by Lewis Orde
‘Roland, you have to make a decision. Who is more important to you? Katherine or me? Make your mind up about that right now.’
‘That isn’t a question to ask your husband!’
‘I know it isn’t. Because it should never have to be asked.’
Roland breathed out a deep, anguished sigh. If he went up the stairs to Katherine’s room, would he lose Sharon? And if he stayed down here, with Sharon, what would happen to Katherine?
He couldn’t bring himself to face the predicament, and he cursed himself for being a coward.
*
Sharon went up to bed soon afterwards, while Roland remained sitting in the front room with the lights out, smoking a cigar, staring out the window. He was hoping that Katherine would come down, that she would make the move. He wasn’t brave enough to go up to her room and face the accusation in those clear blue eyes. But the only sounds he heard were when the home help returned from their evening off; first the maid, at eleven-thirty, and then, fifteen minutes later, the butler. The maid went straight to her downstairs room. The butler, however, made a conscientious inspection of the house before retiring.
‘Is there something the matter, sir?’ he asked Roland when he found him sitting in the darkened front room.
‘No. Doing some thinking, that’s all.’
‘Perhaps I can fetch something for you?’
Sure, some family togetherness, Roland felt like replying. He shook his head and told the butler to go to bed.
He stayed in the front room for another hour, wondering what to do. Whatever he decided seemed wrong, whether he sided with Katherine or with Sharon. Finally he dragged himself up the stairs, undressed and sank into bed beside Sharon. He didn’t know whether she was asleep or just pretending, but he had no desire to find out. To wake her might lead to another confrontation, and he didn’t have the strength for that now.
He lay staring at the ceiling, listening to Sharon breathing evenly beside him, feeling the bed move as she turned restlessly. What would have happened if Mrs Peters hadn’t stepped out into the street that summer afternoon? If there had been no accident? No . . . that was wrong. He should be wondering what would have happened had Catarina not been born with a defect, had her body been whole. Would he be experiencing the same problems? No, of course not, there never would have been any enmity between Catarina and her daughter. There would have been a bond of love – what there should be between Katherine and Sharon.
He turned the question over and over in his mind. Somewhere in the distance a door closed, a car engine started up then died, started again, died, started a third time, roared for a few seconds before descending raggedly down the hill toward the village. Someone who couldn’t drive too well . . . or someone who’d drunk too well, Roland decided. He hoped the police caught the driver, glad even for a moment to think of something other than his own problems. He remembered the first time he’d driven the XK–120, when Catarina had ordered the taxi driver to stop in the middle of Leicester. ‘We would like to buy that car . . . what is it, please?’ she’d asked the salesman. Roland chuckled silently, warmed by the memory, then drifted off to sleep.
Sharon woke him up, tugging at his shoulder. ‘The phone, Roland! The phone!’
He sat up in bed, looking at the luminous hands of the clock. Four-fifteen. Very faintly he could hear the telephone ringing downstairs. Who the hell would be calling at this hour? The insistent ringing stopped as the butler took the call. Moments later came the sound of footsteps on the stairs, stopping outside the bedroom door, then a hesitant knock.
‘Sir, there’s a telephone call for you. Mrs Morrison.’
Mrs Morrison? Janet! Roland climbed out of bed, walked barefoot across the carpet into the upstairs hall where there was an extension with the bell removed. ‘Janet . . . what’s the matter?’ It had to be one of the children, he thought; why else would she call in the middle of the night?
‘Roland, I’m at New End Hospital in Hampstead—’
‘What’s wrong? Is it Richard? Carol?’
‘Neither, Roland. It’s Katherine.’
Roland felt his grip on the receiver tighten. ‘What are you talking about? Kathy’s here, sleeping.’ He looked toward her closed bedroom door, recalled how she’d slammed it the night before.
‘No, she’s not, Roland. She’s in New End Hospital, badly injured in a car accident. The police say she was driving.’
