Authors: Peter Robinson
Before the Poison (32 page)
I just stared at her, speechless.
She stared back. I couldn’t read her expression. ‘Come on, Chris,’ she said. ‘Don’t act so surprised. You must have known it was on the cards?’
‘I might have had the impression that things weren’t going too well,’ I said, ‘after Bonfire Night. But . . . What are you going to do?’
‘One of the perks of being in the estate agent business. I’ve picked up a sublet on a nice little flat in the Convent development down on the Reeth Road. That’s why I’m so late tonight. Been wheeling and dealing. Very fitting, don’t you think? Me in a convent.’
I laughed. ‘Very.’
‘I suppose this puts an end to any interest you might have had in me?’ she said, one eyebrow raised.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, don’t be so thick. It doesn’t suit you. It’s one thing flirting or having a fling with a married woman, and the way things were going, we might well have done that. But a single woman? Doesn’t that reek too much of entrapment, commitment?’
‘You’re far too cynical for one so young,’ I said.
‘I’m not that young. I’m forty-five.’
‘That still makes you fifteen years younger than me.’
‘Just think. When you were a thirty-year-old whizz-kid taking Hollywood by storm, I was a gawky fifteen-year-old schoolgirl with freckles, glasses and ginger hair madly in love with Geoff Johnson, who didn’t even notice my existence. You wouldn’t have fancied me at all then.’
I couldn’t help but laugh. ‘I should hope not. But look how far you’ve come since those days.’
She sat silently for a moment, then wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands, smearing a little mascara. She stared down at the table when the girl delivered my fish pie, then excused herself and went to the Ladies. While she was away, I thought about the implications of what she had said. She was wrong in saying that her separating from her husband would cause her to lose her appeal to me. Just the opposite, really. I had been resisting an affair, not strictly on moral grounds, but because they are, in my experience, messy, disappointing and ultimately painful to some, or all, concerned. Though I had never been unfaithful to Laura, I had had a brief fling with a married woman before we met, and it had ended badly and messily. If Heather were free, it would be another matter. But I wasn’t going to tell her that. Not before she’d made the move, at any rate, no more than I was going to offer to help her move – and it wasn’t for lack of gallantry or willingness. I didn’t want to appear to influence or encourage her in any way. Not that I had up to now, but people don’t always see things in the same light. I had learned that long before I encountered Heather, Charlotte or the Grace Fox case.
When Heather came back, she was composed. She also had another drink in her hand. ‘I hope you’re not driving,’ I said.
‘Walking up the hill.’
‘Sure you don’t want anything to eat?’
She reached for my fork and helped herself to some fish pie. ‘No,’ she said, when she’d finished it. ‘That’s enough for me.’ She pushed her drink away. ‘I don’t even want this, either, truth be told. I thought it would be a good idea to get drunk, but . . .’
‘When did you and Derek make this decision?’
‘It’s been brewing for a long time. You may or may not know it, but we separated once before. Anyway, it all came to a head again on the night of your dinner party.’
‘That’s why you were so . . .?’
‘Pissed and at each other’s throats?’
‘Well, not quite that, but I did notice some tension.’
‘You’re so kind, Chris, but we were awful.’
‘And between now and then?’
‘Fights, excuses, evasions, recriminations. Last night he finally came out with it. He’s got another woman, and he wants to start a new life with her. Which is exactly what I suspected.’
I almost choked on my beer. ‘Derek?’
‘Why not? Don’t look so surprised. Still waters run deep and all that. Besides, he’s an attractive man in his way. Was when I married him, anyway. A lot more fun, too.’ She sighed. ‘All the joy’s gone out of it, Chris. All the passion. All the laughter. It’s someone from work. She’s only thirty-two.
Bitch
.’ Heather dabbed her eyes again, then patted my arm. ‘Sorry for unloading all this on you. I couldn’t think of anyone else I wanted to talk to.’
‘That’s all right,’ I said. I noticed she had left her hand resting on my arm. ‘When do you move in?’
‘Whenever I want. The flat’s empty right now, owner’s abroad, key’s in the office. Maybe tonight or first thing tomorrow. I find these things don’t get any better for being dragged out. To be honest, I don’t think I can stand the bloody sight of him any more. I’m afraid if I stay any longer I’ll murder the bastard.’
