The Immaculate (2 page)

When he moved from the protection of the house the wind came at him again, almost bowling him over. “Bloody hell,” he exclaimed, as if at a boisterous dog. The flowers in the small front garden that his wife had tended so lovingly were squashed flat. The grass on the hills appeared to turn different shades of green as the wind cavorted through it.

Terry kept his head down, and so at first thought the dark smudge moving along Daisy Lane in his direction was some article of clothing propelled by the wind. Then a voice calling his name reached him, and he looked up to see Martin Butterworth, eldest of the three Butterworth sons, clumping towards him, hand raised. The Butterworths were all blond-haired, red-cheeked and built like brick shithouses. The muscularity of their youth, however, had a tendency to decline into obesity as the years progressed. Even so, old man Butterworth, with his four chins and a belly larger than Alice's, still possessed fearsome strength. Though Terry had never seen him do it, Butterworth senior was reputed to be able to sling fully grown cows across his shoulders and carry them on his back with no trouble at all.

Terry raised his hand in response, though did not speak until he and Martin were a few feet apart. “Hello, Martin, how's it going?” he yelled then, hoping that his greeting would not inspire one of Martin's interminable monologues, for which he was renowned. Butterworth's frown, though, suggested that he had more pressing matters on his mind.

“I was just comin' to see you,” he said.

“Oh, yes?”

“There's a tree down up yonder. A big 'un, blockin' the road. The doc's there. He says your wife's havin' a bairn.”

“That's right.”

“Aye, well, he's havin' to walk down. He says to tell you he won't be long.”

Terry grinned in relief. “Thanks, Martin. How long exactly, do you know?”

Martin considered, wide face childlike in its solemnity. “I reckon the tree's about half a mile up the road. I ran all the way 'ere, but the doc can only walk slowly on account of his arthritis. He sent me on ahead 'cause he thought you might be worried. He'll probably be . . . ten minutes or so.”

“Thanks again, Martin,” Terry said. He patted Butterworth's arm, which felt solid as a tree-branch. “Do you want to come back to the house? Have a cup of tea or something?”

“No, I'll be gettin' off. The beasts are restless. There's a bugger of a storm comin', I reckon.”

“Okay. Well, I'll see you around.”

“Aye. Good luck wi' the bairn.”

Terry watched Martin stomp away, then turned and headed back to the house. The sky was now so dark that the building was almost in silhouette. The thrashing woods beyond it reminded Terry of westerns he had seen, the trees like the black flurry of Indians on the horizon. Terry's imagination had been largely stifled by his father, and when it occasionally resurfaced, such as now, he couldn't help but feel vaguely ashamed. He remembered the beating he had received at the age of nine or ten when his father had discovered his collection of comics, which he'd secreted under his bed. But worse than the weals left by the strap had been the sight of the comics being fed one by one into the fire, their fabulous, lurid images shrivelling to black ash. After the burning his father had sat Terry down and assured him that in the long run he would be thankful that his mind had been saved from poisoning. This sort of rubbish was written by dropouts and “poofters” and possibly even Nazis who had fled to America after the war.

As soon as Terry re-entered the house he knew that something was wrong. Five minutes ago Georgina had said that Alice was quiet, yet nevertheless there was something, some thrum of tension in the air, that convinced him otherwise. Hoping he was simply being overanxious, he strode to the foot of the stairs, hand sweaty on the banister rail. “Hello,” he called. “Georgina, it's me. The doctor's on his way.”

There was a moment of silence, then the shuffle of movement and the sound of a door opening. Georgina's creaking footsteps were followed two seconds later by the woman herself. The expression on her face seemed to confirm Terry's fears; suddenly there was a large rock in his stomach, a smaller one in his throat. He stared up at her, unable to speak. She snapped, “How long will he be? Where is he now?”

Hesitantly Terry ascended two steps. His legs felt disturbingly weak. He tried to swallow his panic and croaked, “What's wrong?”

“Where's the doctor? I need him here now. I can't handle this by myself.”

“Handle what?” Terry said, then when she looked impatient, “There's a tree down half a mile up the road. Travis is having to walk here. Shouldn't be no more than ten minutes.” His feeble legs lifted him another step. “Georgina, what's wrong with Alice?”

