Swansea Summer (18 page)

‘Helen!’ His voice grew harsher. She could hear him, feel him tapping her hand but, strangely distanced from the whole proceedings, she could neither respond nor stop herself from sliding effortlessly downwards through thick grey swirling waters to a blissfully pain-free place where she could truly rest and nothing mattered – not even Jack.

Chapter Ten

‘I took the liberty of asking the station master in Neath to call for an ambulance to meet us in Swansea, sir.’

Jack nodded dumbly, his attention fixed on Helen. As she’d fainted a pinched look had settled around her nose and mouth, reminding him of his mother the last time he had seen her, battered and too weak to fight for life in Swansea Hospital. As a child he’d been convinced that he would never love any woman as much as he loved his mother. She’d cared for him and done everything in her power to protect him from his father, and the fact that she had tried far outweighed his pain on the frequent occasions when she hadn’t succeeded.

He rubbed Helen’s hand vigorously and stared intently into her face, willing her to open her eyes, but she remained comatose. He loved Helen every bit as much as he had loved his mother but in a different, more intense way and he couldn’t endure the thought of losing her too. It was his fault Helen was ill. It had to be. All the stupid things he’d done: thieving; fighting; hurting people; making love to her – his love was a curse that killed …

‘We’ll be in Swansea in five minutes, sir.’

‘She’s cold. Very cold.’ Jack continued to rub Helen’s hand. ‘You are sure there’s no doctor or nurse on this train?’

‘Quite sure, sir. We’ve asked in all the carriages.’ The guard laid a reassuring hand on Jack’s shoulder. ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes. I’m just going to check that all the arrangements to get her off the train run smoothly.’

Jack didn’t even realise the man had left. All he could think of, all he could repeat in his mind, was, ‘Please God, don’t let her die. Please God, don’t let her die.’ Because if she did, he simply wouldn’t be able to bear it.

Joe took the glass of punch one of his fellow students had ladled out for him and walked out of the French windows of the Head of the University’s English Department’s bungalow into his small but immaculate garden. It was laid out like a thousand others, a path and washing line stretched from one end to the other, flanked by two squares of lawn edged by daffodils meticulously planted at four-inch intervals. He turned and glanced back through the windows after he had crossed the lawn. The house was packed with students, all, including Robin, on their best behaviour, sipping punch, nibbling twiglets and cheese biscuits, and making polite, meaningless conversation. He invariably felt at his loneliest and most isolated in a crowd and would have been happier indulging in a solitary walk along the beach but when a student was invited to attend one of Mr Edwards’s soirees they refused at their peril. Believing that he was developing the social skills his undergraduates would need when they left the rarefied atmosphere of the college for the wider world, it had never occurred to Huw Edwards that some of his young guests might not think his cider cup and sparse refreshments the height of sophistication.

‘Bored, Joseph?’ His tutor, Hilary Llewellyn, joined him.

‘Just taking a quiet moment to admire the garden.’

‘I didn’t know you were a horticulturist.’ She gazed at the daffodils. ‘Do you think Huw uses a ruler when he sets out his bulbs?’

Uncertain whether she was joking or not, he looked her in the eye and she smiled.

‘Do me a favour, turn your back to the house.’ As he did, she stepped in front of him and tipped the contents of her glass on to the daffodils. ‘Thank you, I only hope it doesn’t kill them.’

‘I had no idea lecturers felt press-ganged too.’

‘Swift demotion for all non-attendees,’ she replied. ‘By the way, that last piece of work you did on Thomas Hardy was excellent. Another straight A to add to your collection. You do know the hopes of the entire department are pinned on you to get a first.’

‘I hope I live up to your expectations.’

‘Don’t try being modest; it doesn’t become you. Do you have a cigarette you can spare? I’ve run out.’

‘Of course.’ He pulled the gold cigarette case his grandmother had given him for his twenty-first birthday from his inside pocket and flicked it open. Hilary Llewellyn was about the same age as his mother but she couldn’t have been more different. She dressed as if she didn’t give a damn about clothes, usually in shapeless black skirts and sweaters and coloured stockings, and he had never seen her without the large pair of men’s horn-rimmed spectacles that had a habit of slipping to the end of her nose. Her fingernails were clipped short and remained unpolished, and she wore her hair scraped into a tight knot that emphasised her sharp, angular features. The first time he’d seen her tall figure striding into a lecture theatre he’d thought her intimidating, but in the three years she’d lectured him and the year she’d been his personal tutor he’d discovered a kindness behind her innate professionalism. She alone in the English Department had the knack of being friendly with her students without being overfamiliar. She treated everyone the same, student or fellow lecturer, as though they were her equals, and unlike some her colleagues never tried to conceal her passionate support for a Socialism that bordered on Communism.

