by Pam Weaver
A second or two later, Dottie felt herself being gently held down. ‘A sharp prick,’ said the nurse, and everything went in on itself again.
Forty
‘As a matter of fact, we do have someone fitting that description,’ the ward sister told John. ‘Is she a patient of yours? She’s in a state of deep shock. We had to sedate her. She still hasn’t told us her name.’
John felt a mixture of relief and concern. ‘What happened to her?’
‘She’d tried to kill herself.’
‘Kill herself!’ He couldn’t disguise his shock.
‘She was admitted late Monday night.’
John frowned. She’d been here two days.
A nurse burst out of a side room and rushed towards them at breakneck speed with a trolley. John stepped neatly out of her way.
‘Walk, Nurse,’ the sister said sharply. ‘Walk.’
‘Yes, Sister. Sorry, Sister.’
‘The police want to interview her once she’s well enough,’ the Sister continued as she walked on in front of him. ‘In my humble opinion they should do something to change the law. When someone is distressed enough to attempt suicide, the last thing they want is to end up in jail.’
‘The woman I’m looking for had a child with her.’ John’s throat was thight and his voice sounded strangled. He coughed into his hand. ‘Is she here in this hospital too?’
The sister stopped walking and turned around.
‘A little girl,’ John continued. ‘About eight, dark curly hair, brown eyes, light brown skin, very pretty.’
‘In that case, Dr Landers,’ she said quietly. ‘I think you must prepare yourself for another shock …’
Dottie was lying flat in the bed with her eyes closed. Her hair was down. It lay like burnished bronze clouds all over the pillow. He’d often wondered what it would look like out of that bun of hers, but even in his wildest dreams he’d never expected it to be so beautiful. It was as much as he could do not to reach out and caress one of her curls between his fingers, but he was aware that the sister was still right behind him and still watching. Dottie looked so small, so fragile. Her skin was pale, like parchment, her hands limp by her side. Thank God she was alive … It was as much as John could do to control his emotions.
‘I think I would like to sit here with her for bit.’ He drew up a chair. Several times his mouth formed a word. ‘Hello?’ ‘Mrs Cox’ ‘Dorothy’ but he couldn’t bring himself to speak.
‘You said she was a patient?’ the sister said.
John cleared his throat noisily. ‘Actually, Sister, you said that. Mrs Cox … Dottie … is a friend.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said the sister. She seemed slightly embarrassed. ‘I think I’d better tell her doctor you are here,’ she said, bustling out of the room.
As he touched her hand, his heart ached for her. My poor Dottie … what you’ve been through. He leaned forward. ‘Dottie … Dottie, it’s me. John.’
Dottie opened her eyes and her heart lurched. Oh John … you’ve come at last … She gave him the faintest of smiles but one look at his anxious expression and it all came flooding back. She didn’t want to think about it. Patsy … Patsy was in the same ambulance as her. She remembered that awful smell, the smell of rotten eggs, then someone banging the door and Patsy lying on the floor. What happened? Why couldn’t she get out?
John was talking softly to her. His voice was soothing but she couldn’t grasp what he was saying … no wonder. His body looked just the same but he had a chicken head. As she closed her eyes there was a rushing sound in her ears and Reg was standing at the end of the bed with a bag under one arm and a hammer in his hand. She could hear someone calling her name … ‘Dottie, Dottie …’ but when she tried to move she was afraid of treading on the chickens. The pain was back too. A gripping pain which left her breathless. Then Reg came towards her and she cried out, ‘No, Reg, no!’ but she could feel him tugging at her arms and pinning her down and everything fell away once more.
The pips went and John pressed button B. ‘PC Kipling?’
‘Yes?’
‘John Landers. I wonder if I could meet you for a chat. It’s about Mrs Cox and Patsy. I think there is far more to this than meets the eye.’
‘What makes you say that, sir?’
‘I’ve found Dottie. I’ve been with her all afternoon. She’s in hospital, very ill and somewhat confused. Patsy has been taken to the children’s hospital but I haven’t seen her yet.’ John heard the policeman take in his breath. ‘I shall be on my way back to the village shortly and I should appreciate it if I could be present when you tell Mr Cox.’
