Swansea Summer (21 page)

‘Mr Griffiths is driving me back to the hospital at two o’clock.’

‘I could make us beans on toast. Just the two of us, you won’t have to talk if you don’t want to.’

‘Don’t bother.’

‘You have to eat,’ Martin insisted. ‘If only for Helen’s sake. It won’t help if you make yourself ill.’

‘I’ll put my clothes away first.’

Relieved at the small concession, Martin watched his brother walk to the room they’d shared. Jack slammed the door behind him. The noise reverberated through the house, rattling the casement windows.

‘They must have heard that at the other end of the terrace.’ Sam opened the door of the second bedroom and joined Martin in the kitchen.

‘The wind probably caught it.’ Martin knew it hadn’t, he also knew he hadn’t fooled Sam.

‘You going upstairs for dinner?’

‘No, Jack can’t face company and I want to stay within kicking distance.’

‘You won’t mind if I do?’ Sam asked clumsily, trying to be tactful.

‘No.’

‘If there’s anything I can …’

‘He’s my brother and there’s nothing I can do.’

‘Bloody bad luck.’

‘Bad luck!’ Martin echoed uncomprehendingly.

‘I don’t mean about Helen losing the kid, that’s rotten but if it had to happen, it would have been better if she’d been taken ill a couple of weeks ago. Then Jack wouldn’t have had to marry her.’

Martin was too stunned by Sam’s attitude to reply. It was only later, after Sam had left for upstairs and he was opening a tin of beans, that he realised the truth in what his flatmate had said. If Helen had been taken ill a couple of weeks ago it would have been an entirely different situation. He could only speculate as to whether Jack would have wanted to marry Helen, or Helen Jack, if there hadn’t been a baby to force them into it.

‘Mrs Griffiths is still unavailable, Mr Griffiths. I have your messages and I will give them to her when she comes in.’

The clipped tones of his mother-in-law’s housekeeper irritated John even more than they had done the night before. ‘Have you any idea when she’ll be home?’

‘No, sir.’

‘She must have said …’

‘It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, Mr Griffiths. Mrs Green …’

‘Dot?’

‘As I was saying, sir, Mrs Green had plans to visit friends for the weekend and Mrs Griffiths joined her at the last minute.’

‘And you have no idea where they’ve gone.’ John didn’t bother to conceal his scepticism.

‘Neither of them confided in me, sir.’

‘And her mother doesn’t know where she is.’

‘Madam is unwell. Mrs Griffiths takes care not to burden her with anything that might prove stressful, like the telephone ringing every couple of hours.’

‘Well, let’s hope madam’s condition doesn’t worsen while her daughter is away and can’t be contacted,’ John bit back angrily, before hanging up.

‘Only one visitor,’ the sister warned as Jack and John returned to the ward that afternoon. ‘And no more than ten minutes. Mrs Clay is very weak.’

‘Jack, you go ahead. I’ll be outside.’

‘The last cubicle on the right,’ the sister directed, ‘and be careful not to upset her. The doctor did tell you not to mention the baby.’

Jack nodded.

‘Ten minutes.’

Jack flinched as the thick crepe soles on his brothel creepers squeaked on the rubbery linoleum. He tried not to look in the other cubicles as he made resolutely for Helen’s but it was difficult. Vases filled with brightly coloured spring flowers stood, bizarrely at odds with the wan, sick patients in the beds.

He had tried to imagine Helen ‘acutely ill’ but none of his imaginings had prepared him for the reality. She lay between blindingly white sheets, as pale and still as a marble sculpture in the Glyn Vivian Art Gallery. The only splash of colour was her blonde hair spread out on the pillow above her head and even that looked paler than usual.

Tiptoeing in, he jumped at the noise from his own shoes as he stood beside the bed. He would have liked to hold her hand but they were both tucked beneath the sheet and he didn’t dare disturb the pristine bed-making. As he watched, her eyes flickered open. When she saw him, she tried to smile. He had to lean over to catch what she said.

‘It’s all right, Jack, you don’t have to worry any more. The pain has gone.’

‘I’m glad you called, Lily,’ Joy Hunt said as she opened the door to her. ‘Judy’s upstairs, sorting out her bedroom. She’ll be glad of some company.’