‘That’s crazy. She can’t drive, doesn’t even have a license.’ He heard Sharon come into the hall and told her to look in Katherine’s room. She came back; the room was empty. ‘But why . . . why didn’t anyone call me?’ Roland asked Janet. ‘Why did they contact you?’
‘Katherine had no identification on her. When the police asked her name, she told them she was Katherine Morrison and gave my address and telephone number.’
The name Katherine had given – the reason for giving it – went right by Roland. He was too confused, unable to believe that his daughter had been behind the wheel of a car. She wasn’t even fifteen yet! ‘What kind of a car?’
‘A blue Ford.’
Sharon’s car . . . Wait a minute! That noise of a door closing . . . the garage! The continuous stalling . . . the engine racing . . . then the sound of a car going down the hill toward the village . . . That had been Katherine, taking Sharon’s car, using the keys that were always left in the downstairs hall closet. The car had an automatic transmission; Katherine must have known just enough to get it started, manage to reverse it out of the garage. But heading where?
‘The accident, where did it happen?’ Roland asked Janet. Another accident . . . just like the one that had brought about Catarina’s death? God no . . .
‘On the Edgware Road going through Cricklewood.’
Cricklewood? What was she doing down there? Roland immediately knew the answer – driving toward St John’s Wood, to Janet’s.
‘I’ll be at the hospital as soon as I can.’
‘I’ll take you in my car, sir,’ offered the butler, who had stood by Roland’s side throughout the conversation.
‘Thanks. Janet, stay with Katherine. I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.’
‘Of course I’ll stay here,’ Janet said as Roland hung up the phone. He strode back to the bedroom, dressed hurriedly. Sharon followed, watching.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’
‘I don’t think so. You stay here. Go back to bed, you’ve got to look after yourself.’
Sharon walked around the bedroom, sat down on the chair in front of the dressing table. ‘Katherine doesn’t have a license to drive.’
‘That’s the last of my concerns right now.’
Sharon seemed not to hear him. ‘She can get into an awful lot of trouble. Not just the accident, but driving without a license, driving under age, without insurance. Taking my car without my permission.’
‘What . . . did . . . you . . . say?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ Sharon said quickly as she glimpsed the fire in Roland’s eyes. ‘I was just thinking aloud.’
‘That last part. What . . . did . . . you . . . say?’
‘I said she could get into trouble for taking my car without my permission.’
‘Are you hoping she’ll get into trouble, Sharon? Is that it? For Christ’s sake, what the hell is the matter with you?’ He swung around as a knock sounded on the bedroom door. ‘Come in!’
The butler entered, aloof from the tension in the room. ‘I’m ready, sir.’
‘So am I.’ Roland flashed a final, furious look at Sharon before following the butler downstairs to his small car, sitting cramped in the passenger seat as they sped through the empty streets.
They reached the hospital twenty minutes later. Roland found Janet sitting in the emergency room. She pointed to a small room; Roland looked inside. Katherine lay sedated in the bed closest to the door, her head bandaged, a cast on her right arm. A doctor stood by the bed, checking a chart.
‘I’m Roland Eagles, t
his girl’s father. What’s the extent of her injuries?’
‘Broken arm plus cuts and lacerations to her face and scalp where she went through the windshield.’ The doctor saw Roland blanch at the news and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. ‘It might have been a lot worse, if that’s any consolation. She’s young, healthy. She’ll bounce right back.’
‘Thanks for the encouragement.’
‘I’m afraid you’re going to need all you can get, Mr Eagles. There’s a police officer waiting outside who’d like some details.’
‘He’s not the only one.’ Roland stood by the bed, fingers gently stroking Katherine’s shoulder. Had they shaved her head? Was all that beautiful blonde hair gone? It didn’t matter, he told himself. Hair always grew back. Just as long as she recovered, it didn’t matter at all.
‘Want some company when you talk to the police?’
Roland turned around, surprised to see Janet standing next to him; he hadn’t heard her enter the room. ‘I think so. Where’s Ralph?’
‘At home. Someone has to stay with Richard and Carol.’
