An Empty Death (25 page)
Authors: Laura Wilson
She raised her eyebrows, prepared to be comically affronted. ‘What do you mean, exactly?’
‘Oh heavens . . .’ Dacre permitted himself a nervous chuckle. ‘Nothing like that. I didn’t mean . . .’ He smiled bashfully, in a way that showed that he was attracted to her, but hadn’t meant anything suggestive. ‘That came out rather badly, didn’t it? What I really meant was, I need some help.’
‘Help?’
‘Yes. You see, I’m the new boy here, and I’ve just got myself into trouble with Mr Hambling. So you see,’ he added, ‘we’re both in hot water. A matter of procedure. Don’t know the ropes yet.’
‘Which patient?’
‘Mr Doherty.’
‘Oh ...’
Seeing Fay’s cheeks grow slightly pink, Dacre hurried on. ‘Two weeks,’ he groaned, ‘and I’ve already blotted my copybook.’
‘Oh dear. Mr Hambling can be a bit brisk, can’t he?’
Pleased by this small evidence of collusion, Dacre said, ‘So, will you help me avoid his wrath in the future?’
‘If I can. But—’
‘I’m sure you can. What time do you get off?’
‘Eight. If I’m lucky.’
‘Will you allow me to buy you a drink?’
Fay seemed to consider this for a moment, and then said, ‘Yes, I’d like that very much.’
Dacre was about to respond when her eyes widened at something over his shoulder and she whispered, ‘Sister’s coming.’
‘Oh. Right. Are you sure you don’t want me to have a word with her? About the . . .’ Dacre indicated the tray.
‘No, really. It was kind of you to help.’
‘All right then. Main entrance - don’t worry if you’re late.’ He gave Fay a conspiratorial wink and strolled off, deliberately casual, down the corridor in the direction of the stairs. Wonderful, wonderful chance! And he had the morphine as well. It couldn’t have happened better if he’d engineered it. Fay Marchant: his girl. At least, she would be very soon, and—
As he rounded the corner, his heart really did stop. Higgs was coming straight towards him.
Twenty-Eight
E
ight days late. Jenny put the bowl of eggs down on the step and leant against the back door frame. It was a pleasant, sunny morning - a nice change from all the rain they’d been having - and she always enjoyed watching the hens, or she would if she weren’t so worried about telling Ted.
ight days late. Jenny put the bowl of eggs down on the step and leant against the back door frame. It was a pleasant, sunny morning - a nice change from all the rain they’d been having - and she always enjoyed watching the hens, or she would if she weren’t so worried about telling Ted.
‘It’s all very well for you,’ she told the hens. She’d begun to talk to them quite a bit, but only if no-one else was in earshot. There were five of them, Buff Orpingtons, big fluffy things with pale gold feathers. She wouldn’t have had a clue how to look after them but Ted, being a farmer’s son, had explained what to do.
They really were dear things, if a bit stupid, and she was getting ever so fond of them. She hoped Ted wouldn’t insist on killing one come Christmas, but she didn’t want to mention this for fear of giving him ideas. Christmas! If she were pregnant - which, unless a miracle happened, was the case - she’d be six months gone by then. I can’t face it, she thought. Not all over again, not now. It isn’t fair.
She took Mrs Chetwynd’s letter out of her apron pocket. Since it had arrived yesterday morning, she must have read it a dozen times. Smoothing it out, she looked at it once more: . . . thought I ought to tell you that Monica has started her periods. We had a little talk about it, and I have provided her with some sanitary napkins and a belt. She said that you had explained everything to her, and thought that you would wish to know, so I said I would tell you because she felt a little uncomfortable about putting it in a letter . . .
Embarrassed in case Ted read it, Jenny thought. Well, that was understandable, but all the same, she’d have liked to hear it from Monica herself. They had had a talk about ‘those things’ when the children had been at home last year, but she should have been the one there, when it happened, to reassure and explain it was nothing to make a song and dance about but just a normal part of becoming a woman, and . . . and having babies. Jenny grimaced. She’d heard of gin and hot baths, but she wasn’t sure that it actually worked, and the alternatives - elm twigs, syringing, and so on - were too dangerous to contemplate. You could die from those.
She shoved the letter back in her pocket and stared hard at the hens, trying to keep the tears back. She didn’t often cry, but now . . . Everything was wrong. Monica was her daughter, not Mrs Chetwynd’s, and this sort of thing was just—Stop it, she told herself. Monica and Pete are alive and safe: be grateful for that. Hard on the heels of this thought came - as it tended to nowadays - the resentful welling inside, born of so many years of not minding or complaining, of being patient, of making do and hiding one’s feelings and counting one’s blessings . . . Not to mention being pregnant from one stupid little mistake. ‘It’s not fair,’ she repeated, out loud. ‘It isn’t bloody
fair
!’
fair
!’