When Dottie opened her eyes again, John was asleep in the chair beside the bed. Dottie watched the rise and fall of his chest for some time. His hand was on top of hers and as she stirred, so did he.
‘Dottie …’ he said, sitting up.
Her eyes were filling with tears again. Why was she so emotional all the time? What was she going to say to him? He’d entrusted her with Patsy and she’d let him down. She’d tried to shut it out since she came here. She wouldn’t even tell them her name, but she’d have to face it now. She’d have to find out …
‘I’m sorry about Patsy …’ She croaked.
He took her hand and squeezed it gently.
She tried to lick her lips but they felt as big as bricks. Sensing her need, he picked up a glass of water at her bedside and raised her head with his hand. The water tasted strange. Metallic. Everything still tasted of gas; but at least the liquid was cold and she could feel it trickling down her parched throat. He eased her head back down onto the pillow. ‘I – I don’t remember what happened.’
‘It’s better if you get some rest now. We’ll talk about it later.’
There was something in her arm. She moved it slightly and then realised she was attached to a blood drip. Why were they giving her blood?
She smiled at John. ‘Reg took me to see a bungalow.’
‘Reg was with you?’
A picture of a dark and stuffy room filled with gas came into her mind. Her eyes grew wider. ‘They got Patsy and me out, but I didn’t even think about Reg. Is he all right?’ She tried to sit up, pulling at the sheets with light fluttery movements.
‘Stay calm,’ John said, his hand firmly against her shoulder. ‘Don’t get so agitated. Reg is fine. He’s back home.’
‘Back home?’ Dottie fell back against the pillow and closed her eyes. Her befuddled brain was trying to understand.
‘Don’t talk about it now,’ he said gently. ‘Give yourself a little chance to recover.’
‘But I need to know what happened.’
There was a long pause and then he said, ‘They tell me you tried to commit suicide with Patsy.’
‘What? But that’s not true!’ cried Dottie, her fingers screwing the sheets into a tight ball. ‘I promise you on my mother’s life it’s not true. I don’t want to die. Not now.’ Her voice trailed and she turned her head away despairingly. ‘Why would they think I would try to do a thing like that? I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.’
‘It’s all right,’ said John, gripping her hand.
Dottie looked back at him, her eyes swimming with tears. ‘Everybody keeps telling me it’s all right but they won’t tell me anything. I know Patsy came with me in the ambulance, but I haven’t seen her yet. Where is she? Please take me to her, John.’
‘Dottie … you must try and stay calm.’
Her hand flew to her mouth. Patsy was dead, wasn’t she? That was why no one was telling her. She’d guessed she was very poorly when they put her in the ambulance but no matter how many times she’d asked, no one would actually tell her. A heaviness settled on her chest, a crushing ache that seemed to suck the life from her. She opened her mouth and at the same time her throat closed, yet somewhere in the room, she could hear a heart-rending howl, a cry that sounded like a wounded animal. It seemed to go on and on until she heard the sister running.
The portly gent pre
ssed a coin into Reg’s hand and gave him a curt nod. Reg touched the edge of his cap and thanked him. Tight-fisted git. He must have a bob or two if he could afford to travel first class and the case he’d just lugged out to the waiting taxi weighed a bloomin’ ton, yet judging by the size of the coin as he turned it over in his hand, he had only given him a measly tanner for a tip. Reg hurried back onto the platform and slammed the train door.
‘Is this the Portsmouth train?’
Don’t people ever read the bloody boards, he thought acidly. He spent long enough writing out all the names of the stations. Irritated, Reg turned in the direction of the voice, intending to be rude, but he was pleasantly surprised by the owner, an attractive blonde, no more than twenty-five, with an hourglass figure and an alluring expression who was gazing up at him expectantly.
‘It certainly is, Miss,’ said Reg, pausing to open the door again.
She didn’t acknowledge him again but as he closed the door, he was left standing in a waft of expensive perfume. One day when he’d got the money from the sale of the cottage he’d get himself a woman like that.