As she never mentioned the time before she had lectured in the university, nor discussed her personal life, all sorts of rumours circulated about her. That she’d been a secret agent during the war; that she’d lost all her immediate family in some ghastly tragedy; that she wrote steamy novels under a pseudonym and was a passionate advocate of free love – although no one had ever actually seen her with a man who wasn’t a colleague or student.

‘I needed that.’ Throwing her head back, she blew smoke upwards at the darkening sky. ‘Any parts of the course you’re not confident with?’ she asked briskly.

‘None. Apart from …’ He hesitated.

‘The Brontës?’ she supplied.

‘It’s obvious?’

‘Only because of the look on your face when I gave you a B for your essay on
Wuthering Heights.’

‘It’s still the only B I’ve ever had.’

‘You deserved it for underrating female writers. No one can excel at everything and some’ – she shook her head at Robin as he strolled out to join them – ‘like our Mr Watkin Morgan here, excel at nothing.’

‘It’s a practised art, Miss Llewellyn,’ Robin replied nonchalantly.

‘You may practise it but I wouldn’t call it an art.’ She lifted her empty glass. ‘“Once more unto the breach …” Much as I enjoy your company, I’d better return before Mr Edwards notices my absence. The revenge of a department head can be mean-spirited and time-consuming.’

‘Leave her to us now, son.’

‘I’m going with her.’

‘Not in my ambulance, you’re not. Now, stand back and let us do our job.’ Concerned only for the welfare of their patient, neither the ambulance driver nor his mate had time to spare for Jack.

‘She is my wife.’

‘I don’t care if she’s the Queen of Sheba, son. There’s no passengers travelling in this ambulance.’

The guard who’d arranged for the ambulance to meet the train took pity as the driver pushed Jack aside and asked, ‘Where are you taking her?’

‘Swansea General.’

He touched Jack’s arm. ‘I’ll get a taxi for you, sir. You’ll be there before her. Do you have enough money …’

‘Money … yes.’ Jack looked around in confusion as the driver and his mate lifted the stretcher Helen was lying on into the ambulance. ‘But I haven’t got Helen’s luggage …’

‘Don’t you worry, sir. I’ll check your cases into Left Luggage and bring the tickets to the hospital.’ The guard whistled at the row of waiting taxicabs. Opening the door as the first in the queue pulled up alongside them, he pushed Jack into the back seat. ‘Swansea Hospital and see if you can get there when that ambulance does.’

‘Thank you for a most entertaining evening, sir.’ Robin shook Mr Edwards’s hand vigorously as he backed out through the door.

‘Such a shame you and Mr Griffiths have to leave so early …’

‘Unfortunately there was no one else to pick up my sister from the cinema, Mr Edwards, and my father won’t allow her to travel on a late bus out of town on a Saturday.’

‘I quite understand.’

‘Goodbye, sir.’ Practically pushing Joe behind him, Robin left the house and walked down the path.

‘Are we really picking up Angela?’ Joe asked as Robin opened the door of his sports car.

‘Don’t be an idiot.’ Robin slid into the seat and slipped his key into the ignition. ‘But I couldn’t have stayed in there for another minute without screaming. Fancy a game of pool and a drink at my place?’

‘Why not.’ Joe glanced at his watch. Lily would still be in the Albert Hall. He’d watched her go in earlier with Judy and Katie, and taken comfort in the knowledge that she wasn’t with Martin. ‘I have nothing better to do.’

‘I wasn’t expecting to see you still here, sir. I thought I’d have to leave these with the receptionist.’ The guard handed Jack a tea-stained envelope. ‘Your Left Luggage tickets,’ he explained.

‘I can’t find anyone who knows anything about my wife.’ Jack opened the envelope. ‘I must owe you …’

‘Nothing, sir. It’s all part of the service. You can pick up your luggage whenever it’s convenient.’

‘You must be out of pocket.’

‘Not me, sir. I’d like to stay but my lift’s waiting. There’s a nurse who doesn’t look as if she’s doing much. Why don’t you ask her about your wife.’

‘Thank you,’ Jack called back, as he took the guard up on his suggestion and charged up to the nurse. ‘My wife is here …’

‘This is Casualty,’ the staff nurse barked officiously. ‘If she’s a patient she’ll be on a ward. You’ll have to go to the main entrance …’

‘She was brought in by ambulance,’ Jack interrupted.

