No Wings to Fly (33 page)

On her return home she found Dora there, having just come back from school. It had been over a year since the two had last met and Lily could see a change in her young half-sister. Dora was eight years old now. She had grown considerably taller and was becoming very attractive, with a bright smile and a warm, easy nature. After she and Lily had greeted one another they sat side by side on the settee where Lily asked Dora about her progress at school and told a little of her own life during the time they had been apart. Of Lily’s situation with the birth of her son, nothing of course was said, and she realised that Dora knew nothing of it.

Later, at the bidding of her stepmother, Dora went upstairs to see her father and spend a few minutes at his bedside. While the girl was gone, Mrs Clair, having set the table ready for the evening meal, got out her mending basket and sat with it beside the range. Lily sat in the chair opposite, her father’s chair, taking some of the mending into her own hands, and the two women faced one another before the fire, their needles moving and glinting in the light from the lamps. Neither spoke. It was only when Dora came back into the room that the silence was broken.

After the meal was consumed – with none of the three exhibiting much appetite – Mrs Clair went upstairs to sit with her husband, while Lily and Dora remained below and cleared the table and washed the dishes. Later, after Mrs Clair had come back downstairs, Lily went up to the bedroom, taking some of the mending work with her.
The room was lit by two softly glowing lamps, one on the chest beside the bed, and the other on a table near the window. The curtains had been closed against the night.

She sat down in the chair next to the bed, looking down at the sleeping man, and she could see that his pain was not that far below the surface. Occasionally his breath faltered, hitching for the briefest moment, and he would wince slightly before he sank back into his slumber. Apart from his harsh breathing, hardly a sound broke the quiet.

That night, as in days past, Lily slept in the same bed as Dora. Dora, who had gone up to the bedroom earlier, was sound asleep when Lily crept in. Lily had agreed with her stepmother that they would share the vigil over the sick man, and in the early hours of the morning she was awakened by a touch on her shoulder and opened her eyes to see her stepmother standing at the bedside, an old coat over her nightdress. A lighted candle had been placed on the chair. As gently as possible, Lily climbed out of bed, while in the same moment her stepmother took off the coat. Lily took it from her and slipped it on over her nightdress. ‘How is he?’ she whispered.

‘I gave him his drops earlier and he’s sleeping again now,’ Mrs Clair replied. ‘He should be all right for a while.’

‘What time is it?’

‘Two o’clock.’ Mrs Clair sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off a pair of men’s woollen stockings. She held them up to Lily. ‘Here – put these on. It’s not so warm in there – they’ll keep you a bit more comfortable.’

As Lily pulled on the stockings, Mrs Clair climbed into the bed. Dora, momentarily disturbed by the movement, muttered in her sleep and moved her head on the pillow. Mrs Clair laid a soothing hand on the girl’s shoulder. ‘It’s all right, my dear,’ she murmured. ‘Go back to sleep now.
Your mama’s here.’ She turned back to Lily. ‘Wake me at six o’clock.’

Lily, the lighted candle in her hand, silently crossed the narrow landing to her parents’ room where her father lay in his morphine-induced sleep. No movement came from the figure in the bed. Only one lamp was burning now. She blew out the candle and set it down on the chest then settled back into the old armchair and pulled over her body the warm rug that her stepmother had left. Lifting her stockinged feet, she tucked them under her in the chair and leant her head against the wing.

The minutes and the hours crept by. Later, she looked at her father’s watch and saw that it was after six o’clock, well after the hour at which her stepmother had asked to be wakened. Her father was still sleeping soundly. She sat back in the chair and adjusted the rug, necessary against the chill morning air. She would let her stepmother sleep on; with all she had to deal with she must be in need of her rest and a little oblivion.

Over the rest of the day Lily and her stepmother took turns in watching over the sick man. Dr Helligan called late in the morning, but could offer no comfort. As the day wore on Lily kept hoping that Tom might appear, for surely he would have received her letter that morning. There was no sign of him, though.