‘I called to invite her over because Katie doesn’t want to leave the house in case either of her brothers needs her.’ Lily braced herself. ‘You have heard about Helen?’

Joy nodded as she saw tears in Lily’s eyes. ‘Come on now, none of that.’ She hugged her. ‘I spoke to John earlier; he told me that Helen’s going to recover.’

‘I know.’ Lily fumbled in her pocket for her handkerchief.

‘Helen and Jack are going to need their family and friends more than ever, and knowing you, love, you’ll be top of their list of friends.’

Lily wiped her eyes and stuffed her handkerchief in her pocket. ‘I’ll go up and see Judy.’

‘It’s horrible and unfair. They were both so happy and Helen was looking forward to having the baby.’ Judy lifted the underclothes she’d arranged in neat piles on her bed and dropped them into her chest of drawers to make room for Lily to sit on the bed.

‘Jack was just as excited as Helen about the baby. She told me that he had even talked about teaching him – he was sure it was going to a boy – to play football.’

‘But it has to be worse for Helen. She’s the one who went through all the pain of actually losing the baby and having an operation. I hate to think of her lying in hospital among strangers. She must be feeling desperate.’ Judy slammed shut the last drawer in the chest. ‘There has to be something we can do.’

‘Beyond making sure Katie is all right, and helping her to look after Jack, not much,’ Lily said bleakly.

‘Helen will need things in hospital and there’ll be small things like her washing to be done.’

‘Your room looks as though you never left.’ Lily moved the conversation away from Helen and Jack because she was in serious danger of crying again.

Judy looked around. ‘It does, doesn’t it?’ Her cosmetics and toiletries were back on the dressing table; she’d replaced her precious collection of Wade porcelain animals on the shelves above her bed and lined up her books between a pair of heavy wooden bookends on the windowsill. Picking up a box filled with scraps of newspapers that she’d used to wrap and store her ornaments in, she placed it by the door.

‘No second thoughts about coming back for good?’ Lily went to the window and glanced through the titles of Judy’s books.

‘Not about leaving London.’ Judy sat on the dressing-table stool and picked up her hairbrush.

‘And Brian?’

Judy brushed back a few stray hairs. ‘As I haven’t heard a word in two weeks, I assume he’s forgotten me.’

‘You don’t really believe that.’

‘I don’t know what to believe.’ Judy faced Lily. ‘If I tell you something, will you promise not to tell a living soul?’ She waited until Lily nodded agreement before continuing, ‘I offered to sleep with Brian the last night he was here and he turned me down.’

Speechless, Lily stared at her.

‘He said I wanted him as a way out from a job I didn’t like.’ She opened the drawer in her dressing table and took out a framed photograph that had been taken at a police dinner dance. Brian was standing beside her, his arm round her waist. They looked happy, relaxed and well-dressed, she in a grey satin shirtwaister with a full skirt, he in a dark suit, white shirt and tie. ‘I tried to tell him I love him, but he wouldn’t listen. I don’t think he believed me.’

‘It must have been a misunderstanding …’

‘You weren’t there, Lily.’

‘No matter what he said to you then, I’m sure that deep down he knows how you feel about him,’ Lily consoled.

‘He said I was only curious about sex.’

‘I should think everyone who hasn’t experienced it is,’ Lily observed honestly.

‘You too?’ Judy looked at her.

‘Of course.’

‘Have you and Martin …’

‘I’ve only just started going out with him.’ Lily didn’t want to discuss her relationship with Martin, even with Judy, until she knew exactly how he felt about her.

‘Will you?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps, in time, if things go right between us,’ she answered vaguely.

‘He hasn’t asked you to marry him?’

‘No.’

‘Brian did before we went to London.’ Judy looked at her hairbrush as she set it back on the tray on her dressing table. ‘I refused even to accept an engagement ring from him. I said all the things I always say whenever anyone brings up the subject of marriage; that I wanted a career and independence, and I wouldn’t even think about settling down until I’m thirty. Things I’ve said so often I didn’t stop to consider whether I believed them or not. Then when I came back here, saw Helen, Jack and their flat, and heard her talking about the baby I was unbelievably envious. Brian had asked me to marry him – granted not since we’d been in London – and I imagined myself in the same position as her, living in a flat instead of the horrid hostel, with a baby and Brian coming home every night – well, days sometimes, given the shifts he works – and it seemed so much better than sticking with a job I hated. That makes me sound as if I only wanted him for what he could give me but it’s not just that. I really do love him, Lily. I know that now. And he doesn’t believe me and I’ve lost him.’ She bit her lip to stop it from trembling.