Roland walked out to the emergency reception desk, holding Janet’s hand. First he told the butler to return home, then went to where a police officer sat waiting, pad and pencil in hand. Roland sized up the young man, the eager look, and decided that he hadn’t even turned twenty – too young to even understand the meaning of sympathy, of compassion.
‘I’m Roland Eagles, the father of the accident victim. Can you tell me what happened, officer?’ He sat down and Janet took the seat beside him, still holding his hand.
‘I was hoping you could tell me, sir.’ The voice went with the face – young and officious.
‘About the circumstances of the accident, I mean.’
‘According to witnesses, sir, the car was traveling at between forty and fifty miles an hour along the Edgware Road in a southbound direction. The speed limit there is thirty miles an hour.’
Get on with it, Roland prayed.
‘As the car approached the junction with Willesden Lane, the lights changed. The driver attempted to brake – the rear lights came on – then the car went out of control, mounted the curb and ploughed into a lamp post. We’ve identified the car as belonging to Sharon Eagles of Stanmore—’
‘My wife,’ Roland interrupted, wondering what Sharon was doing right now. He still found it impossible to believe that she had mentioned the possible charge of driving her car without her permission.
‘Your wife, sir?’ The constable looked curiously at Janet, the holding of hands.
‘I’m Janet Morrison, a friend of Mr Eagles.’
‘Is Mrs Eagles the mother of the girl?’
‘No,’ Roland answered. ‘Katherine’s mother is dead.’ He waited for some hint of recognition in the officer’s eyes. None came, and Roland realized that Catarina – the elopement, the custody case – had all been before his time.
‘What is your daughter’s full name, sir?’
‘Katherine Elizabeth Eagles.’
The constable consulted his notebook. ‘When police officers removed her from the car and asked for identification, she claimed she was Katherine Morrison.’
This time, the use of the name stuck in Roland’s mind like a barb. Katherine had fled the house in Stanmore – when she felt unwanted and neglected – and had been heading for St John’s Wood and Janet. She’d even taken Janet’s name for herself – had abandoned Eagles, cast it out as she wished to cast out her own father. Just like Roland’s father had done so many years before – changed his name in an act of defiance, to show his bigoted family exactly what he thought of them.
‘That is against the law, sir.’
‘What is?’
‘Giving a false name to police officers.’
‘Maybe she was confused. Maybe she was trying to tell you the name of the people she was trying to reach. How would you react with a broken arm and your head cut open?’ Roland snapped.
The officer looked up from his notepad, as if the question were a direct threat. ‘Mr Eagles, what can you tell me about this? Why was your daughter – how old is she, anyway?’
‘She’ll be fifteen in June.’ It sounded slightly better than saying fourteen; fifteen was only two years short of legally applying for a driver’s license.
‘Do you know why your daughter was driving the car?’
Roland nodded slowly. He felt Janet’s hand squeeze his own as he started to answer. ‘There was an argument at home last night, between my daughter and my wife. I sided with my wife, and my daughter felt she’d been betrayed. I heard a car start during the night, but I never imagined it was Katherine. I didn’t even realize she knew how to start the engine.’
‘She knew enough to get as far as Cricklewood.’
‘It’s almost a straight run from Stanmore – down London Road and turn right at Canon’s Corner,’ Roland said automatically. ‘No traffic in the middle of the night, so maybe she felt she could make it all the way to St John’s Wood.’
‘Why St John’s Wood, sir?’
‘That’s where I live,’ Janet answered. ‘Katherine used to live with my husband and myself, until Mr Eagles remarried and decided she should live with him.’ The officer was clearly confused.
‘Will there be any charges?’ Roland asked, concerned more with Katherine than explaining his personal situation.
‘I would imagine so, sir. Exceeding the speed limit, reckless driving, driving without a license and insurance, driving while under age. By the way sir, did your wife give your daughter permission to use the car? If she did, she could also be in hot water.’
