by Anne Doughty
I drew my eyes from the fire and saw the young man who leaned so lightly on the bellows. His face was brown from wind and sun, his forehead streaked with soot. His eyes sparkled with pleasure at the older man’s words.
‘An’ ye’ve been a grate fren’ te me, Robert, an’ te ma mather whin she was poorly. I’m sad ta gae,’ he said warmly.
‘Aye, but ye mun. This is nae place for a lad the likes o’ ye. Ye’ll make yer way. But yer a mite braver than ye wer whin yer come. That’ll stan’t’ ye.’
The smith drew the metal from the fire with heavy iron tongs and held it, vibrant with colour, on the anvil. At the first blow, the sparks arced and flew around me, but before I could draw back they had dissolved harmlessly in the warm air. The forge rang again with the rhythmic music of the hammer.
Once more the metal went into the fire. The gentle huff raised the orange glow to gold. The young man leaned effortlessly on the bellows and looked across at the smith, a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a battered leather apron, its strings tied at the front.
‘D’ye mine my first day, Robert?’ he asked.
‘Aye, I do lad,’ the older man replied, laughing. ‘I thocht I’d kilt you, yer wer tha’ tired. Yer were so willin’, I wasnae watchin’ ye half well enow. But I caut mesel’ on. I tawt ye a trick or two forby.’
‘Ah, moren a few. I’ll be iver in yer debt,’ the young man replied. His cheerful grin disappeared and he became thoughtful. He had grey eyes and a shock of black hair. ‘Do ye mine, Robert, sayin’ to me, “Georgie, pace yersel’. No use goin’ at it like a bull at a gate. Give it the time it needs. Don’t rush it.”?’
‘Aye, Ah do. An’ I mine me father sayin’ the same words to me, the first day I stood here. The auld pepil had ther own wisdom, Georgie. It’s a foolish man fergets it whin times change. But ye’ll nae ferget, I’m thinkin’. There’s more to ye, Georgie Erwin, thin a pare o’ hans.’
I blinked sharply. I was sure I had not taken my eyes away from the still figure whose hand I held in mine. But I had been in the forge. I had seen the young man who had set out from the glen to take the job in Ballymena that would launch him towards having his own business. The forge was long gone, my memories and the name of a modern bungalow built on the site its only trace.
I looked down at the dear familiar face, so pale, so peaceful, and then, to my surprise, I found myself addressing an audience of shadowy figures who seemed to have joined us. They were all people he knew, like Robert, my grandfather, of whom he was so fond, and Ellen, his mother. And aunts and cousins, and people he’d worked with, and farmers he’d shaken hands with and passed the time of day with. Many of them I knew, many more were just names I had heard and remembered for his sake.
‘My father is a countryman,’ I began, silently. ‘One of his greatest joys in life is to walk in the sunshine on a fine spring morning,’ I continued, as I saw a path rise before me. ‘Up a green slope, with the birds singing in the hedgerows and the light glancing off the dewdrops hanging from the hawthorn hedge. Up and up to the brow of the hill, a hill with an outlook.’
I glanced up myself, prompted by my own words, and saw a small mountain on the monitor screen had become a jagged peak. In absolute silence, it fell to the ocean depths and rose again, yet higher. I looked across to the desk, and for what seemed an eternity of time could not remember the word I needed.
‘Nurse,’ I said urgently as I stood up and pulled my chair away from the bed.
She was the first to reach him. I saw her take the tube from his mouth and lean across him. But by then the place was full of people. I stood mesmerised as I saw a trolley race down the ward, propelled by four young people. How could they know to come, and move so fast, when I had taken so long to speak one word?
‘Jennifer, I’m Helen, would you come with me, please? We mustn’t get in the way.’
I protested feebly, knowing well enough what the rules were. ‘Please, don’t worry about me. I know my way. You may be needed here.’
She smiled and put an arm gently round my shoulders. ‘The full team’s here, they don’t need me. I’ll keep you company. Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘No, thank you, but that’s very kind. I think this may be the last one.’
She nodded gently. ‘You might be right.’