‘I’m sorry, Heather.’
She moved her hand. ‘Don’t be. I’m not. It’s time for a fresh start. I’m looking forward to it. Want to help me shop for furniture, put together a few things from Ikea? Only joking.’
‘No, but you can come for Christmas dinner, if you want.’ I told her about my phone calls, and then I went on to tell her about Louise King’s visit. She seemed interested, but was distracted, naturally, and when we had exhausted that, she said she had to go. She wouldn’t accept a lift, said she needed the exercise, so I gave her a light peck and a hug and she was gone. I sat for a while over another half of Tetley’s Cask, then I headed back to Kilnsgate House and
A Kind of Loving
.
17
Extract from the journal of Grace Elizabeth Fox (ed. Louise King), January–February, 1942. Singapore
Sunday, 1st February, 1942
We just heard that the last of our troops, the remains of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, retreated across the Johor causeway and blew it up behind them. Witnesses say there are only about ninety men left out of over eight hundred. The Japanese have set up their heavy artillery directly across the Straits. There are rumours that the Tan Tock civilian hospital was the first place to be hit. More frightening stories about the Japanese atrocities against sisters and medical staff in Hong Kong appear daily. We understand that those who survived are now in prison camps, and I can only hope that Kathleen, Doris and Stephen are among them. We are all feeling very frightened lest we meet the same fate, but we have to carry on with our work as long as there are patients to care for.
Wednesday, 4th February, 1942
We try to keep our spirits up with visits to the cinema and dances at Raffles Hotel, but it is difficult. Everyone still maintains that we can survive a siege. They argue that Tobruk held out for seven months with almost nothing, and we have two good reservoirs and lots of food. I am not sure that I can endure seven more months of this. We have started a ‘dig for victory’ campaign, though I can hardly see us planting sprouts and spuds in this climate!
Friday, 6th February, 1942
The casualties keep pouring in, and the injuries get worse, mostly burns and gangrene. Some of the boys have been blinded by fire, and many have lost limbs. Sometimes there is nothing you can do but mop their brows with a cold cloth and mutter endearments as they beg for their mothers and die slowly in agony. We can hardly keep up with the casualties, and we work such long hours we are dead on our feet most of the time. Every day now the Japanese bomb us. Sometimes we have to operate in candle and lantern light because the power fails.
Monday, 9th February, 1942
Yesterday we managed to get four more ships of women and children away. Not long after they sailed, we had the worst bombardment ever. The earth was shaking fit to break in pieces, and I thought the world was coming to an end. The explosions were so loud and frightening that I crouched in a corner with my hands over my ears until Matron came and told me to pull myself together. She is right. There is no use in falling apart now, not when we are most needed. The wounded are flowing in, and the ones who can speak all tell us that the Japanese have rebuilt the causeway and crossed the Straits of Johor. They have landed on our north-west coast and are on their way to the city. It seems funny, but I remember the Straits as a peaceful place, near the reservoir, where we used to go for picnics when the weather was bearable enough, and look out on Malaya across the water. It was so romantic, especially in the twilight.
Last night, the Navy set fire to the dockyards and abandoned them. I could not believe the clouds of thick black smoke that rose from the burning oil reserves. There are still hundreds of nurses left on the island, and I do not think there are any more ships for us. General Percival promises that he will not allow one nurse to fall into enemy hands, but I do not know what he can do to stop it. I do not know what will become of us. We work until we drop. It is all we can do. We are at full capacity now. All the hospitals are. The bombs fall, the bullets ricochet, the shells burst, and we change dressings, give transfusions, assist in surgery, then, when we can no longer stand up, we sleep for a few short hours, if we can sleep through the noise. Then we start all over again. Some nights Brenda and I huddle together for comfort on our mattresses on the NAAFI floor, despite the heat. At least the Alexandra Hospital has not been hit yet. The Indian General at Tyersall was bombed today, with two hundred patients and staff killed.
