The Godsend

by Bernard Taylor

  “They’ll be in tomorrow,” he grudgingly informed me.

  “Thanks,” I said, “but I won’t wait if you don’t mind.”

  He didn’t mind, and I ended up with the early edition of an evening paper I didn’t want and twenty cigarettes of a brand I didn’t like. Afterwards, as I dialled Kate’s number, coins poised at the ready, I knew it was all a waste of time. It was. She wasn’t back yet.

  Later, near the house in Birmingham, I tried to call her again. She still wasn’t in. It was disturbing. I couldn’t understand it.

  Lucy—although perfectly all right in Mrs. Hooper’s care—had obviously missed me, and her welcoming hug made me glad and dispelled for a while the uneasiness I felt. It was still only mid-afternoon and, feeling guilty over the fact that I’d had to leave her in the house, I suggested that we go out somewhere.

  “Where?” she asked.

  “Oh, we’ll think of something.” I had a sudden brainwave. “If you like we could go swimming.” There had to be a pool somewhere in the city.

  “Oh, yes!” She took up the idea eagerly. “But I didn’t bring my swim-suit.”

  Even better—we would go shopping first. “We’ll get you a new one,” I said. “And towels, and trunks for me.”

  “If we’re going to the shops, can I buy a present, as well?”

  “Who for?”

  “Well—for Mummy. And one for Bonnie.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, because.” She shrugged—it was obvious. “You always buy presents for people when you go on holiday.”

  After we’d got our swimming-gear Lucy, with financial help from me, bought Kate a bottle of inexpensive perfume. For Bonnie she finally chose a large picture-book. Beside us at the counter a woman was buying a pretty auburn-haired doll. Lucy studied it, pondering for a moment, then finally dismissed it. “No, Bonnie doesn’t like dolls.”

  We had a fine time in the heated, indoor pool. Lucy was a strong swimmer and had no fear at all of the water. She wasn’t afraid of heights, either, and took pride in showing off her prowess from the diving-board. We stayed there for nearly two hours, swimming races, chasing each other through the water and generally splashing around. When eventually we came out we felt scrubbed-clean, pleasantly enervated and ravenously hungry.

  On the way back I stopped the car near an Indian restaurant—a special treat for her, I hoped—and together we went in and ordered dishes of curried prawns and chicken. As we sat there she asked me again, her face suddenly perturbed: “When shall we be seeing Mummy?” and I answered as before, “Soon, soon,” without looking at her; trying to concentrate on the food—suddenly quite tasteless—in front of me.

  Just after eight-thirty, when she lay in bed reading, I slipped out of the house and tried once more to get through to Kate. I stood there with the monotonous sound of the ringing tone repeating over and over in my ear long after I knew it wasn’t going to be answered.

  And Lucy slept restlessly that night. The Indian food had been a mistake. She woke after midnight and cried peevishly against my shoulder, and I just didn’t feel up to the situation. I sat on the edge of her bed and held her in my arms, stroking, soothing. We’d be seeing Mummy soon, yes, of course we would, I assured her. There was no need to worry, we’d be going home soon . . . soon . . . if Mummy didn’t come and join us . . . “Don’t cry, sweetheart. Don’t cry . . .” But she didn’t need my soft, comforting words—she needed her mother.

  I was late getting up the next morning. On my way back from buying the daily papers I made another attempt to ring Kate. Still no answer. My sense of unease was increasing all the time. Was she playing some kind of game with me? What was she doing? Where had she gone? And why?

  After breakfast Lucy and I got into the car and drove away from the house. We found a park and wandered about in the sunshine, breathing in the smell of the grass and trees. The place was swarming with children; all of them seemingly happy. I looked down at Lucy’s serious face and said it was a fantastic day, wasn’t it? and she answered yes, it was—but her smile was only just there.