‘Mrs Stratton?’
Turning, she saw her neighbour’s head appear above the fence and hoped that Mrs Nairn, who had a bleating voice that reminded her of Larry the Lamb, hadn’t heard her swear. It seemed not, as Mrs Nairn’s face was wearing its usual bland expression. ‘Got a parcel from Bill’s sister in America.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘Spam, corned beef, nylons, everything.’
‘Ooh, lovely.’ Not for the first time, Jenny wished that she or Ted had relatives living in the States. Ted’s surviving brother occasionally sent food packages from the family farm in Devon, but that was hardly the same. Nylons . . . She just hoped she didn’t look as envious as she felt.
‘I could let you have a tin of Spam in exchange for some eggs,’ said Mrs Nairn. ‘Bill’s home on leave tomorrow, and I want to make a cake.’
‘Ooh, yes,’ said Jenny, eagerness replacing jealousy. ‘If you’re sure. Take these.’ She passed the bowl across. ‘Fresh this morning.’
Mrs Nairn dug into her apron pocket and produced the tin. ‘There you are.’
‘Thank you, dear. Tell Bill to give us a knock, won’t you? I know Ted would love to see him.’
Mrs Nairn disappeared, and Jenny stood in the sunshine, turning the tin over in her hands. Spam was Pete’s favourite . . . Something - the brightly coloured wrapper, perhaps - made her remember a seaside holiday they’d had before the war. Monica and Pete at the fair, grinning and waving as they bobbed up and down on the proud but shabby horses of the merry-go-round . . .
It was nice to think about the happy times. Even poor Mr Ingram had kept that holiday photograph . . . The photograph! If Mrs Ingram saw that, perhaps she’d be convinced. Presumably, unless Mr Ingram had others, it was the only one left after the bombing - the only actual, physical, pictorial evidence. If Mrs Ingram were to see it, to be able to compare it to the man himself . . . Perhaps they should have a tea party. The only problem was that Mr Ingram, who’d disappeared so abruptly from the pub - thanks to her idiot brother-in-law - appeared to have vanished. No-one had come asking for him, but Ted said there were lots of deserters, so maybe they didn’t have time to go chasing after all of them . . . If only Mr Ingram would ring up Doris, she thought. They could arrange a tea party, and, if Mrs Ingram could be persuaded to stay downstairs for long enough, she could see the photograph and it would all come back - the jokes, the intimate things.
She’d nip down to Doris’s later and suggest it. Donald was now agitating for Mrs Ingram to be taken to Friern Barnet. Dr Makepeace hadn’t mentioned the subject, but it was only a matter of time before Donald ran out of patience and broached it with him. Doris refused to discuss it, and, Jenny, knowing she was thinking of Aunt Ivy, had backed her up: once they had you in a place like that, the only way you got out was in a box. Ted was so preoccupied with his work that she hadn’t liked to bother him . . . Besides, she didn’t see there was much point: he and Donald would certainly have discussed the matter, so, if pressed, he would undoubtedly be on his brother-in-law’s side.
The other thing was that she felt cut off from Ted at the moment. Not only because of his work, but because of the pregnancy. There was no point going to see Dr Makepeace about it yet, and she didn’t want to tell Ted until she was certain, not just ‘possible’ or ‘probable’ or whatever it was they said. With Monica, and then Pete, she’d told him as soon as she knew and he’d been delighted, but this was different. It wasn’t what they’d agreed - and it certainly wasn’t what they wanted. Jenny crossed her fingers. She’d give it a few more days, yet. There was a slim chance, even now . . .
Ridiculous how a tin of Spam could make you feel that bit more optimistic. She turned her face up to the sun, enjoying the warmth. Even if she were pregnant, perhaps Ted wouldn’t mind as much as she thought. After all, he did like children - he’d always been good with the kids, even when they were babies, which was more than you could say for some men. In any case, a trouble shared . . . Perhaps she ought to mention it to him after all. ‘Enjoy the sunshine, ladies,’ she murmured to the hens, and went back indoors with a spring in her step.