‘You have to write to him.’

‘And tell him what?’ Judy choked back her tears.

‘Exactly what you’ve just told me, starting with you love him,’ Lily advised.

‘You think I’ll get him back?’

Lily’s silence answered her. Even if she could sort out her problems with Brian and convince him that she had loved him all along, how could she possibly get him back when he was in London and she in Swansea?

‘You telephoned, John?’ Esme succeeded in injecting a heavy hint of reproach into her formal manner.

‘I did,’ John agreed tersely, retreating into frigid politeness.

‘The last time we met, you informed me that you only wanted to communicate with me through our respective solicitors.’

‘I was referring to matters relating to our divorce.’

Her tone lightened as she slipped into a role she had always played well – that of the seductress. ‘You’ve reconsidered my suggestion of a reconciliation?’

‘No.’

‘Then what possible reason can you have for harassing mother’s housekeeper? You know mother is unwell …’

‘Yes,’ he interrupted angrily. ‘And it amazes me that you went away for the weekend without leaving a telephone number where you could be contacted in case of emergency.’

‘I did.’

‘The housekeeper insisted she didn’t know where you were.’

‘I told her I didn’t want to be bothered with non-urgent matters,’ she replied carelessly.

‘Like your daughter’s health.’

John could hear Esme breathing at the other end of the line but when she finally spoke her voice was harsh, clipped. ‘Helen’s ill?’

‘She collapsed on the train yesterday afternoon when she and Jack were returning from honeymoon. She’s in Swansea General. They had to operate. They think she will recover but she has lost the baby.’

‘There is no baby!’

‘Not any more.’

‘The fool! I told her not to rush into this marriage.’ As the import of John’s news sank in, she turned furiously on him. ‘You should never have arranged the wedding so quickly.’

‘Given the circumstances, I’m glad I did.’

‘Even after this?’

‘Especially after this,’ John replied resolutely.

‘I’ll call and see her.’

‘They won’t allow visitors again until Wednesday evening.’

‘I’m her mother. I’m next of kin.’

‘Jack is next of kin, Esme,’ he corrected. ‘If there is any change in her condition they will contact him.’

‘You will let me know if there is any news?’

‘I will leave a message with your mother’s housekeeper.’

If Esme saw the irony in his remark, she didn’t comment on it. ‘Shall I wait for you to call, then?’

‘If you are really interested in Helen’s condition, I suggest you telephone here late on Wednesday after Jack has visited her, or the warehouse on Thursday morning. Goodbye, Esme.’

Leaving the hall, he went into the living room and opened the cocktail cabinet. Pouring himself a large whisky he turned to see Joe sitting, reading. ‘It’s not like you to spend a Sunday evening at home.’

‘With everything that’s going on with Helen, I didn’t feel like company.’ Joe closed his book.

‘Would you like a whisky?’

‘Please. It’s no better between you and my mother?’

‘As you heard.’ John poured Joe a glass of whisky and handed it over. ‘How’s the studying going?’

‘According to my tutor I’m still on course for a first. I realise you’re being optimistic for Jack’s sake but how is Helen, really? Is she going to recover?’ Joe was almost afraid of what his father might say. He and Helen had fought since cradle days but underneath all the bickering he’d discovered that he was surprisingly fond of her.

‘The doctor’s cautious. She’s going to be in hospital for at least a month but with luck, care and rest he said she should get well.’

‘There are no complications?’

‘Such as?’ John looked keenly at him.

‘She will be able to have other children?’

When John didn’t answer, Joe read the expression on his face. ‘That is tough to take at her age.’

‘Not a word to anyone,’ John warned.

‘Does Jack know?’

‘The doctor told us, but no one else knows, not even Helen. It’s Jack’s and Helen’s business, Joe, and no one else’s. You won’t tell anyone?’

‘Of course not.’ Joe tried to imagine being told that he could never have children. It was one thing to crack jokes about wanting dozens, or never wanting any at all, quite another to discover that the decision had been taken out of your hands and you didn’t even have one to make.