‘Mind the doors.’ The guard blew his whistle and the train gathered steam before it thundered away.
‘Reg.’ Kipper was standing at his elbow and he had Dr Landers with him. ‘Could you step this way for a moment?’
‘I was just about to …’
‘It’s all right, Reg,’ said Kipper gently. ‘Marney will see to your duties.’
He could see Marney, his head down, hurrying along the platform.
Kipper was wearing that serious but sympathetic express of his. The same one he wore when Marjorie Thompson’s husband came to see where she’d jumped in front of the Bournemouth express.
Ah, thought Reg, they’d found the bodies at last. About time too. It had taken longer than he’d thought. He hoped they didn’t expect him to identify them. They’d look pretty grim after being shut up in that stuffy atmosphere for a couple of days. What if the place had rats? He braced himself as he followed the two men into the station master’s office. He knew he’d have to make this look good but he was confident he’d be fantastic. He’d practised it enough times. That was where so many people slipped up. They didn’t practise receiving the bad news.
He’d been brilliant when they’d found that old cow Bessie. He should have been on the bloody stage. Walking into the office, he was surprised to see that they’d arranged three chairs in a semi-circle. He sat in the chair Kipper indicated to him and John Landers closed the door.
Outside, they could hear Marney calling, ‘The train approaching platform two is the 9.16 to London Victoria, calling at …’
Reg glanced at the station master. He sat behind his desk, his eyes lowered and his hands on the desktop, the fingers tightly laced. Kipper positioned himself behind a chair, gripping the back. Everyone waited until John sat down.
‘What is this?’ Reg asked nervously. This was all a bit more formal than he’d expected. Perhaps they weren’t going to tell him they’d found Dottie and Patsy after all. Had they rumbled that he’d been tampering with the mail? Perhaps he’d been too greedy. After all, they had reported rather a lot of damaged bags in the past year.
‘It’s your wife and daughter,’ said Kipper gravely.
Reg widened his eyes the way he thought a concerned husband would.
‘We’ve found them,’ Kipper went on. ‘They were in an old bungalow …’
‘A bungalow? Whose bungalow? What were they doing there?’
‘We don’t know yet,’ said Kipper.
Reg looked away. Damn. He was so nervous he’d asked the wrong question. That was question two. He went back to the plan. ‘Are they all right?’ He tried to sound anxious, doing his best to make it look as if he could hardly bear to hear the answer.
‘I’m afraid …’ Kipper began.
‘Oh, no, no …’ Reg moaned. ‘Are you sure …?’
‘The neighbours called an ambulance. It took a while to come. It’s a bit isolated.’
Reg leaned back in his chair, his eyes closed. He didn’t see Kipper open his mouth to say something more and John gripping his arm to silence him, but he did hear the station master’s chair scraping back and then one of the cupboard doors opened. Good. He was getting the brandy out. Only cheap stuff but brandy all the same. They had to help him hold the cup because he was trembling too much to manage on his own.
‘What happened?’ Reg choked.
‘They were gassed,’ said John.
‘She gassed herself,’ Kipper corrected.
‘You don’t know that,’ said John. ‘It could have been an accident.’
Reg looked up sharply. ‘She meant to do it,’ he said coldly. ‘She wrote a note. I gave it to you, didn’t I, Mr Kipling? She said she was going to do it.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Kipper. ‘And that will be part of the evidence.’
Reg relaxed but as he caught John’s eye, he leaned forward, holding his head in his hands. ‘What happened, Mr Kipling?’
‘Oh my poor little girl,’ Reg moaned when Kipper had finished telling him. ‘Poor Dottie. How am I going to live without them, Mr Kipling?’ He began to weep. ‘Why did she do it? All locked up like that. If she’d only told me how she was feeling, I could have helped her.’
‘There’s still time,’ said John.
Reg lifted his tear-stained face and gave him a quizzical look. ‘Time? Time for what?’
‘You can go and see them for yourself, Reg,’ said the station master. ‘Under the circumstances the railway will give you some compassionate leave.’
‘They’re both in hospital,’ said John. ‘Dottie is still quite ill, but Patsy is making a good recovery.’