  I felt so sorry for her. And I asked myself again whether I was doing the right thing. Was my present course of action the only possible one? Wasn’t there a less destructive way out? Some other answer to it all . . . ? I wanted to stop, there and then on the pathway, kneel down, put my arms around her and tell her—every­thing—and somehow make her understand that I had seen no alternative. But I couldn’t. Of course I couldn’t. She must never know. And for the present I would just have to hold on; not give in. Huh . . . Not give in . . . Hold on . . . It was all very well to tell myself that—remembering her face as she had clung to me in the night made me wonder how strong I could continue to be.

  In the children’s area she played, without enthusiasm, on the swings and as I watched her I thought of that other time, that other park—where Bonnie had tried to kill her. The memory made me thrust aside the pity that was stirring so strongly in me; the pity that had, for a while, threatened to swamp my knowledge of what was.

  We bought provisions for a cold lunch on the way back to the house. I suggested that perhaps we might return to eat it in the park, but Lucy said no, she’d rather go on to the room. Ugly as it was, it had become, for her, something of a symbol of stability.

  Sitting near the window we ate our ham, brown bread and pickles, following it up each with a small apple-pie that came in a neat, clinical little box—the picture on which seemed to have little relation to its contents. I studied her as she sank her small, even teeth into the sugary crust. All this factory-processed food—surely Kate would have managed something better . . .

  In the afternoon we went to the cinema. A Walt Disney film was showing—a beckoning finger to the children beginning their holidays—and for the first time that day I sensed Lucy’s tightness fade away. I saw excitement touch her as we walked up the steps to the foyer and I blessed Mr. Disney, his dream and his genius.

  Sitting side by side in the comparative darkness, Lucy and I watched as Snow White went with her fluid grace from suppression, through terror, to happiness, and I only wished I could have enjoyed it as I should have been able to, as I had done in the past. I wished that I could be like those other fathers who sat there, all of them as spellbound as their children, with no greater concern than that Snow White would be taken in by the story that the poisoned apple was a wishing-apple. Still, I could be glad that Lucy was so completely enraptured. When it was over, and Snow White had been taken off by the prince to her place in the sun, we emerged into our own patch of sunlight in the street outside. Lucy’s eyes sparkled and, watching her, I told myself that maybe things weren’t as bad as I’d thought. I even found myself whistling—With A Smile and Song—as we walked to the car.

  I was still whistling when Lucy, looking up from the paper I had bought solely in order to get change for the telephone the day before, said to me in puzzled, rather frightened tones:

  “Daddy—”

  “Mm?”

  “Daddy—this in the paper. It’s about Mummy. It says she’s in hospital.”

  NINETEEN

  “Larkspur Ward, on the fifth floor . . .”

  The smiling receptionist waved a hand indicating my path to the right, and I thanked her and moved away, passing doctors, nurses, porters, patients in wheelchairs, and milling visitors carrying magazines, chocolates and flowers. At my side, her coat open, revealing the crisp lemon-yellow of her new dress, Lucy walked quickly, endeavouring to keep up with my long, steady strides. She wasn’t complaining, though; she was going to see Mummy, and as eager as I to get there.

  At the end of the corridor we stopped and waited a few interminable moments for the lift. Lucy held my hand as we crowded in, her anxiety showing in the pressure of her fingers. In my raincoat pocket the wadded-up newspaper pressed into my side. Ironic, I thought, after all my determination, how everything had been changed by the paper I had hurriedly tossed onto the back seat of the car.

 
The last hours had passed in a blur of emotions and activity and now, momentarily stilled, I recalled again the fear I had felt when I had seen the small news item about Kate’s accident. A small piece, referring to her as “. . . Kate Robbins, who became so well-known to television viewers for her performance as Marsha in the popular, long-running serial, ‘A Quiet Place’ . . .” After so many years away from the public eye she no longer merited more than a couple of paragraphs on the back page. But they had been enough, and Lucy had spotted them. Of Lucy’s disappearance with me there had been no mention. It had said nothing of Bonnie’s­ whereabouts, either, though there was no reason why it should. I wondered where Bonnie could be at this moment; who was looking after her . . .