Chapter Twelve

‘Tea?’ Sam asked Jack who was shaving in front of the sink in their basement kitchen.

‘Please, three sugars and milk.’

‘I remember – and although I’m on days the rest of this week, it doesn’t mean I’m taking over breakfast,’ Sam warned as he cut a couple of slices of bread. ‘It’ll be your turn to make it tomorrow.’

‘I should have been out of the house ten minutes ago.’ Martin charged in, grabbed the tea Sam had just poured and picked out his working boots from a line to the right of the door. ‘You people with an eight-o’clock start don’t know you’re born. It’s murder having to clock on at seven.’

‘Try working shifts and see what that does to your social life with the gorgeous Lily.’ Sam opened the door to the postman’s knock and took a bundle of letters and a box from him. ‘Thank you.’ He dumped everything on the dresser. ‘Another cake from my mother. I swear she thinks people in Swansea are still on wartime rations.’

‘If that’s one of her fruit cakes, long may she think it.’ Martin finished tying one bootlace and started on the other.

‘Two letters for me.’ Sam sniffed the envelopes. ‘And neither perfumed.’

‘You expecting one?’ Martin asked.

‘I live in hope. Here’s one for you, Jack, I’m sorry.’ Sam had received his National Service call-up papers three years before and recalled what they had looked like.

Dropping his razor, Jack wiped his chin and opened the letter.

‘When?’ Martin asked, reading the return address on the discarded envelope.

‘I’ve to report for a medical a week on Monday.’

‘Get your doctor to write a letter telling them you’ve just got married and your wife is in hospital,’ Sam suggested. ‘They’re bound to delay it on compassionate grounds.’

‘You think so?’ Jack asked hollowly.

‘Talk to John Griffiths.’ Martin finished lacing his boots. ‘If anyone can sort it out for you he can. I have to go. My boss threatened to keep me on for an hour without pay if I’m late again this month. See you tonight.’ He looked back anxiously at his brother as he opened the door.

‘Is Mr Griffiths in?’ Jack stuck his head round the door. Although Katie was his sister and John Griffiths his father-in-law he still felt diffident about venturing from the warehouse stockroom into the rarefied atmosphere of the office.

Katie glanced down at the small switchboard next to her. ‘He’s on the telephone.’

‘Do you know if he’s rung the doctor yet about my National Service?’

‘If you take a seat, I’ll ask him when he’s finished his call.’

After checking his overalls were clean, Jack sat on the chair in front of her desk.

‘Would you like a cup of tea while you’re waiting?’ It felt odd to ask her brother the question but, constrained by Ann’s presence and John’s reserve, she felt the need to be even more businesslike than usual.

‘No, thanks. You all right?’ he asked, noticing how pale and drawn she looked.

‘Just tired.’

‘I wish you’d gone to bed on Saturday night.’

‘I wouldn’t have slept even if I had.’

‘Jack.’ John opened his office door. ‘I was just going to send for you. Can you organise some tea, Ann.’

‘Not for me, please, Mr Griffiths. Have you spoken to the doctor?’ Jack questioned impatiently.

‘Yes. Come into the office.’

‘Can Katie come too? It will save me having to repeat everything.’

John turned to Ann. ‘Go down to the canteen and get tea.’ He looked at Jack. ‘You sure you don’t want any’

‘I’m sure.’

‘For three, please, Ann.’

John waited for the girl to close the door. ‘The doctor’s already spoken to someone and he’ll give you a letter to take to your medical. He’s fairly confident you’ll qualify for a month’s postponement.’

‘A month! That’s just when Helen will be coming out of hospital. She’ll need looking after …’

‘In the meantime we’ll try for longer.’ John sat on the edge of his desk. ‘It’s not ideal, but it’s the best we can hope for at the moment.’

‘Thank you, Mr Griffiths.’

‘You failed your last army medical, Jack.’ Katie tried to raise his spirits.

‘I had a broken arm.’

‘You both look tired. Why don’t you take the rest of the afternoon off,’ John offered.

‘There’s a lot of stock to be shifted downstairs, Mr Griffiths.’

‘And I have letters to type.’ Katie opened the door. ‘I’ll get Ann to bring in your tea, Mr Griffiths.’