She slept beside Dora again that night, taking turns with her stepmother in sitting at her father’s bedside. After breakfast, Dora went off to school, leaving her mother and Lily working in the house and watching over the sick man. He was in much greater discomfort this morning, and Mrs Clair had had to give him his drops earlier than usual. Even so, when the doctor appeared just after eleven, the effects of the drug were wearing off and Mr Clair was twitching and grimacing with the growing pain.

Dr Helligan took from his bag a hypodermic syringe. Neither Lily nor her stepmother had seen such an instrument before, and they watched, wincing, as the doctor rolled up Mr Clair’s sleeve and injected his upper arm. As the doctor pulled the patient’s sleeve down again, he turned to Mrs Clair and said quietly:

‘He won’t have any pain now. This is so much more effective than the drops.’ He looked back down at the dying man. ‘I’m afraid it’s not going to be very long now. His organs are just – just shutting down. The best we can do is try to keep him free of pain.’

After the doctor had gone, Lily and Mrs Clair remained standing at the bedside. Mr Clair was breathing more and more deeply, giving out a harsh, sonorous sound, his body unmoving beneath the covers. There was a difference now in the quality of his insensitivity. Whereas before he had appeared at times to be merely sleeping, now he seemed to be in the very deepest stupor.

Just before eight-thirty that evening Lily sat alone at the bedside while her stepmother went down to the kitchen to fetch some water. Dora was already in bed. All day Lily had hoped that Tom would come, but still he had not, and now she knew that any appearance by him would be too late, for her father would never be conscious again, would never wake to recognise a familiar face.

As she sat there she became aware that her father’s breathing had grown even louder, sounding more laboured, alarmingly harsh and stertorous. He lay with his mouth slightly open, his head a little on one side, and as she gazed at him the sound of his breathing changed again, his harsh indrawn breaths beginning to bubble like liquid in his lungs. Suddenly his body convulsed and his eyes opened wide as his head twitched and turned to the side. Lily rose up and bent to him, and as she did so his mouth opened and a stream of dark brown bile poured out over
his lips and ran down his chin. She realised that the room had become suddenly silent. His breathing had ceased. Looking into his face she saw that his eyes were dull and the spark of life had gone.

Eight days later, the church clock was striking eleven, and Lily stood with hands clasped at her waist as the coffin was lowered into the earth. She wore a heavy black cloak that she had borrowed from her stepmother and her hat had been trimmed with black crêpe. The day was bleak and grey and cold, with a dampness in the air that clung to the evergreen leaves of the yew that spread its branches over the wet grass. Her stepmother stood next to Lily at the graveside with head bowed, her broad-brimmed hat and dark veil obscuring her face. There were few other mourners, just three neighbours from the lane – an old man and two middle-aged women – and a stranger: a man who had worked with Mr Clair at the factory. The Clairs had tended to keep to themselves over the years, not encouraging any casual closeness with those living nearby; consequently there were few who felt it incumbent upon them to mark Mr Clair’s passing with any show of grieving respect on such an unwelcoming day.

The vicar, coming to the end of his piece, closed his book and, after a moment of respectful silence, stepped back a pace. The ceremony was over. Turning to Mrs Clair he murmured some final words of commiseration, and she thanked him and then turned to Lily, remarking that they had better start back.

On the way to the church Lily and her stepmother had followed the hearse in a carriage hired from a local man, but such a convenience was eschewed for the return journey.
Expenses had to be watched out for, Mrs Clair had said, and they would make their own way home. And so they did, walking side by side through the dreary lanes until they reached the house. There they were greeted by Dora and Mrs McKinner, the neighbour who had come in to keep an eye on the child and also help put out the ale and coffee and bread and ham that the mourners – albeit there were few of them – would expect.

For Lily the next hour passed in a blur, but at last the neighbours had all gone, and she and her stepmother and Dora were left alone. Together they cleared away the few remaining bits of food, and washed the china and glass. When everything was back in its usual order the two women turned to their mending while Dora took a story book and sat before the range.

The hours in the house passed slowly. The lamps were lighted as dusk fell, and the curtains were drawn against the coming night. At six they ate a light supper, and afterwards Lily and Mrs Clair once more turned to their mending, while Dora took up a piece of sewing of her own.

