Two Penn'orth of Sky (30 page)

But even tears cannot last for ever, and Diana gave a dry, hiccuping sob and slipped out of bed. She fell to her knees on the worn linoleum, clasped her hands together, and began to pray with more fervour than she had ever shown before. Please God, she thought, let my mammy get well again; you’ve got my daddy, so please, please leave me my mammy.

It was long past midnight when she stood up, rubbing her cramped and aching limbs, and climbed back into bed.

Emmy stared round the long, bare room as dusk crept over the town whose lights twinkled below her. She felt a lump rise to her throat, and tears flooded
her eyes and trickled slowly down her cheeks. She thought that never, in her entire life, had she felt so alone. The sanatorium was perched on the side of the Great Orme, above the seaside town of Llandudno, and through the wide open windows which led on to a narrow balcony she could see the sea. The wind from the sea blew straight into the ward and since it was early September this was not too unpleasant, but the other occupants of the room – there were five of them – had warned Emmy that the windows were never closed.

‘They say fresh air is good for us, though it’s bleedin’ cold in winter,’ the thin, red-haired girl in the next bed had told her earlier that day. Her name was Violet and Emmy had warmed to her when she heard that she came from Coronation Court, off the Scotland Road. The other four girls were Suzy, Paula, Marj and Sian, and all had seemed quite friendly, but in this strange environment all that had really struck Emmy was the bareness of the room, the briskness of the staff and the strangeness of the little town, so different from the warmth and liveliness of home.

But it would do no good to cry; she had been told that crying was bad for her, as was too much talking, laughter and any sort of effort. There were medicines which could help her but what would do most good, at this stage, was complete rest. Emmy tried to pull herself a little higher in the bed and immediately felt a sharp, stabbing pain in her chest. She subsided once more on to her pillows, gritting her teeth and using the top sheet to mop up the useless, silly tears. She had promised Beryl – and a weeping Diana – that she would do everything in her power to get well again, and she meant to do just that. Beryl had promised, faithfully, to look after Diana as though
she were her own child. Wally had taken her hand and said, gruffly, that he’d always admired her spunk and knew that she would be a sensible girl and follow doctor’s orders, no matter how unpleasant. Even Charlie, hot and red with embarrassment, had mumbled that she needn’t worry; he would see that Diana did not get into bad company, and would even let her tag along after him when he went out with the lads. This last may have been said grudgingly, but Emmy knew Charlie well enough to realise that he would keep his word.

As for Diana herself, once she had got over the first shock, she had been wonderful. When she had heard that the sanatorium was far away, she had said at once that she would work for pennies so that she might pay her fare to visit her mam every few weeks.

Mr Mac had blamed himself bitterly for not realising how ill Emmy had become. He had come to the hospital to offer any help he could and had promised Emmy that her job would be kept open. He had brought flowers and chocolates and as soon as he left Emmy had handed these to Beryl, kissing her friend fondly and assuring her that she’d do her best to get well.

‘I’m so ashamed of having quarrelled with you, Bee,’ she said remorsefully. ‘But I was already beginning to feel ill and wondering how on earth I would cope. It’s an awful thing to say, but I think I turned on the person I loved most and then I was too stupidly proud to back down and admit I’d made a horrible mistake.’

This conversation had taken place in the Mount Pleasant hospital whilst doctors came and went and nurses popped in to give her what they called a blanket bath, and arrangements were made for her
transfer to the sanatorium, and for her tiny pension to be paid direct to Beryl to help with the expense of taking care of Diana.

The girls from the restaurant had visited her, bringing small presents and assuring Emmy that they would write so that she knew what was happening at work. Miss Symons had pushed her mother’s wheelchair up to the hospital and the old lady, with tears in her eyes, had said she would be happy to continue to pay Diana half a crown a week to do her messages and keep her company whilst Miss Symons worked.

Emmy had been grateful, but told Mrs Symons that the decision as to what Diana could do after school must be left with Beryl and, as yet, Beryl was too concerned over Emmy herself to consider Diana’s after-school activities. Emmy knew that half a crown a week was not to be sneezed at, but she was beginning to realise that Diana was no longer the meek and biddable little girl she had once been. It might be a good deal safer if Diana returned every evening to the Fisher household where Beryl could make sure she was behaving herself and not gadding off with some other lively child who might lead her into all sorts of mischief.

So it had been arranged that Beryl would accompany her in the ambulance on the long journey down to the coast. Diana would have liked to go, too, but there was the question of her train fare home and she had agreed, though reluctantly, that she had best delay her own visit until she had saved up the money for the fare.