We sat in the visitors’ waiting room and talked about her summer holiday and her boyfriend. I inquired about the little blonde girl and heard that she was going to be all right. It seemed the most normal thing in the world to sit here and chat to a pleasant unknown girl with all my mind fifty yards away.
‘You’re very brave, Jennifer,’ she said suddenly, after a little.
I shook my head. ‘No, I’m an absolute coward, but I don’t want him to suffer.’
‘Would you like me to go and see what’s happening?’
‘Yes, please.’
Minutes passed. I wiped my damp hands with the crumpled piece of kitchen roll from my skirt pocket. Figures passed the open door. The young people who had sped down the ward with the trolley, like students in a charity pram race, returned more slowly to wherever they had come from. A tall doctor strode past going the other way, the tails of his white coat flying, a stethoscope round his neck.
I was staring out of the window when I heard a firm but soft footfall at the door. It was the sister, a small smile on her face.
‘Has he gone?’ I asked, turning towards her.
‘Yes, Jennifer, he has.’
‘I think I’m glad.’
She came towards me, and to my surprise gave me a little hug. ‘Sometimes we’re glad too. Would you like to go and see him?’
She came with me to the entrance to the unit and then slipped away into her office, leaving me free to walk alone towards the large circle of screens which had appeared around my father’s bed. Like a settler’s encampment, I thought, as I found the small gap and went through.
All the machines and tubes and wires had gone. I could walk up to him, take his hand. It was warmer than mine now. It was joined with the other across his chest and the right one had elastoplast on it.
You look as if you’ve been pruning, I said silently, as I observed the chair, a proper chair, not a plastic stackable, that had been left for me. I looked down at it and stayed standing.
‘You managed it, Daddy, didn’t you? You nipped off up the hill to the top before they caught you. I hope it has a good outlook,’ I said quietly.
I patted his bare shoulder, kissed his cheek and went back through the barricades. He wasn’t there any more, so why should I stay? I’d know where to find him whenever I wanted him, now he was free.
I waved and smiled to the young woman by the little girl’s bed and walked on out of the ward, feeling life flowing back into me again, bringing me a joy and a light-heartedness I could not begin to understand.
Chapter 21
It was just before six o’clock when the dark-haired student nurse pulled the door shut behind her and left me alone in the small, hospital-clean bedroom. A white towelling bathrobe lay on the narrow bed. On the bedside cabinet, a Gideon Bible, a flask of water, and a small posy of flowers. To each according to their need, I said to myself, as I sat down on the edge of the bed and let my shoes drop gently to the floor.
I went round the room opening cupboards and drawers, curious to see what other provisions might be made for those who kept watch in the night, or were released from their vigil, as I had been. All I found were some wire coat hangers and an almost empty jar of Nescafe.
I drew back an edge of curtain to see where I was, for once I was inside the hospital I had lost all sense of direction. It was still dark but the rain had cleared. A fresh breeze rippled the large puddles and had already dried large stretches of the Grosvenor Road. A milk float went past with a strange whining noise and a rattle of crates. Then a newsagent’s van.
I looked at the bed. It was too late to think of sleep but too early to go to the chaplain’s empty room where I was to make m
y phone calls. Sister said it would help no one to ring at five thirty. There was nothing to be done that could not wait till seven.
I undressed quickly, hung up my clothes on one of the empty hangers, and ran the bath. Water gushed from the taps so fiercely I had to dash back into the tiny bathroom to turn them off. I lay in the warm water and thought of the bath at Loughview. The taps ran so slowly the bath was always tepid by the time it filled. Besides, there was never enough water to fill the bath like this, for the hot water tank was too small in the first place.
My father is dead and I’m lying here thinking about the water pressure in the Loughview bedroom, I said to myself, reprovingly. Surely one ought to be thinking higher thoughts at moments like this. To be meditating upon the nature of mortality, at the very least. But there it was. My mind was full of thoughts, but none of them seemed particularly elevated. Hardly what I would have predicted.
