did John get pneumonia? He didn’t have it when he went into Springwell.”
“I don’t know, as he went to our Admissions Ward first.” He hesitated. “Your husband might have had hypothermia before he came in.”
Hypothermia – people could die of it. “No! He certainly did not have that when he was taken to Springwell,” she replied.
She was ready to go, and stood up. “Don’t let John die – please.”
“Maybe that’s a plea for the Almighty too, Mrs Chisholm? Be sure we’ll do our damnedest to see John right again.”
Niven was summoned to escort her. She trailed him through dimly-lit corridors, passing trolleys with urns being trundled along by men in brown coats. The trolleys probably bore food and drink. Smelt like cabbage. A pleasant change from whatever foul chemical stank in the corridors earlier.
Her taciturn companion unlocked and locked doors, and finally she was back in the Main Hall. Newman was with Mackenzie and another white-coated man.
“You’re shaking, lassie, like you’ve seen a ghost,” said Mackenzie.
“I don’t want to talk about it, thanks.” Ironic. Maybe she had seen a ghost.
She went with Newman, and doors were unlocked and then locked behind them. They proceeded in silence towards the car. She walked slowly, eyeing the ground. Newman, limping along beside her, kept looking at her. Irritating, but this gave some distraction from her dark thoughts. What a boring little man.
When they reached the car, Newman asked, “How was your husband?”
“He’s alive – for now.”
She wanted to be alone with her thoughts. She had que
stions that maybe Newman could answer. But her weary befogged mind just wanted rest. On the journey back to Elsie’s, she feigned the sleep she was craving.
10
Saturday 21st – Sunday 22nd April 1956 – in Aversham.
Drawing to a halt outside Elsie’s, Newman passed Heather a card. “That’s where you can contact me. First number’s my direct line.”
She put it in her handbag. “Thanks.”
He switched off the engine and turned to face her. Was he going to make a pass? “If anything happens to your husband, Springwell will contact you. And if you’ve any queries, or need to go again, ring me. I’ll help if I can.”
“Thanks.” She opened the car door.
“Before you go – are you okay?” he asked as he revved up.
“Yes.” She was too played out to feel anything but a dull headache. She forced a smile and waved as he drove off.
Mattie greeted her in a shop packed with customers. He pointed to the back-shop. “Through there, lass.”
She tapped on the door and, as she pushed it open slowly, caught the welcome pungent, unique aroma.
Elsie was removing the full nappy. “She’s been a clever girl for Mummy.”
Heather picked up her child and cuddled her. “Becky, my Becky,” she murmured, letting her tears flow.
“I’ll deal with this nappy, then make us a cuppa.” Elsie rose.
Nappy change completed, Heather laid Becky in her crib and soon the child was asleep.
Elsie returned with the tea tray, poured two cups and sat down beside her. “You look right weary, m’dear. Do you want to tell me about it?”
The uplift from cuddling Becky went as she started her tale. “It was horrible.” She brushed her eyes.
“There, m’dear, take your time.”
She continued in a low voice with her main worry. “John’s dying of pneumonia.” Encouraged by Elsie, she found strength to tell of her fears, and the agonies and frustrations of the visit. When at one point Becky started crying, Heather realised she’d been shouting. Standing up, she lifted the child and cuddled her. “Elsie,” she said quietly. “It’s worse than a prison, and I fear for John in there.”
“M’dear, it must be terrible for you.” Elsie’s homely face looked strained and her blue eyes shone with compassion.
“I feel helpless. I don’t know what I’d have done without you two.”
“M’dear, we’ll help you and Becky all we can.” Elsie paused and looked at Becky. “We had a bairn once, but she lived just two hours. And we couldn’t have any more.”
“Oh.” She wanted to say something comforting to Elsie about this, an overwhelming tragedy, but didn’t know how.
Elsie, her eyes glistening, continued, “Ailsa would’ve been a grand wee bairn like Becky, then a fine young lass like yourself, but the Lord took her.”
How sad and unfair. She took Elsie’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. She still couldn’t find anything to say. A dead baby. The grief must have been unfathomable. Elsie and Mattie would have been great parents. They’d already gone further in helping than any parents – never mind her own – could.
Elsie stood up. “M’dear, I’ve never talked about that. It was long ago – back in Newcastle, where we both grew up. We came down here just after, kept quiet about it and got on with our work.”
“Thanks for telling me.” And she meant it. Of course she’d told Elsie her deepest fears. But this was different – the older woman, a rock in a crisis and a support-giver, choosing to trust her with a tragic secret from long ago.
The door swung open. “The shop’s closed,” Mattie announced. He turned to Heather. “You’re fair worked up, lass. Will you and the bairn stay with us the night?”
“You must, m’dear,” said Elsie.
“Yes please.” She didn’t want to face the empty house yet.
That evening, though not hungry, she ate egg and chips. Must keep her strength up, for Becky. She yawned. “Sorry, Elsie, I’m exhausted –”
“Your room’s ready, m’dear,” said Elsie. “I’ll make up a bottle for the bairn.”
The support she needed. She hugged Elsie. “You’re brilliant friends,” she told the pair before retiring with Becky to the bedroom.