‘When?’

‘Over two and a half hours ago.’

‘Then she’s most probably on a ward. All enquiries should be made at Reception at the main entrance.’

‘They sent me here. Her name is Helen Griffiths – Clay … She was taken ill on the London train. I know the ambulance brought her straight here. Please, couldn’t you find out …’

‘This is a hospital casualty area, not an information bureau.’

Jack had never hated a stranger as much as he hated this self-important nurse at that moment. ‘She must be somewhere …’

‘Our primary consideration is the welfare of our patients, not their relatives.’

‘There has to be someone who can tell me where she is.’

‘Have you enquired at the Casualty Reception desk?’

‘Twice, they told me to take a seat.’

‘Then I suggest you do so.’

Unable to close his mind to images of Helen lying white-faced, unconscious and abandoned on a stretcher in a forgotten corner of this maze of antiseptic-smelling, impersonal corridors and cubicles, Jack was at breaking point. ‘For how much longer?’ he pleaded.

‘We are
very
busy.’ As the nurse turned away, a swing door to the right of the desk opened. It closed quickly but not before Jack saw four staff nurses standing idly gossiping. His hands were already clenching into fists when a young doctor, grey-faced from lack of sleep, white coat flowing behind him, stethoscope dangling from his neck, ambled into the area. Heading for Reception, he buttonholed the woman behind the desk.

‘Is anyone with Mrs Clay?’

‘Me!’ Pushing past the nurse, Jack ran up to him. ‘How is she? Can I see her?’

Barely able to keep his eyes open, the doctor squinted at Jack. ‘And you are?’

‘Jack Clay, her husband.’

‘Husband?’ The doctor gave Jack a dubious look.

‘We were on our honeymoon …’

‘Then you’re not from Swansea.’

‘We are,’ Jack answered irritably, wondering what that had to do with anything. ‘Helen is going to be all right, isn’t she?’

‘She’s in theatre.’

‘I don’t understand …’

‘We’re not sure what is wrong with her, Mr Clay.’

‘You’re operating and you don’t know what’s wrong with her!’ Jack reeled at the prospect of a surgeon slicing open Helen’s perfect body.

‘Your wife’s symptoms could be related to anyone of a number of conditions. Her personal possessions have been sent down to the main Reception desk. I suggest you pick them up, go home and telephone us in the morning.’

As he walked away, Jack grabbed his arm. ‘Please, I must see her.’

‘That is impossible. She could be in theatre for hours and even when she comes out she’ll be sent to recovery, and relatives are only allowed to visit patients on a ward.’ The doctor was a final-year medical student. He’d been on duty for over thirty hours. All he wanted was his bed and he felt totally unequal to dealing with a distraught husband who looked as though he should be playing football in the street, not going on honeymoon. He closed his hand over Jack’s and removed it.

‘Please, I can’t just walk away …’

‘You’ve left your details at Reception?’

Jack nodded.

‘You have a telephone number where you can be contacted?’

‘Yes.’

The doctor was surprised. Not many people, let alone newlyweds, were on the telephone. ‘If there’s any change we’ll be in touch. If you haven’t heard anything by morning you can call us. There’s no point in telephoning before.’

Jack stood rooted to the spot as the doctor left. An image of Helen lying butchered on a slab flooded his mind. The waiting area grew misty, wavering around him as a peculiar buzzing filled his ears.

‘You can get to main Reception down that corridor.’

‘Sorry, I …’

Realising he hadn’t taken in a word she’d said, the nurse repeated, ‘Main Reception, to pick up your wife’s clothes.’

‘Yes … yes, thank you.’ Forgetting his earlier antagonism towards the woman, Jack forced himself to put one foot in front of the other. Helen was in theatre and there was nothing he could do for her except pick up her clothes. Just as he and Martin had picked up his mother’s when she’d died among strangers in this same building.

‘Another pint?’

Martin shook his head. ‘I’ve had enough.’

‘Last time we’re inviting you to a booze-up, mate.’ As his fellow apprentice went to the bar, Martin picked up his coat and left the Antelope. Crossing the road, he walked down to the beach. A cold breeze ruffled the waves as they slurped in between the pebbles on the foreshore but the stars shone down from a clear, cloudless night sky and he decided to walk home. Aware he’d been a wet blanket, he wished he hadn’t joined the others to celebrate the end of the exams and done what Sam had suggested, taken Lily out and – and what? Asked her outright about Joe?