Some of the anger left her face and was replaced by worry. “I don't know,” she admitted. “The contractions started again suddenly. She's in a lot of pain and she's losing too much blood.”

“Too much? What do you mean, too much?”

“Come up, Terry. She needs you. Maybe you can calm her.”

He ascended like a marionette, feeling as if a cold fever were throbbing in his veins. Though desperately anxious, he felt strangely disembodied. When he was barely halfway up the stairs Georgina turned and clumped back to the bedroom he shared with his wife, the house creaking under her weight. He heard his sister-in-law making
shushing
noises, uttering soothing words. Beneath that was a series of tiny whimpers and gasps that terrified him; it sounded as if his wife had gone beyond normal pain, that her agony was now so acute it would not even allow her to scream. He did not realise he was biting his lip until he tasted blood in his mouth. Even then, though, he tried to tell himself that Georgina was exaggerating. The doctor would arrive and tell him everything was normal, that the blood and pain were just part of the process, that there was nothing to worry about.

He crossed the landing and entered the bedroom. Georgina had tried to clean up much of the blood, though its vividness on the sheets and on his wife's swollen body still seemed to shout at him. On the floor was a bowl that had previously contained warm water but which now contained blood. How many pints were there in the human body? Eight, wasn't it? A gallon? How much had his wife lost?

The woman on the bed did not look like Alice. Alice had rosy cheeks and sparkling blue eyes and thick chestnut hair. This woman had damp white flesh, lank colourless hair, tendrils of which adhered to her face, and watery eyes sunk in darkened sockets. When she turned her head towards him it seemed something invisible was trying to prevent her from doing so. Her lips, barely pink, struggled open and she whispered his name.

“Alice,” Terry half-sobbed and staggered to the bed. He fell on his knees beside it, and groped for his wife's limp hand. When he squeezed she reciprocated feebly and tried to smile, but her expression was superseded by a grimace of pain. Her neck arched and she pushed her shoulders and heels into the mattress. Her clenched teeth parted to release a whimper, and Georgina moved forward to mop up more blood.

“Alice,” Terry whispered again. “
Shhh,
it's all right. Everything will be fine.” Though they appeared not to be doing so, Terry hoped his words were providing some comfort. They were all he had to offer his wife. He felt so desperate, so helpless. If he owned a car he could have driven down and fetched the doctor himself. He said to Georgina, “Isn't there something more I can do?”

“You're doing enough,” she told him, picking up the bowl. She moved from the room to empty it. Terry hoped it was only the first she'd emptied.

Alone with his wife he felt strangely uncomfortable, tongue-tied. He tried to smile but it was an effort. He did not think she was even looking at him. Her head was turned in his direction and her eyes were half-open, but they seemed to be focusing inward, perhaps concentrating on some small inner part of herself that was free from pain. Terry squeezed her hand again and felt the responding pressure of her fingers. He whispered, “Don't worry, Alice, the doctor will be here soon.” Her only reply was a twitch of the lips, though he was not sure whether this was an attempted smile or another spasm of pain. His head jerked up as stones clattered against the window from outside. It took him a few moments to realise they were not stones but rain.

Within seconds it was falling in earnest. The sky was almost black with clouds, an army which had been gathering all day and had now been given the order to disgorge its artillery. The first flurry of drops was followed by the minutest pause, then a growl of thunder and lightning harsh as a flash bulb precipitated a far stronger and more sustained assault. Terry shivered, though only at the thought of being out there in the cold and not because he was cold himself. Every time lightning flashed, the lamp by his wife's bedside flickered as if in feeble imitation. He drew closer to Alice, struck by the melodrama of the scene despite his anxiety.

Georgina re-entered the room, the bowl now full of clear, steaming water. She glanced at the window, the glass of which seemed to be alive and ever-changing, then put the bowl down and drew the curtains closed. The screeching wind, the lashing rain, the rattling windows seemed impenetrable; Terry felt more isolated than ever before in his life. He pictured Dr. Travis hobbling along Daisy Lane, which this rain would reduce to a river of mud. Surely the old man was no match for these conditions. Terry imagined the wind picking him up like a scrap of litter and carrying him away.