She downed two aspirins and, after Becky fell asleep, lay on the bed in the darkened room. She dreaded bad news about John. If only she could have stayed with him. That charge nurse said he’d ‘a fair chance’. And they’d let her know if he died? Not good enough. She must find out how he was. Springwell would have a phone. Tomorrow she’d ask about using the shop phone.
What about her and Becky? Particularly if John had got the sack? Surely he hadn’t. Yet awful injustices happened. John had known this first-hand – he’d told her how officialdom treated his father after the accident, and she knew from Social Studies.
She didn’t want to ask her parents for help, but she must. Tomorrow?
The crying was insistent. She switched on the bedside lamp. Nearly 3am. Must have drifted off. She picked Becky up, nuzzled her and changed the nappy.
Tiptoeing out to the bathroom, she heard snoring from Mattie and Elsie’s room. En route to her bed, she stopped outside their door and listened. Yes, they both snored.
Back in the room, she wondered if she snored. John never mentioned it, but then he wouldn’t. He was too nice – or had been. When he lay on his back, he snored like a crackling loudspeaker. On honeymoon, she’d told him he sounded like a tiger. He growled, “I am a tiger,” and sprang to crouch over her. This led to heavenly sex. Everything was great then.
Some weeks ago – she was clear of depression, and John’s brow had started to furrow – he awoke and sat up in bed after snoring. She said, “Tiger, go for it,” and tried to hug him. He grunted “Let go,” and got out of bed. No magic sex. She hadn’t called him ‘tiger’ since. Would she ever hear her tiger snore again?
She swallowed two more aspirins, then lay meditating on what Elsie told her. Tragic. At least she had Becky. Her child’s welfare was all-important.
Bells. Church bells. It was light, almost ten a.m. She’d dozed off. And the crib was empty. Panic. But no, Elsie would have Becky safe.
Heather dressed hastily and followed the smell of frying bacon. There indeed was Becky, cradled on Elsie’s arm.
*
After breakfast, Mattie opened up the back-shop for Heather and got Springwell’s number from Directory Enquiries.
“I’ll be in the shop looking at the shelves, lassie. When you finish on the phone, just give me a shout.”
“Thanks, Mattie.” She dialled the number.
“We do not give out information about inmates, Madam,” said Springwell’s switchboard operator.
“But I have a right to know. I am his wife.”
“Madam, we do not give out information about inmates.”
She inhaled deeply, and yelled, “Did you hear me?”
“Perfectly, Madam. There’s no need to shout.” He wasn’t going to shift.
Stay cool, Heather. “Listen then, please. My husband is at death’s door in your infirmary. The nurse in charge, Mr Macnamara, said to ring.” Untrue, but…
A sigh? “I’ll see then, madam. What is your husband’s name?”
She told him again and the line seemed to go dead. She hung on for ages. And then she heard the Irish brogue. “Macnamara, Mrs Chisholm. I have good news. Our physician Doc Burn just popped in. Your husband’s on the mend.”
Thank God. “Is he conscious?”
“Still a tad delirious, but he’s responding to the penicillin. Sure and he’ll live.”
“When can I see him?”
“That’s not up to me. Visiting’s once a month, except for emergencies. Could you ring back in a few days?” Then, “Excuse me, I must go.” The phone went dead.
A relief, though still worrying. Sufficiently reassuring to risk being away at her parents’ a few days. But she’d stay on here a couple of days– in case Springwell rang.
11
Sunday 22nd April 1956 – in Aversham.
Ringing her parents was something of a long shot as they were often abroad on holiday. Heather never felt that close to them or experienced the warm affection she got from Granny. Mother’s “You can do better, Heather,” contrasted with Granny’s “Well done, Heather.” Why did Granny have to die?
Her parents had supported her in schoolwork and hobbies. And despite the coolness over John, she’d still got Christmas cards and postcards – all addressed to ‘Heather and Becky’ – from her parents’ exotic holiday destinations. And they unfailingly remembered her birthday with a welcome cheque.
She waited till noon to ring as they might have gone to church earlier.
“This is Bolsall 516.” Mother’s voice, a cultured Edinburgh accent.
“Mother – it’s Heather.”
“Heather. What a surprise. Darling, how nice to hear from you.” A pause. “So you have a phone now?”
“No. Our friends at the shop across the road let me use theirs.”
“Not Becky – is she all right?” Mother sounded anxious.
“Becky’s fine, Mother.”
Sounded like a sigh. Mother used to sigh a lot. “What’s wrong then? Do you need money?”
She swallowed. Mother was always direct in her comment, and this hurt. No real concern – but an assumption she’d get in touch only about money. Mother was spot on, though – the last time she’d phoned her parents was for a top-up to help eke out her student grant. “Well, yes Mother. But it’s not as simple as that.”
Another sigh. “Just a moment.” She heard, “Who is it?” in the background, and Mother whispering “Heather.” “Does she want money? Has she left that rascal?” Definitely Father. Mother again: “Carry on, Heather. What’s not so simple?”
“Well, it’s John. He’s very ill in hospital and might be there for ages. He’s got pneumonia and nearly died.”
Another sigh. Then Father whispering, “What does she want us to do?” “I’m sorry,” said Mother. If only she meant it. “What do you want from us?”
