by Karen Osman
‘It’s OK, Mum. He’s here now and being well taken care of.’
Rosemary had nodded. She’d barely spoken since Angela had arrived.
‘Have they said when he’s likely to wake up?’ asked Angela.
‘No. The consultant on duty just told me he’s comfortable for now and to let him rest. Oh, Angela, do you think he will be all right?’
‘I’m sure he will,’ replied Angela, clutching her mum’s hand. ‘I’m sure he will.’
*
Knowing she wouldn’t be able to sleep any more, Angela got up and went to look for a coffee machine. As she approached the nurses’ station, she decided to ask what time the doctor would come.
‘Good morning,’ she said to the tired-looking nurse, whose name was Christine, according to her name badge, accentuated by a touch of red tinsel.
‘Good morning,’ replied Christine, smiling. ‘How did you sleep?’
‘Fine, thanks,’ Angela said, trying not to grimace.
‘I know, those chairs are not the best for sleeping,’ empathised Christine. ‘The canteen is open, though, if you would like to get some coffee.’
‘You read my mind,’ replied Angela gratefully.
‘Go straight down the corridor and take the lift down back to the first floor,’ instructed Christine.
‘Thank you.’ Angela turned away.
She followed Christine’s directions. She began to feel the poundings of a headache, but soon the doctor would be round and would give them an update. And then when her dad woke, she could tell him about her promotion to give him something to cheer him up. He would be absolutely thrilled for her and so proud.
But Angela never got the chance. Her father died that night, Christmas Eve 1988, without ever regaining consciousness.
*
The call had come at two in the morning on Christmas Eve. Angela had been asleep in her childhood bedroom in Tetbury, her mother refusing to leave her husband’s bedside that evening. Perhaps she had known then, thought Angela later. The doctor’s visit that morning hadn’t provided any real update. It was simply a case of patience. Angela had stifled the urge to scream, ‘Do something!’ The voice in her head was persistent but when she spoke to the doctor outside in the hallway, the doctor said simply that they’d done all they could and now it was a waiting game for her father to wake up.
The phone’s shrill tone had interrupted a nightmare in which Angela was on a cruise and the boat had started to capsize. She had had the dream frequently since the Zeebrugge disaster the year before, in which almost two hundred people had died. Why it affected her she had no idea, but her overactive brain insisted on imagining herself as a trapped passenger struggling to breathe as the water level rose higher and higher. She imagined the feelings of panic and fear as it slowly dawned on her that there was no escape and the end was inevitable.
And now it seemed to be the end for her father. Dread flooded her as she picked up the phone, praying that it was a wrong number. But her prayers went unanswered and her mum’s voice came down the line asking her to come to the hospital.
*
There was nothing more to be done, said the consultant sympathetically but professionally. James’s body, already weak from chemotherapy, was unable to cope with the trauma sustained. When the machines alerted them that he had gone into cardiac arrest, resuscitation had failed.
He could have been just napping, he looked so peaceful. Angela reached for his hand, trying to avoid looking at all the machines around him. Their noise had pierced her sleep the night before but now they were silent, as if in respect for her father. There had been so many of them, all needed to keep her dad alive, and at that moment Angela would have given anything to hear the machines’ beeping rhythm, that chime of hope.
When she’d first arrived at the hospital, her mum hadn’t said very much except that he’d tripped and fallen and it had been enough to knock him unconscious. Angela had seen her dad only last weekend and he’d been in good spirits. She was in disbelief that in just a few days everything had changed. Seeing him now, lying at peace in a hospital bed, she was in shock. She held on to his hand tightly, her head bowed, trying to find the courage to say goodbye. She couldn’t. Not now, not when she’d just discovered their true relationship. She had no idea how long she’d been there, when Christine gently led her away.
*
‘Mum,’ said Angela softly. ‘Have you had anything to drink?’
Rosemary shook her head, looking on the verge of collapse. Angela cast a worried glance at her.