John watched the colour drain from Reg’s face and noticed that he had developed a nervous tic under his left eye.
‘Don’t you understand, Reg?’ Kipper said. ‘It’s good news.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Reg, downing the rest of the brandy and turning the glass in his hands. ‘Really good news. It couldn’t be bloody better.’
Forty-One
Kipper got the call just before he was going off duty. Sinking fast, they said. He went straight to the hospital.
Ernest Franks rallied slightly as Kipper walked in the door.
‘Got to tell you …’ he gasped, ‘before it’s too late.’
Kipper went to the bedside and Ernest grabbed at his coat. ‘Danny … he must have taken …’ Ernest sank back on the pillow, his eyes wild.
‘Take your time, sir,’ said Kipper gently.
The man’s breath was coming in short pants after his exertions. ‘Bomb site … Reg Cox …’
‘The real Reg Cox was found on a bombsite,’ said Kipper. Ernest nodded. ‘And Danny Sinclair took his identity?’
Ernest nodded again.
‘Tell me,’ said Kipper. ‘Was Reg Cox a coloured man?’
Ernest nodded. ‘Jamaican.’
Kipper patted Ernest’s arm.
‘He left him to die,’ said Ernest. ‘He could have helped him, but he didn’t.’
‘How do you know all this?’ said Kipper.
Ernest took a deep breath and sighed his last word on earth. ‘Military …’
Although Christmas was still weeks away, Billy’s mum had let him go carol singing but his heart wasn’t in it. The grown-ups had been getting together in little huddles for a couple of weeks. More than once, he’d heard his mum whispering, ‘Shh, keep your voice down. Let’s keep the children out of it,’ but they weren’t stupid. All of them knew something bad had happened to Auntie Dottie and Patsy. Even little Christopher was unsettled. He spent nearly all the time sucking his thumb and twiddling his hair. His dad always got cross when Christopher did that. He said he might be only four but it wasn’t manly … but just lately he hadn’t said anything to Christopher.
Billy and his mates Paul Dore and Dennis Long had walked right round the village and he was getting tired. They’d quickly realised that if they ju
st sang outside a house, no one answered the door, but if they knocked first and sang as soon as the door opened, they’d get some money. His dad had given him the old oil lantern so that they looked more Christmassy and occasionally people kept the door open and listened. They weren’t so keen on that because you’d feel a right twit singing your head off with everybody looking at you with goo-goo smiles. But they’d made quite a bit of money.
Billy’s walk slowed to a crawl as his mates ran ahead. They were heading for Auntie Dottie’s road. He’d never tell his mates of course, but he really missed Patsy. She was good fun … for a girl.
Maureen missed her as well. She kept on and on, asking where Patsy was but no one would give her a straight answer. In the end, it drove his mum nuts so she said Patsy had gone to a new home. Maureen was upset but not as upset as she would have been if she’d understood what that meant. Billy knew and he was gutted.
Paul Dore came running back. ‘Hurry up, Billy,’ he shouted.
Billy’s heart did a cartwheel inside his chest as Dennis came up behind Paul, staggering under the weight of a pile of clothes.
‘Look at this lot,’ he cried. A jumper slid from the pile and unintentionally, he trod all over it. Billy recognised it at once. It was Patsy’s jumper. She didn’t like it much but it was the one Auntie Dottie had knitted with the kangaroo on the front. His eye gravitated to the rest of the pile. There was Patsy’s red coat and Auntie Dottie’s pink hat, the one she wore at Michael’s wedding. With an agonised roar, Billy charged up the road towards Auntie Dottie’s gate.
Holding up the lantern he could see a large pile of clothing beside the dustbin. When he lifted the lid of the bin he found Auntie Dottie’s sewing box and some material with pins in it. At the foot of the mound were two suitcases as well. The smaller one had a photo album in it and the other had loads of photo frames complete with pictures. Auntie Dottie and Auntie Sylvie, together with the old lady who used to live in Myrtle Cottage, smiled up at him from the top.
‘Stay there!’ Billy barked. ‘Don’t nobody touch it.’