I closed my eyes and saw my father smile at me again. ‘If a gipsy had told me,’ he began, and I was back in the car, driving up the Antrim Road, with Maisie and her gin glass at the end of it. And William John booming down the phone and Colin playing dutiful son to perfection. ‘I’d have been a lousy farmer,’ he went on, and it was my turn to smile.
‘Yes, Daddy, and I’d have been a lousy company wife, wouldn’t I? But I’ve said no and there’s no going back on it.’
‘Good girl yourself,’ he said, with that little nod he always gave when he was especially pleased. ‘Life is full of surprises and some of them are great.’
I had just finished drying myself when there was a tap at my door. Surprised, I pulled on the gown and opened it to reveal a large woman in a green overall holding a tray.
‘Here yar, dear. Sister says yer to eat it all.’
Under the metal cover there were scrambled eggs and bacon. And real coffee and toast. I couldn’t believe how hungry I was and how wonderful it tasted. I had no difficulty at all doing as Sister ordered. As I ate, I reflected that someone, somewhere, was trying to tell me something. Whatever awfulness lay ahead of me in the days to come, there would be good things too. Some of my difficulties would resolve themselves. Some wouldn’t. But what was really important was what I did with whatever came to me. I was free to live my own life as never before.
The chaplain’s office didn’t look any tidier, and certainly no more holy, than most offices I’ve been in, except for a poster on the wall which said, ‘The Lord will give you strength’. I hoped He would. I dialled Harvey’s number.
‘Hello, Mavis, I’m sorry to ring so early.’
‘Your father, Jenny?’
‘Yes.’
‘Jenny, I’m so sorry. Were you with him?’
‘Yes, I’m at the Royal now. In the chaplain’s room.’
The voice was Mavis’s all right, but there was a softness and a warmth which was quite new. She really wanted to know exactly what had happened. That wasn’t surprising in itself, I suppose, and even less so remembering her training, but as we went on talking, her questions made it quite clear that what she wanted to know about most of all was me. How did I feel when it happened? What had I done between five thirty and seven? How was I feeling now?
I answered all her questions as honestly as I could, and as I did, I saw myself standing again in the hall at Loughview, amazed to hear Harvey say, ‘Mavis and I had a talk and she insisted . . .’ And at last, the penny dropped. What had mattered most to Mavis was her father. I had never met him, because he was already a sick man when she first met Harvey and he died only weeks after their engagement.
‘Jenny, what can I do to help you?’ she asked quietly. ‘Would you like me to tell Harvey, or do you feel you must do it yourself? He’s still dressing.’
‘There is something, Mavis,’ I began hesitantly. ‘Harvey and I had a row yesterday. He’s probably still very angry with me. And we’ve got to cope with the funeral.. .’
‘Of course you have,’ she said sympathetically, ‘and with your mother as well,’ she added sharply. ‘Jenny, your dear brother hasn’t even begun to come to terms with your mother, as yet, but he’s going to have to. And now’s a very good time to start. I told him that last night. I gather you stood up to her quite successfully yesterday.’
‘Daddy thought I did rather well,’ I replied. ‘It helps me now that he did,’ I went on, horribly aware that the unexpected warmth in her voice was drawing out the tears I had said a firm no to. ‘Mavis, there’s something else I think I’d better tell you,’ I said, collecting myself with an effort.
I heard an encouraging noise.
‘Things have been very difficult between Colin and me for some time now. But it all came to a head last night. I won’t be going back to Loughview, Mavis, and I won’t have Colin at Daddy’s funeral. I just don’t know how I’ll cope with my mother when she has to be told,’ I ended limply.
There was a silence at the other end of the line. For one awful moment I thought I’d done the wrong thing, that she was so shocked she would withdraw the support she’d so unexpectedly offered.
‘Mavis?’ I said tentatively.
‘Sorry, Jenny. I’m just a bit taken aback that you’ve got this to cope with as well. It seems so unfair,’ she said gently. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m not really surprised. I thought things were bad back in the summer when I came to collect Susie. But it’s an awful lot to cope with all at once. Oh, I am sorry, Jenny.’
I knew that she really meant it and I was touched. But the result was that yet more tears coursed down my cheeks. She must have heard my sniffs, or the fissle of my kitchen paper, for she went on speaking without waiting for any reply.