‘Let me go and get us some tea. Just wait here and I’ll be back in a minute.’ She added sugar to her mum’s cup even though she didn’t take it and hurried back. She was relieved when she saw her mum take a sip of the hot drink. They sat drinking in silence until Angela saw her put the cup down and sit back in her chair.
‘What happened, Mum?’ asked Angela, trying to hide the despair in her voice.
She wasn’t sure she was going to respond at first but then Rosemary answered, slowly and quietly.
‘I’d only been gone a few minutes, before I heard an almighty thump,’ she said. ‘It was so loud, I didn’t think it was your dad at first. I thought someone was trying to get into the house – you know, like a burglar or something. But then I didn’t hear anything else, I went to look and there he was… lying on his front, sort of twisted…’ Rosemary gulped back the tears at the memory of it, visibly horrified. ‘I called 999 as soon as I saw him, and then I just… waited. They told me not to move him and the girl stayed with me on the phone until the ambulance got there. It was good of her to do that.’
61
Friday 23 December 1988
Dear Diary,
I’d been close to the office when it had happened. I wasn’t sure what did happen exactly, but I knew one thing was for certain: it wasn’t good news. Despite it being mid-morning, the train station was heaving. There was no time for browsing the shops or picking up a coffee – it was a case of scanning the notice board and seeing what time the next train left. Luckily, there was one within a few minutes. Everyone was fighting to get a seat, due to all the delays and cancellations. Bloody British Rail. Luckily, I managed to get a seat and I read the paper.
Tetbury wasn’t the end destination though, and as I arrived at Cirencester Hospital, I was running through the various possible scenarios in my mind. What had happened exactly?
I made it eventually but there was an awful lot of waiting around. In the end, I went to find the maternity unit. It was a ridiculous thing to do now in hindsight but like always, something drew me there. I sat outside the ward for a long time, watching couples leave the hospital with their babies for new lives as families. It was always the same expression on the parents’ faces – part shock, part relief, but always love. There was never any doubt about that. I had been to dozens of maternity wards and you could almost reach out and touch it, the love felt so tangible.
A few years ago, after making small talk with one of the new mothers, I asked her how she was feeling. While she was clearly exhausted, her face lit up as she talked about her new daughter. When she told me how well I was doing to be up and dressed after the birth, I quickly left, promising myself to give up the ridiculous habit of visiting maternity wards. It was unbelievable that someone hadn’t reported me to security. Yet, there I was again, gazing at beautiful new-borns, wondering why Evelyn hadn’t felt the same.
A.
62
Rosemary
Rosemary hadn’t slept properly for days. The rush to the hospital the day before Christmas Eve, the emergency doctor identifying the internal injuries, the hours of waiting… Rosemary had lost all sense of herself in the adrenalin. Why did nobody ask what had happened? Perhaps they did – what had she told them? She couldn’t remember. The time in the hospital was a blur. When the doctor stepped out of James’s ward to tell her resuscitation had failed, Rosemary simply didn’t believe him and she told him as much, even going so far as to
order him to go back in and try again. It was then that she’d collapsed, her knees giving way. She’d felt herself lifted and was vaguely aware of someone holding her up. Was it Angela? But by that time it was too late. James was dead.
Rosemary sat in the shed wrapped in a blanket. Through the small window, she could see the moon, its iridescent sheen the only thing able to hold her attention for more than a minute. She wondered if this was what madness felt like – a searing need to rip off your own skin, to morph into another person, to be anyone but oneself. She put her head on her knees, closed her eyes, and pulled the blanket closer, hoping sheer exhaustion would soon take over.
It had taken everything she had to get through the following days. But at least she’d been busy, her mind consumed with organising the funeral. Over a hundred of their friends, family, and neighbours had passed through their home, offering their condolences, eating, drinking, and hugging. Many had assumed it was the cancer that had taken him and she didn’t bother to correct anyone. It was the longest day in Rosemary’s life and there were even moments when she forgot what she had done. But then she remembered, and the terror was paralysing.