His stomach clenched like a fist as Alice cried out again and more blood gleamed on her skin and spread across the sheets. Her legs trembled and jerked. The hand holding his tightened with painful suddenness; her nails dug into his flesh and raised tiny crescents of blood. “Alice,” he said, “Alice,” as if the sound of her name could stem the vivid flow from between her legs. Her lips were curled back, bubbles of spittle frothing up between her teeth. Her throat worked as whimpers of pain escaped her.

“Alice,” he said again, “hang on, love, the doctor will be here soon.” To himself he sounded like a broken record, offering the same meaningless platitudes over and over. He looked at Georgina. “Where the bloody hell is he?”

She glanced briefly at him and scowled, but said nothing. Terry shook his head. “Maybe I should go look for him. In this weather—”

“He'll be here,” Georgina cut in firmly.

“But he's taking so long. Doesn't he realise—”

“He'll be here,”
she almost hissed.

Terry glared at her, but lowered his gaze before she did. He lifted his wife's hand and kissed it gently. It was clammy as a fish. His knees were beginning to ache from kneeling; pins and needles tingled in his feet. “I'm just going to stand up a minute,” he told Alice. “I'm not leaving the room. I'll be here if you need me.”

Alice made no response, though Terry believed—or liked to believe—that she had heard him. He stood up and stamped his feet, wooden floorboards booming hollowly beneath the thin carpet. He crossed to the window, pulled the corner of the curtain back, stooped and peered out. This room was positioned at the front of the house, and afforded a view of the garden, Daisy Lane, and the fields beyond. At the moment, however, Terry could see little of this. The storm clouds had clotted so thickly that the sky was black as night. Rain, spattering the glass, streaming in rivulets down it, further fractured what little definition there may have been. Dry-stone walls were merely blurred black lines separating fields of dingy grey smog. Daisy Lane was like a crevasse filled with solid, unmoving darkness.

He pictured Travis again, trudging up the lane, head bowed grimly against the rain and wind. He had known the doctor all his life and took some comfort from the knowledge that he was blunt, pigheaded, determined. However, he was also physically frail; he could only walk slowly, sometimes needing the aid of a stick. And in these conditions . . . Terry allowed the curtain to fall back. This time he would not allow Georgina to intimidate him. He was going to look for the old man.

He braced himself to tell her this, but was saved from doing so by the sound of pounding from downstairs. “At last!” he exclaimed. He took the stairs two at a time and tugged the door open. The wind added its weight to the heavy wood once more, but this time he was ready for it and stood firm. The old man on the doorstep looked scoured, thrashed by the elements. Terry ushered him in, then wrestled the door closed.

“Doctor! Thank God you're here!” Terry exclaimed, though in truth the frail, slightly hunched figure did not inspire confidence. Travis' mouth hung open, his breath wheezing from it; his eyes were thinly slitted as though the rain had pressed his eyelids closed. His skin and hair and clothes were drenched; he dripped like a snowman before a raging fire. He put down what appeared to be a fat briefcase and with a hand that trembled alarmingly pulled a large blue handkerchief from his pocket and slowly wiped his face.

“Here, let me take that,” Terry said, and relieved the unresisting doctor of the Gladstone bag he held in his other hand. Travis had had this bag for as long as Terry could remember. It was made of black leather, now so scuffed and old it was almost the consistency of cloth. It had probably once had a definite shape, but now it was lumpy and squashy as an old turnip.

Travis' lips struggled without success for a moment until finally he enquired, “Do you . . . have a towel I could use?”

“Yes, I . . . but please, doctor, my wife . . . she's very ill.”

“A towel, if you don't mind, Terry. I'm no use to anyone in this state.”

Flustered, Terry hurried to the kitchen, grabbed a towel from the rail by the sink and returned to the doctor, still carrying the sodden Gladstone bag. Travis peeled off his coat, revealing his familiar tight black suit with the shiny elbows, which made him look like an undertaker. The shoulders of the suit were wet. Travis towelled his hair and face, gasping like a cross-Channel swimmer. When he was done, he draped the towel over the banister rail and held out his hand for his bag. “Hideous weather,” he growled, and nodded at the fat briefcase. “Could you carry that for me, please?”