Twenty-Nine
D
acre gasped, turned on his heel and, opening the first door he came to, stepped inside and closed it behind him. Pitch darkness - a cupboard of some sort, he thought. Heart thudding inside his chest, he stood stock still for a moment and then, hearing no shouts of recognition or banging on the door, stuck out his hands and encountered a splintery wooden thicket of broom and mop handles. As long as none of the ward maids decided this was the moment to fetch a scrubbing brush, he ought to be safe enough. Blood pounding in his ears and soaked in perspiration, he trembled in the carbolic-scented blackness, his mind racing. Higgs couldn’t be after him, or he’d know by now. Besides, the man had no idea he was still in the hospital, so, not expecting to see him, wouldn’t have recognised him, clean shaven and with black hair . . . What the hell had he been doing in the corridor? The only time mortuary staff came upstairs was to the laboratory, and there was a separate staircase for that.
acre gasped, turned on his heel and, opening the first door he came to, stepped inside and closed it behind him. Pitch darkness - a cupboard of some sort, he thought. Heart thudding inside his chest, he stood stock still for a moment and then, hearing no shouts of recognition or banging on the door, stuck out his hands and encountered a splintery wooden thicket of broom and mop handles. As long as none of the ward maids decided this was the moment to fetch a scrubbing brush, he ought to be safe enough. Blood pounding in his ears and soaked in perspiration, he trembled in the carbolic-scented blackness, his mind racing. Higgs couldn’t be after him, or he’d know by now. Besides, the man had no idea he was still in the hospital, so, not expecting to see him, wouldn’t have recognised him, clean shaven and with black hair . . . What the hell had he been doing in the corridor? The only time mortuary staff came upstairs was to the laboratory, and there was a separate staircase for that.
Perhaps he’d been delivering a message. Perhaps . . . for Christ’s sake, Dacre told himself, it doesn’t matter. Moving gingerly, so as not to disturb the cloths and boxes of soap, he pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. All the same, if Higgs - or, God forbid, Dr Byrne - had started making a habit of wandering about, he’d have to be on his guard.
As he shoved the handkerchief back into his pocket, his fingers touched something small and hard. It took him a moment to remember what it was: one of the phials of morphine. Why had he taken them? Habit, yes - he’d always made a point of picking up anything that looked as though it might be useful. Anything else? That, he thought, was better not examined. The thing was, always to be prepared. He hoped Fay wasn’t getting into trouble over it. Still, he’d make it up to her this evening. Their first date . . . It struck him, then, with a pang of sadness, that Fay would only - could only - ever know him as James Dacre. That was who she would love. He could never make a clean breast of things - not only would she despise him, she’d probably go to the police. Getting close to anybody was a risk, but this was definitely one worth taking. Remembering the conversation about Wemyss’s suite at the Clarendon, he decided to see if he could purloin the key for use later. Asking Wemyss, at this stage, would be presumptuous. Besides, the man might have qualms about lending it to someone married, and, more importantly, he didn’t want anyone to know about his plans for Fay. Wemyss would be bound to tell somebody, and gossip spread around like wildfire. It occurred to him then that if Fay had mentioned their drink to anyone - unlikely, as that sort of thing was frowned upon, but not impossible - she may have already learnt about his ‘marriage’. Dacre frowned. That could prove awkward. There was no point in making plans for dealing with it - he’d have to play it by ear.
Wemyss had said he kept the key ‘handy’, so presumably it was in his jacket pocket - that would be easy enough to extract in the doctors’ mess. And he’d also asked Dacre to keep quiet about its existence, which meant Fay would not know about it, and he could pass it off as his own - better and better . . .
He needed to get moving. Surely Higgs would be gone by now? He took his hand out of his pocket and began, very slowly, to count to one hundred. When he reached ninety-nine, he pushed the cupboard door open a cautious three inches and looked out: coast clear. He took several deep breaths and, stepping back into the corridor, resumed a leisurely pace back to Casualty.
After his fright at seeing Higgs, the rest of Dacre’s day had not - apart from a sticky moment when he’d failed to spot a fractured fibula - been too bad, and he was very - very, very - much looking forward to his drink with Fay. Perhaps, he thought, it would be more than just a drink . . . Normally, he wouldn’t consider proposing a hotel room to a nice girl, which Fay undoubtedly was, but, as she belonged to him, then the sooner he enjoyed her the better it would be for both of them. Sliding the hotel room key out of Wemyss’s jacket pocket had been the work of a second. He held on to it tightly as he hurried back to Eversholt Street to smarten himself up: in view of the possibility of the Clarendon, he’d better put on a clean shirt and take a brush to his suit.
From the moment Fay had walked up to him outside the hospital’s main gate, he’d known, somehow, that it was going to be fine. He’d arrived early on purpose, so that she wouldn’t have to wait about and risk trouble if she was seen by the matron, and her gratitude for this put them on a good footing immediately. She’d looked even better with her hair down, and she’d obviously dressed up, because she wearing a smart coat, high heels and lipstick.
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