It was worse at night when she was alone and Angela was sleeping, which is why she had started coming to the shed. Here, as she remembered finding the letter of approval for a baby, the guilt lessened just a fraction, or at least enough for her to sleep a little. She wondered if anyone had ever died from lack of sleep. Insomnia was a cruel bed-partner.
She tried not to think about Angela. Her devastation was etched on her face at the loss of her dad but Rosemary couldn’t help her. Every time she saw her, she was reminded of James – his look of sheer desperation, their last conversation ringing in her mind like a never-ending alarm.
‘I know this is going to be difficult for you to hear, Rosie love, but I do think it’s the right thing to do,’ he’d said.
And as he showed her his updated will with everything, except the house, to be left to Angela, Rosemary wondered if it was some kind of joke.
‘You’ll not go short, of course you won’t, as you still have everything from your parents, and of course this house,’ James had reasoned.
Rosemary stared at him as if he were a stranger, slowly realising that this was no joke. After years of marriage, he was choosing his daughter over her.
‘But I supported you in that business!’ protested Rosemary. ‘Who was the one who helped you? Gave you the funds to get started?’
‘I know,’ he placated. ‘Of course, I know that. And I can return that to you. It’s just Angela has a good business sense – she knows how to run it, get the best out of it. It’s worth a lot of money—’
‘I know it’s worth a lot of money!’ shouted Rosemary, ‘because it was my franchise plan that made so much money! Why do you think I’m so upset about it? And what about the savings? Am I to be left with nothing?’
‘Of course not,’ said James. ‘You’ll have the house and I’m sure we can arrange an allowance of some kind.’
‘Are you out of your mind?’ Rosemary was now screaming but she didn’t care. He was supposed to be begging her forgiveness for his lie about adopting a baby. ‘I gave up my life for Angela and you think I would be happy relying on her for money?’ screamed Rosemary.
‘Rosie, will you just calm down—’
‘You have just changed your will and given away your ENTIRE inheritance to Angela and left me with nothing. Nothing! The house was already mine, you bastard!’ The expletive felt foreign on her tongue – she rarely swore.
‘Rosemary, you’re hysterical. I’m not going to have this conversation with you,’ he’d said then, and Rosemary felt the violence within. She might not have done it if he hadn’t walked away from her towards the back door.
But he did.
At that moment she realised her parents had been right about James all along: he wasn’t good enough for her, not by a long shot. He was a liar.
‘James!’ she’d said, approaching him. He’d already opened the back door and she guessed he was going to his precious shed. What other secrets were in there?
‘For God’s sake, Rosemary,’ he said wearily, turning back to face her. ‘Let’s just give it a rest for a bit.’
But as he left her, his misplaced arrogance visible in the lift of his chin, she snapped.
And just like that, she’d pushed him.
Hard.
In the back.
With both hands. She’d watched him fall, her hands still able to feel the soft cotton of his shirt. His feet had gone from under him and in that millisecond between disbelief and reality, his head had turned to her and she saw his eyes wide with fear, reaching out for her.
And she’d just stood there.
As his head slammed against the stone-paved steps leading up to the garden in a sickening crack, Rosemary knew they had both gone too far.
63
Angela
Angela watched silently as her father was lowered into the cold, damp ground. She stared straight ahead, her chin slightly raised, well-practised at keeping her emotions in check. Her mother stood beside her, pale and sunken, while Mitchell was on her right, tall and upright, head bowed in respect. The homily floated around her. The words were meaningless, but their mesmerising drone tempted recollections to resurface from a time when she’d had to attend church every Sunday, morning and evening, forced to stand for ages listening to the priest as he talked about redemption. Even a slight waver in concentration could result in a backhand from Matron afterwards. Sometimes the girls would stop off at Woolworths on the way home from school, pilfering a Revlon foundation and giggling helplessly as they streaked it on their cheeks to disguise the remnants of red fingerprints. To this day, Angela was still incredulous at how, even in violent situations, they still managed to laugh, their glee a triumphant revenge on Matron.