Tuesday, 10th February, 1942
Today I heard rifle fire in the distance. They are very close now. Even the RAF has abandoned us. The last squadron left this morning for Sumatra. There was nothing they could do against the modern Japanese planes, as they had not much more than obsolete Wildebeests to fight back with. We carry on. The floors and staircases are sticky with blood, but we have no time to clean them. All the servants have gone, so we have to do everything else ourselves now in addition to our nursing duties, cook the food, wash the bedsheets, scrub the floors. We evacuated twenty civilian nurses, V.A.D.s and over three hundred casualties on the
Wu Sueh
for Java, so now even our little hospital ship has deserted us.
Wednesday, 11th February, 1942
More gunfire, even closer now. Snipers are a big problem, and three orderlies have been killed here already. We have to be very careful whenever we go outside, or even stand by a window. Matron gathered us together this morning and asked for volunteers to leave on the
Empire Star
tonight, but nobody volunteered. We do not want to leave our patients, and we know that if we leave, we might never see our friends again.
Matron then chose names at random. Brenda’s and mine were not among them, but half the sisters left. Last night, I sat up late with a young private from the Norfolk Regiment. He had no sooner got off the troopship than he found himself in the jungle fighting the Japanese. He never stood a chance. There was nothing we could do for him. He had lost both legs and the gangrene was too advanced. He had a high fever, and in his hallucinations, he believed I was his mother. He would not let go of my hand. All I could do was mop his brow with a damp cloth, tell him I loved him and that he was going to be all right, though I knew that he was not. He died in my arms at five o’clock in the morning, and tired as I was, I could not get to sleep for crying. I truly felt as if I had lost my own son.
Thursday, 12th February, 1942
The authorities here have assembled a fleet of eighty vessels at the abandoned Naval Dockyard. The Australian nurses left today on the
Vyner Brooke
. It was another sad farewell. The Japanese are getting closer. We must be next.
December 2010
The drive to Staithes the following morning was pleasant enough. At one point, I saw a sign for Saltburn and almost took the turning, but I didn’t think I would be able to learn anything there. Saltburn was where Grace Fox, or Grace Hartnell, as she was then known, had grown up, and that was one reason why I thought a quick look around the place might be interesting. But Grace had left Saltburn in the thirties, so it was highly unlikely that there was anyone left who remembered her, or if there was, that I could find them. Grace had lived the last half of her short life at Kilnsgate. So I continued on to Staithes for my appointment with Louise King. My excitement at the thought of reading Grace’s journal had been mounting over the last couple of days, and I had been only slightly distracted by Heather’s problems and my plans for Christmas.
Though the landscape was bleak and sere for the most part, it was an unusually sunny day for December in Yorkshire, and when the coast came into view near Boulby, below the high cliffs to my left, I could almost imagine it was a summer’s day. The choppy water was bluish-grey, dotted with whitecaps and long curving lines of breaking waves. A couple of tankers sailed out on the horizon, and six fluffy clouds rode almost in formation overhead on the stiff breeze like giant white chariots.
As Louise had given me directions while I drove her to her car in Richmond market square the other evening, I left the Volvo in the car park at the top of the hill and started to walk down. It was very steep, with magnificent views of the bay, the seascape and the cliffs, and I didn’t relish the climb back up. The sun belied how cold it actually was, mostly thanks to the strong winds off the North Sea, and I was glad I had brought the fleece-lined winter jacket I had picked up at Yorkshire Trading.
It was around half past eleven when I turned down the snicket Louise had told me about between the jeweller’s and the baker’s. The cottage was at the far end of the short narrow passage. Louise answered my knock and asked me in. I had to stoop to avoid banging my head on the lintel. I found myself in a small living room, very cosy, with a low ceiling and French windows leading out to a small patio. A table and two chairs stood outside, but I doubted that anyone would be sitting on them until spring. The view was stunning, across the harbour to the lifeboat station, and out to sea. But that was not what I had come for.
On the low table in front of the sofa lay strewn an array of objects that I took to be Grace’s legacy. I could hardly contain the excitement I felt, and it made me vaguely ashamed of myself for letting Grace Fox become such an obsession. Here I was, like a gourmet in front of his meal, or an alcoholic in front of a bottle, barely able to wait for permission to tuck in.