Lily found a certain comfort in the banal process of working with her darning needle, for as time had passed she had become aware of an atmosphere in the room. It was not connected with the family’s grief, but something else. It had nothing to do with Dora, but came solely from Mrs Clair, and Lily saw it in a dozen little instances of coolness in manner towards her, of short replies and a marked flintiness in the tone of voice. The faint little show of warmth that had met her on her arrival at the house had quite gone. Lily could not pinpoint a time when the new coldness had begun, nor could she understand why it should be. She was puzzled. Perhaps with someone other she would have asked what the matter was, but she had never in her life entered into any kind of conversation or discussion with her stepmother, and now was not the time
to attempt to do so. As she sat there she became further aware that they were so far apart that even in their common grief they could not comfort one another.

The long-case clock ticked on in the quiet. Soon after seven Dora put down the piece of linen she was stitching, kissed her mother on the cheek, and went up to bed. With her departure the strained atmosphere in the room was even more marked.

The time dragged on. Lily, sitting at the table with the darning, felt that she had reached some kind of watershed, some kind of finale as she realised that her ties to her former home had been almost severed. Her father was dead and buried in his grave, and tomorrow she must set off to return to Sherrell.

To her deep disappointment and puzzlement there had still been not a single word from Tom. She had written to him again immediately following their father’s death, informing him of their loss, but even this news had brought no response. She had also written to Miss Elsie, telling of her father’s demise and saying that she would be returning on Saturday, the day after the funeral. Miss Elsie had written back at once, offering her condolences.

‘Well . . .’ Her stepmother’s voice came into the hush, ‘it’s time I went to bed. I’ve been up since half-past-five this morning, and I’m very tired.’

Lily glanced at the clock. It was after nine-thirty. ‘Yes, you go to bed, Mother,’ she said. ‘I’ll see to the lamps and the fire.’

Mrs Clair put aside her mending, rose and crossed to the hall door. ‘Then I’ll wish you good night.’ There was no warmth in her tone. Without waiting for a reply from Lily she went, closing the door behind her.

In the silence the click of the door catch seemed to hang in the room. Lily continued to sit there. She too had been up since the early hours, but she felt far from sleepy. There was
a tension in her whole body that denied any idea of sleep.

From over her head came the faint sound of movement as her stepmother prepared for her solitary night in her bed alone. From outside came the hoot of an owl, its sound to Lily strangely comforting and familiar. She continued with the darning. She too would go to bed in a while, as soon as she had finished mending the stocking in her hands.

It was almost done. As she put in the final stitch the thought came to her: what was the point in mending it? Her father would never wear it again. No matter. She snipped off the woollen thread, and reached for her stepmother’s sewing box where it stood on the table a foot away. The top of the box held a compartment for thimbles and needles and pins and other sewing implements. She put the scissors in one of the trays, and then lifted the tray out. She knew what she would find underneath – a little collection of her stepmother’s odds and ends: trinkets and two or three discoloured old photographs, and a few papers that she had kept over the years. She laid the tray down on the tablecloth and looked into the well of the box. There was a bill there from a glover and beneath that a cracked photograph of Dora as a very small child. Idly, Lily took out the sepia-toned picture and looked at the faded image with a fleeting interest, and then went to put it back. As she did so, she saw what had been lying underneath it.

For a moment or two she just sat there, looking down at the envelope. It seemed to fill up the whole scope of her vision. Then she put in her hand and picked it up. Tom’s round, carefully-formed handwriting was so familiar to her that she could not possibly mistake it for that of any other person. Then she saw to her greater surprise that there was another, similar-looking envelope lying in the box. She took that out also, and laid the two envelopes side by side on the table before her.

They were letters from Tom. Two letters from Tom, and
each addressed to Mr and Mrs Edwin Clair. On the second she could see a postmarked date: 18 September, 1867.

She sat looking at the two envelopes, both of which had been opened. And the moments went by while the clock ticked into the silence, sounding suddenly loud in the quiet of the room.