‘I knew how anxious you were about your father yesterday when he bent over to put the logs on the fire, but there was nothing I could do then except keep talking,’ she said sadly. ‘Look, Jenny,’ she went on, as if she’d suddenly made up her mind about something, ‘can you ring back in about ten minutes? Let me talk to Harvey. You’ve got quite enough to cope with. There are some things he’s going to have to get straight, right now. All right?’
‘All right. Thanks, Mavis,’ I said feebly.
I put the phone down and looked at it in amazement, as if the unexceptional instrument had been in some way responsible for this transformation. Then I took a deep breath and dialled Val’s number. Poor Val, she was going to be so upset. Of all my friends, she was the one who knew Daddy best and was most fond of him.
The voice which replied immediately was unfamiliar and sounded so English, so formal and distant, I thought I’d misdialled and sat silent, confused, while it repeated the familiar Bangor number.
‘Bob?’ I said, weakly.
‘Jenny, what’s wrong? Are you all right?’
‘Alan, I thought you were at the cottage, I didn’t recognise your voice . . .’
‘Jenny dear, what’s wrong?’ he said gently. ‘Can you tell me or shall I get Val?’
Tears streamed down my face and I shook my head helplessly. I thought I could manage, but the slightest gentleness and back they came.
‘Jenny, you’re crying. Where are you? Can I come and fetch you?’
There was nothing cool about Alan’s voice now. He sounded as distraught as I felt.
‘It’s all right, Alan. Really, it’s all right,’ I said quickly. ‘Hold on a minute, till I find my hanky.’
I couldn’t open my bag one-handed so I tried my skirt pocket and drew out again the familiar screwed-up piece of kitchen paper. So strange that it was not grief that made me weep but any show of kindness or tenderness.
‘I’m all right now, Alan,’ I managed at last. ‘I do have very sad news, but that wasn’t what made me cry.’
I told him about Daddy and he listened quietly. And then I told him I’d not been able to avoid as much as I’d hoped, though Thompson’s Law had helped a lot. Things had been said that could not be avoided. I’d told Colin I was leaving him, and I was hoping to stay with Val and Bob till I found somewhere to live – if Val had roo
m, that was.
‘But of course she has, Jenny,’ he said quickly. ‘Where are you now? Are you really all right?’
He sounded so anxious about me I had to explain how grateful I actually felt that my father had died and how relieved I was that I never had to go back to Loughview again. I told him I was actually quite in command of myself as long as no one was sympathetic.
‘I do believe you, Jenny, if you say so,’ he replied. ‘I think I just desperately want to see you.’
‘And I want to see you too, Alan. I’d have come over this evening even if I couldn’t stay,’ I replied honestly.
‘Just take care today, Jenny. Remember I’ll be thinking about you,’ he said gently, as he went off to fetch Val.
When she came on, Val was lovely, and then dear Bob made it quite clear that if I needed a mountain shifting, he would arrange it immediately. I thought of what Daddy had said about my three good friends, but this time I did manage not to cry. I said I’d be over sometime in the late afternoon, Val reminded me which plant pot the key was under, I said goodbye and dialled Harvey’s number before I could begin to feel anxious again.
He answered immediately.
‘Jenny, I’m sorry, so sorry. You’ve had such a difficult time and I hope you’ll let me do . . . you’ll let me make up for my . . . thoughtlessness yesterday. You were always closer to Daddy, so you’ll know what he would have wanted. Whatever it is, you tell me, and I’ll see that’s what’s done.’
I had never heard Harvey sound so unsure of himself in my life and to my amazement I discovered I was feeling a sympathy I’d never expected to feel. Quite suddenly, I realised that my mother’s excessive love and uncritical approval of all he did had been just as damaging to him as all her manipulating and her perennial expressions of disapproval had been to me.
‘Thanks, Harvey. It’s going to be pretty grim the next few days. Daddy won’t mind too much about the practicalities and I’m not too worried about them either. But I don’t think I can cope if Mummy attacks me about Colin, at least until after the funeral.’