Between Sunday and Wednesday visiting, Jack felt as though he were sleepwalking. He drove to and from the warehouse with John, accepted meals from Martin and Sam that he left uneaten on his plate and spent the intervening time lying on his and Martin’s bed staring at the ceiling. The only time his life drew sharply into focus was when he called the hospital and the message was always the same: ‘Mrs Helen Clay is as well as can be expected’, followed by ‘we’ll inform her you telephoned, Mr Clay’.

All he could think about was Helen and how miserable she must be, sick and alone in unfamiliar surroundings, cared for – if that was the right word – by officious nurses. Whatever the time of day or night, he wondered if she was awake and, if she was, whether they had told her about the baby – and that there wouldn’t be any more. He thought he knew everything there was to know about her, but try as he might he couldn’t envisage her reaction to the blow.

Refusing John’s offers to take time off work, he checked the stores against shop-floor stock levels and, mindful of John’s directive that ‘Goods not on display are goods that can’t be sold’, filled every conceivable gap in the warehouse. Working through his breaks, he set out women’s pom-pom slippers on the boys’ boot rack, fur coats on the girls’ school-wear rails and Royal Albert china in the catering supplies section, unaware that for the first time since he’d begun work in the warehouse, his supervisor and the stockroom manager were double-checking his every move.

By three o’clock on Wednesday he had dropped more goods on the floor than he had set out on display and John insisted he take the rest of the afternoon off to prepare for his visit to the hospital. Wishing time away, he slipped on his coat and walked back to Carlton Terrace via town and the open-air market. He wanted to buy Helen something special but as he wandered among the stalls nothing caught his eye. Even the flowers seemed to be conspiring against him. Bunches of garish tulips filled the flower vendors’ buckets, grating with his mood like clowns at a funeral. Eventually he bought a pot of pale-yellow primroses in a basket, but even as the woman wrapped it for him he caught himself looking around for something better.

John Griffiths had reminded him to sort out clean underwear and nightdresses for Helen the night before but, unable to face the flat, he had asked Katie to pack a case for her. Lily and Judy had helped, and they had found other things they maintained Helen needed: soap, talcum powder, scent, skin cream, toothpaste, shampoo, handkerchiefs, make-up, brush and comb. The weekend bag they filled weighed more than the suitcase he had taken on his fortnight’s honeymoon in London.

He wandered back through the stalls and picked up the largest box he could find of the Regency Candies Helen liked. He paused before a fruit stall. Fruit was supposed to be good for invalids. Would she have recovered enough to eat any? He bought a bag of apples and pears and a bunch of bananas just in case.

Half an hour later he made his way to Carlton Terrace with two heavy bags. He knew he had bought enough fruit for the entire ward but he had to show Helen he cared. And as he couldn’t think of anything more constructive, he decided he could always bring back what she didn’t want. That had to be better than not taking something she couldn’t possibly do without.

‘Only two visitors to a bed,’ the sister barked as John followed Jack into the ward.

‘One … two.’ John pointed at himself, then Jack, but the sister didn’t smile at his weak attempt at humour.

‘Mrs Clay’s mother is with her.’

John took a deep breath. He should have anticipated that Esme would turn up eventually after his telephone call. There’d be nothing she’d like better than playing the role of martyred wife, discarded by her husband, yet still prepared sacrificially to nurse her sick daughter. He checked his watch, the hands pointed to five minutes to the hour. ‘I thought visiting started at seven.’

‘Your wife had an appointment at six thirty to discuss your daughter’s condition with the doctor. He suggested it might be beneficial for Mrs Clay to see her mother right away.’

‘Helen can’t stand her mother.’

As the sister gave Jack a severe look, an agonised cry echoed down the ward. Dropping the bags, Jack charged towards Helen’s room. Her mother was sitting in an armchair she’d pulled close to the bed. Helen had turned her back to her. Curled on her side, she was sobbing into her pillow. Ignoring Esme, Jack sat on the bed and gathered her in his arms.

‘Mrs Clay, we will not hold ourselves responsible for the consequences if you do not lie flat at all times. Mr Griffiths, only two visitors per patient. And Mr Clay, visitors are not allowed to sit on the bed. Your germs …’

‘As we’re married, Helen will have to get used to them.’ As Jack gently lowered Helen back on to the bed, John stacked the bags he had dropped next to it. When he finished, he spoke to Esme.

‘Helen and Jack need privacy.’