As the priest led the congregation in the Lord’s Prayer, Angela saw her mum bow her head in prayer, her lips silently moving. Neither of her parents had been devout Catholics but they had attended church most Sundays and she knew her mother found solace in the religion and its community. It gave Angela a degree of comfort to know that her mum had this support around her. Yet her parents had never questioned Angela when she stopped attending after they adopted her; simply respected her decision and told her she was always welcome if she changed her mind. During her early years, however, Angela had seen another side to religion and she had decided a long time ago that the only doctrine she would ever follow would be her own.
*
The wake, held at her parents’ home, passed her by in a blur of canapés and well-wishers. She repressed her own grief until she could deal with it alone. She almost admired anyone who could be so open as to share their darkest times with other people. To Angela, it just felt wrong – there was no other way to describe it. She couldn’t think with so many people around, all squeezing her arm in sympathy and asking how she was coping. She stood with her back to the window in the living room and near the door. Her strategy was that people would come in and move further inside the room to mingle and she would only have to greet people rather than engage in small talk. She could see Mrs Henderson and her husband approaching down the hallway. They were an elderly couple who used to invite Angela over to their house to play board games when she’d first arrived.
‘Hello, Mr and Mrs Henderson, thanks for coming,’ said Angela automatically.
‘Angela! You beat us to it! Not surprising really, a couple of old dodderers like us.’
Angela smiled politely and turned to the next set of neighbours who had just arrived.
*
Mitchell had brought her a glass of wine and she clutched at it thankfully, its sharpness making everything just that little bit more bearable. Both he and Lucy had been so supportive, helping her and Rosemary with the arrangements. Angela watched her mother now, moving from group to group, always with a tray of something or other. As she looked around at the number of people who had co
me to pay their respects, she felt reassured that her mum would be well supported. Secretly, Angela was slightly envious. Despite the genuine warmth of the people around her, many of whom she had known for years, she felt closed off, remote, and unreachable.
She longed to get back to her flat, to simply lie down, close her eyes, and let the pain swallow her whole. Later, she would emerge, get up, go to work, come back, lie down, and let the pain wash over her again. She felt compelled to compartmentalise in order to cope. She knew people wouldn’t understand it; at best she would be referred to as dignified, at worst aloof, but she didn’t care enough to correct them; to try and convey the depths of despair she felt as she imagined never being able to talk to her father again; never having the chance to see him again. Angela felt her breathing constrict.
Forcing her shoulders back, she went to see if there was anything that could be done in the kitchen to help her mother.
64
Thursday 29 December 1988
Dear Diary,
Yesterday was the funeral and it was cold and slightly drizzly and I had to take an umbrella with me against the rain. I wore a black funeral veil worn over a pillbox hat. It was a bit old-fashioned, but that didn’t matter. I shouldn’t have been surprised at how many people attended but I was pleased by the turnout – it made everything easier. The atmosphere was sombre, and the priest went on and on, his words lost in the dusty old beams of the church. I wondered how many people were listening, how many people were taking comfort from his words or, like me, were just waiting for it all to be over.
A.
65
Evelyn
Evelyn pulled up the collar on her black wool coat against the cold as she walked down the steps of the church to the graveyard. She hadn’t worn this coat in ages, and she felt awkward and constrained by its formality. She had debated for days whether to attend Jimmy’s funeral after Angela had called her to let her know he’d passed away. She’d been too frightened of Angela to pick up the phone, but she had left a message, her sadness magnified through the speaker. Evelyn had wanted to attend, but she knew she didn’t belong there. Theirs was a past long swallowed up by time. Evelyn still couldn’t believe it could be Angela who was behind everything. In the end, she decided to get the train, discreetly attend the service and just slip in at the back. She wouldn’t go to the wake, despite the appeal of free booze.