Roland shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Then there’ll also probably be a charge of taking and driving a car without the owner’s permission.’
Roland’s eyes closed, his head dropped to his chest. He felt totally defeated. He didn’t care about the charges Katherine might face, only about Katherine. He felt that he’d forced her into doing this – forced her to flee the house in the middle of the night because she felt she was living in enemy territory. He blamed no one but himself. Not even Sharon. If he’d put his foot down, established control in his own house, within his own family, none of this would have happened . . .
Roland and Janet stayed at the hospital until eight o’clock in the morning. He called Sharon and told her the extent of Katherine’s injuries – she sounded sympathetic although Roland hardly noticed – then waited for Katherine to waken from her sedated sleep. A different doctor was on duty, and he allowed Roland five minutes with her, after which she would be transferred to the main hospital.
Roland went into the room and sat down next to the bed. Despite the bandages, Katherine’s eyes were as sharp and clear as they had ever been, and seemed to burn right through her father. Roland laid a hand on her uninjured arm, flinched as she tried to withdraw.
‘Kathy, I’m sorry. I’m not angry . . . I’m just sorry. Don’t worry about the car, don’t worry about the police. Just get better.’ He could see she wasn’t going to reply, so he continued talking in a soft, soothing tone. ‘Kathy, I’m not going to ask you to go away until Sharon has the baby. I wouldn’t dream of it. It’s as much your house as it is hers. No, it’s more your house, your home . . . will you believe me?’
The blue eyes just stared, offering no answer, no comfort of forgiveness. At last the doctor tapped Roland on the shoulder, said the five minutes were up. Roland left the room reluctantly and joined Janet outside.
‘Do you want me to drive you home?’ Janet offered.
‘Let’s get a cup of tea somewhere first. I’m parched.’
They went to a small restaurant in Hampstead that was serving breakfast, sat in a corner away from the crowd. ‘Shall I talk to Katherine?’ Janet asked. ‘Will that do any good?’
‘Probably more good than me talking to her,’ Roland said dismally. ‘I think she’s blotted me out completely.’
‘I’ll ask her if she wants to come back to St John�
��s wood, live with Ralph and me. She was happier with us, Roland.’
‘That’s not the whole story. The truth is she was happier when she didn’t have anyone competing with her for me.’
‘Are you telling me that’s the whole story? Just because there’s another woman in your life now?’
‘No.’ Roland fingered the handle of the teacup. ‘She feels I’ve let her down, betrayed her.’
‘So she headed back to our house. Maybe that’s where she really belongs, Roland. Let me talk to her later on. I think I can get closer to her than you can, especially after this.’
*
Three days later, Katherine was picked up from the hospital by Ralph Morrison and driven to St John’s Wood. Her clothes, which had been brought from Stanmore, were all hanging neatly in her old room. The cast would be on her arm for at least four weeks, and she was required to return to the hospital in a week to have the stitches removed from her scalp and forehead. Despite doctors’ assurances that any scars would be barely noticeable, Roland worried. For some reason he doubted that Katherine would even consider plastic surgery to remove any unsightly scars. No, the bitterness she felt would make her wear them proudly, like a banner, reminding her of the night she’d stood up to her father.
Even when the cast was removed, Katherine didn’t return to school and Roland immediately knew why – vanity. Her blonde hair was barely half an inch long, covering her scalp like a pale fuzz, not even hiding the three scars that would take years to fade. Only one scar showed on her forehead, a razor-thin, red line about an inch long that ran above her right eyebrow.
Roland visited her every night after work, driven by Alf Goldstein on the way back to Stanmore. She always greeted him formally, never forgetting to ask for Sharon. Roland always replied with the same uncomfortable formality – that Sharon was inching toward her final weeks of pregnancy and apologized for not coming to see Katherine, but she was feeling unfit to travel any long distance. Roland wondered if that was really the truth. He suspected otherwise . . . that Sharon didn’t even want to see Katherine; that she just wanted to erase any thought of Roland’s eldest daughter from her mind.