The sister glared at John. ‘I will not have my patients upset …’

‘Please sister, let Jack stay.’ Helen dug her nails into Jack’s shoulder as though she was afraid the sister was about to drag him away from her.

‘Esme.’ John held the door open.

‘Five minutes, Mr Clay,’ the sister warned as John followed Esme out.

‘I haven’t seen my wife since Sunday,’ he protested.

‘You do want her to get better.’

‘And out of here.’ Jack concentrated on Helen, smoothing her hair away from her face and wishing they were somewhere – anywhere – else, and alone.

‘She had to be told.’ Esme lifted her chin defiantly.

‘And you decided you had to be the one to do it.’ John folded his arms across his chest as he confronted Esme in the corridor.

‘I am her mother.’

‘Did you have the doctor’s permission?’ John asked.

‘He had already told her that she had lost the baby. It was self-evident. The girl has a massive, disfiguring scar …’

‘Did he ask you to inform her that she would never have a child?’ he reiterated coldly.

‘He agreed she had to be told.’

‘Today?’

‘No woman would want information like that kept from her,’ Esme blustered. ‘Especially a woman in Helen’s position, tied to a man by circumstances that no longer exist. Don’t you realise this means she can divorce Jack Clay? Richard says …’

‘Richard Thomas!’ he exclaimed. ‘I can’t believe you discussed our daughter’s personal life with that man.’

‘You’ve never objected to my discussing our personal life with him.’

‘He’s handling your divorce.’ Noticing a couple of porters staring at them, John retreated to a bench in an alcove that afforded a little more privacy.

‘He is my family’s solicitor, which is why I discuss
family
problems with him,’ Esme asserted, standing before him as he lowered himself on to the bench.

‘Don’t you think you should have talked to Helen first?’

‘She is a child.’

‘A married child,’ he reminded her.

‘Who could soon be free to choose a young man with better prospects and background than Jack Clay.’

‘You suggested this to her?’ He gazed at her, wondering if she knew just how close he was to losing his temper with her.

‘We discussed what she already knew. That Jack only married her because of a child that no longer exists. That a boy with his background will want children to satisfy his ego and as she can no longer give him any, she should leave him and start looking for someone more suitable. A man with a career who needs a hostess …’

‘My God, Esme, don’t you ever think of anything besides money and social standing?’ he enquired contemptuously.

‘All I want for Helen is what every mother wants for her child. The absolute best. Something you, with your ridiculous insistence on living in Carlton Terrace, never understood.’

‘If you really want what’s best for Helen I suggest you leave Helen and Jack to sort out their own problems.’

‘And entrust Helen’s future to a boy like Jack Clay? Don’t be ridiculous.’ Opening her handbag, she removed her gloves and proceeded to put them on; smoothing the soft brown leather over each finger until it formed a second wrinkle-free skin on her hands.

John watched, trying to see her as a stranger might. A once beautiful, middle-aged woman, who knew how to take care of herself and make the most of her fading attractions. He couldn’t deny her looks or her charm when she chose to exercise it – but he had suffered too much from her scheming and snobbery to see her objectively. ‘The last thing Helen needs right now is you interfering in her life.’

‘It appears to me that is exactly what she does need. I leave her with you and she gets mixed up with a Borstal boy. Ends up pregnant at eighteen …’

‘It is a little late for recriminations.’

‘I agree. But I intend to make sure there won’t be any need for them in future. I’m Helen’s mother, John. You can’t stop me from visiting her here and when she leaves I intend to take care of her, either in your house or mother’s. It makes no difference.’

‘It will to me – and Helen.’

‘This time I intend to make sure things are done my way.’

‘Before you make too many plans I suggest you consult with Helen and Jack.’

‘Don’t worry, I intend to.’ She buttoned her coat, walked past him and out of the door.

‘Katie, Lily and Judy packed your case. They all send their love and letters and get well cards.’ Jack placed them on Helen’s locker. ‘There’s clean nightdresses and soap and woman’s stuff.’ He lifted one of the bags he’d brought closer to Helen’s bed. ‘And I bought you some flowers.’ He unwrapped the basket of primroses. ‘Regency Candies, I know you like them. Everyone wanted to send you something. There’s magazines and …’ He looked into her eyes and realised she wasn’t listening to him.