  But now the lift doors were opening and Lucy and I were hurrying out, eyeing the signs, finding our way. The ward was divided into separate, open-ended rooms, each one holding no more than four beds. That was good—at least Kate would have some measure of privacy. A nursing sister came towards us and gave an enquiring smile. I told her who I wanted and she looked back and pointed. “You’ll find her in there on the right.”

  “Is it okay if I take my daughter in?”

  “I don’t see why not.” She smiled down at Lucy. “I should think she’ll be very happy to see her.”

  I thanked her and we went on. I had no idea what I would say to Kate, how I should make my approach. But perhaps that wasn’t so important. The important thing was that I was setting her tormented mind at rest for a while, relieving her of some of her fears. I was bringing Lucy back to her. I had to. I had no choice. I couldn’t let her just lie there, ill and alone. She’d been through enough pain without my adding to it. I’d find another way to deal with the problem of Bonnie, but for the present, while she was out of the way—wherever she might be—she was no threat to Lucy’s safety. And I would seek some means to ensure that she never would be in the future.

  Then, suddenly, we were there. And I could see Kate over the frosted-glass partition, her head on the pillow, face turned towards the window, hair curling gently on her shoulder. There were other beds, other women lying there, but I hardly noticed them. My chest felt tight and sweat broke out under my arms. I stooped beside Lucy and put my hands on her shoulders.

  “Mummy’s in there. But I think she’s asleep. So we must be quiet when we go in, and not excite her too much.” I suppose I was trying to forestall the possibility of any emotional scenes. Lucy nodded quickly, hardly listening, eager to go in. “Yes—yes—” she breathed, and I stood up and held her hand.

  “Okay, let’s go in.”

  We moved towards the wide doorway and even as we arrived there Kate turned, saw us and gave a small cry, and the next moment Lucy was at her side, held in the waiting arms, nestling into the well-loved, comforting warmth. Lucy’s reception had been predictable—not so my own. I approached quietly, stood awkwardly near the end of the bed and watched as they clung to each other. I saw the tears that sprang into Kate’s eyes and Lucy saw them too.

  “Oh, don’t cry. You’ll soon be better. You mustn’t be sad.”

  Kate shook her head. “No, I’m happy.” The tears streamed down her cheeks.

  “Does it hurt much?” Lucy, in fascination, studied the bruises.

  “Not now. Not a bit.”

  The discolouration of Kate’s face ran all down one side from her forehead to her jaw. Her left eye was bloodshot and half-closed, while the flesh around it was swollen, dark and angry-looking. I went to the right of the bed, closer to her. She turned and gave me the whisper of a smile, and summoning my courage I put my fingers up to her cheek—but not touching, just a fraction away.

  “Poor face . . .” I said.

  She shook her head.

  “It doesn’t matter now.”

  We fell silent. After a while I said:

  “What happened? The paper said you’d had a fall.”

  “Downstairs. On Friday night.”

  “You slipped?”

  “I can’t really remember. I tripped or something. I don’t remember much about it. I was upstairs sorting out some clothes and stuff. Bonnie was asleep in her room. I came out and started down the stairs and—pow—that was it.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “Mrs. Taverner. She called the ambulance.”

  “Thank heaven for Mrs. Taverner.”

  “Yes.”

  “Has she been in to see you?”

  “She’s away. Taken the children to the seaside for a week. She left yesterday morning . . . and took Bonnie with her.”

  The silence fell again. I nodded mechanically. Kate said after a moment:

  “But Mr. Taverner’s been in. He brought me a note from his wife.” She indicated an envelope on the bedside table. I didn’t pick it up; I stood looking down at her, at the ugly colouring of her cheek, remembering the smear of blood on the wall that I had taken to be paint.

  Stooping, I gently kissed her bruised lips, and she reached up and held on to me. I hovered awkwardly over the bed, only just on balance, and still she held on, saying nothing, her hands at the back of my neck. My eyes were shut tight, squeezing back the tears that threatened.

  After a while I sat down on the chair at her side and held her hand. She put her other arm around Lucy, hugging her close.

  “I knew,” she said at last, “that if I waited long enough you’d bring her back.”

  “I’m sorry . . .”

  “I knew you would.”

  “Forgive me, Kate. Forgive me, please.”

  “Yes. Yes . . .”

  I whispered suddenly:

  “I want us to be as we once were. You don’t know how much I want it.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, nodded.

  “Yes, I want it, too.”

  Although we stayed for another half-hour or more, we had no real opportunity to talk—not about things that mattered. There were some visitors with the other patients in the room and it was obvious from one or two glances our way that Kate was something of a special attraction. Also, her tearful greeting, plus the fact that I had not come to see her before, was probably extra cause for their added interest; how she had explained away my absence I had no idea—if she had. So we were forced to talk of minor matters, while all the things I really wanted to say I had to keep to myself.

  Lucy was in no way inhibited, though, and was full of her own stories that covered the silences that fell between Kate and me. She kept coming in relating odd bits of the adventure she had had, telling of the house in Birmingham, the restaurant meals, the swimming, Snow White and, finally, with some pride, how she had been the one to find in the paper the news of Kate’s accident. I looked at her animated, happy face, listened to her bubbling chatter and thought of how she had often been over the past days. Now, in the telling, she imbued the adventure with an air of excitement and joy—which had not been present when it was actually happening. I don’t know what Kate’s thoughts were as she nodded her interest and made the appropriate comments to Lucy’s narrative. I could see no resentment in her eyes. She smiled warmly; “Really?” “Did you now?” “Aren’t you a lucky girl . . . ?”

  The other visitors were leaving. It was just past eight. Our allotted time was over. As I got up and beckoned to Lucy a little look of fear flicked across Kate’s face. I said at once, “We’ll be in to see you tomorrow afternoon,” and the look went and she smiled her relief.

  “Good, I won’t be going anywhere.”

  I grinned at the welcome humour. “Anyway, not long and you’ll be back home for good.”

  We kissed her then, and left. As we turned the corner into the corridor I looked back and saw her smile and wave. That smile, a little painful in appearance, but there, very much there. Keep hold of it, I told myself, it’s your only hope for the future.

  A few yards down the corridor I saw the nursing sister in conversation with a white-coated man. She gave me a nod of recognition then turned back to him. As I approached he stepped towards me—
a man of my own age, eager and immaculate with a smile that belonged to somebody much younger.

  “Mr. Marlowe—? How do you do. I’m Doctor Geller.”

  We shook hands. He smiled down at Lucy then consciously lowered his voice slightly.

  “Your wife must have been very happy to see you. She’s been very anxious. I’m so glad you were able to get back.”

  I nodded. I didn’t know where I was supposed to have been, or what I was supposed to have been doing there. “Yes,” I said.

  “She had a very bad fall. Very nasty.”

  “Yes . . . How long will she be here? She’s hoping she can go home soon. She was talking about tomorrow.”

  He shook his head. “Well, no. But possibly in three or four days. Have to see how she is. She’s been under severe shock. We mustn’t take any chances.”

  “No . . .”

  There was a pause. He said sympathetically:

  “Naturally she’s upset and depressed, though she’ll get over it all right. But she’ll need your help in the meantime.”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s young enough, however, and there’s no reason why, in another year, you can’t try again.”

  “Yes . . . I understand . . .” I wasn’t sure that I did. I stared at him while it sank in, and he looked at me. He must have seen the realisation in my eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I really am very sorry about the baby.”

  I heard myself say: “Yes. Yes.” I was like a parrot. “Yes. Yes, thank you . . .”

  And then I was telling Lucy, “Stay there for a minute,” then turning and almost running the few yards back along to the ward where Kate lay. She looked up in astonishment as I entered and went to her bedside. Without giving her any chance to talk at all, I clasped her hand in mine and whispered urgently:

  “I didn’t know. Darling, I didn’t know. Believe me. Why didn’t you tell me?”