A week ago, therefore, it had been Emmy and Beryl who had made their way along the echoing corridors to Wisteria Ward, where Emmy now lay. If Beryl had been shocked by the place, she had not let it
show, but Emmy knew that her own dismay had not been hidden. The doctor had told her that for the first few weeks she must remain in her bed, though she might get out to eat her meals on the long balcony and use the bathroom, of course. The other girls were all better than she so had their meals in the dining room downstairs; Violet and Sian, indeed, were both allowed to visit the town, though because of the steepness of the road which led to the sanatorium on Hill Terrace they were conveyed both there and back by an ancient motor bus.

‘Don’t you worrit yourself,’ Violet had said kindly, when the nurse had told Emmy, rather sharply, that there would be no outings for her for many months to come. ‘That’s old Stratton – Nurse Stratton, I should say – what works by clockwork and don’t have no heart. She’s never been married and she’s plain as a boot, so she hates us young ’uns, an’ hates us most of all if we’re married. Anyroad, you ain’t gonna feel like goin’ nowhere for a bit, but that’ll change as you gets your strength back.’

This information cheered Emmy, but she was promptly cast down when she opened the drawer of her locker to find a half-finished letter inside. Unwisely, perhaps, she handed it to Nurse Stratton, asking, timidly, whether the writer might realise the letter had been left and worry about it. Nurse Stratton took the sheet of paper from her and began to read what was written on it. Emmy knew that it was wrong to read another’s correspondence, and before she could stop herself she had said so, in no uncertain terms. ‘You mustn’t read it – I haven’t,’ she had said accusingly. ‘It’s wrong to read other people’s letters; the poor girl who wrote it will be really angry with me for giving it to you if she knows you’ve read it.’

Nurse Stratton was a large, cold-eyed woman, with sandy hair, tiny light blue eyes, and a mouth like a rat trap. She snorted at Emmy’s words, though faint colour rose to her cheeks, and she stared angrily down at her patient. ‘The girl who wrote this letter won’t care one way or t’other, ’cos she’s dead and buried,’ she said brusquely. ‘Anyroad, it were only to some feller.’ And with that, she scrumpled the letter into a ball and shoved it into the pocket of her apron before marching out of the room, her rubber soles squeaking on the highly polished linoleum as she went.

‘There goes a wicked old bitch,’ Violet had said reflectively, but Emmy had seen that there were tears in her eyes. ‘Denise were a good little girl; she didn’t deserve . . . but they caught her too late.’ She had eyed Emmy’s troubled face. ‘They knew right from the start that it were hopeless, queen, so don’t go thinkin’ about it. As for old Stratton, she’s a bad lot, so tek no notice of anything she says. Now, tell me about your little gal. What was her name again?’

Emmy had tried to forget the letter and Nurse Stratton’s cruel words, and during the daytime she usually managed it, but at night it came back to haunt her. She had barely glanced at the letter, but even so, the first lines seemed to be engraved on her mind in letters of fire:
My darling Sid, it seems an age since I saw you last, though it’s really less than a week and I just can’t wait to see you again. It won’t be long, darling, before I’m home
. . .

Emmy turned restlessly in her bed, hearing the springs creak beneath her as she did so. Did everyone think that they were going to get better? Was Violet really as well as she claimed? She had heard the nurses discussing Sian, saying the other girl would be home again well before Christmas. Sian
was going to get married in the spring. She was embroidering a set of pillowcases for her trousseau and her young man, whose name was Dewi, visited two or three times a week, since he lived in Rhoson-Sea, which was scarcely three miles from the sanatorium. And I could be married again if I wanted, when I get out of here, Emmy reminded herself. Carl asked me to marry him and though I didn’t say yes, I didn’t say no either. If I married Carl, there would be no need for me to work, because he’s First Officer on the
Queen
now, and earning the same as Peter got. We could rent a nice house, in a decent district, and Diana could go to a good private school. I could have a little maid to do all the hard work and a pretty garden to sit in when the sun shone. I could marry him right now, because there couldn’t be any of that cuddling and bed business, not with me so ill. But I’d be secure, and so would Di, and Carl might not mind missing out on the bed bit because he’d know it would come later, when I was well again.

It was good to think about a future which did not contain the sanatorium, good to tell herself that she could marry from here, and be a wife once more, though without a wife’s duties, but she knew it was all pretend. It would be cheating on Carl to marry him, not knowing if she would ever be able to be a proper wife again. Come to that, she was still very unsure that she would ever
want
to be a proper wife. Being married to Peter had been grand; being married to anyone else might be perfectly horrid. Though the responsibility of bringing up Diana alone had been too much for her at times, she realised, now that she no longer had it, that she had relished her independence. Would she willingly give it up for the sake of security?

Emmy was still wondering as she watched the stars begin to pale towards dawn; still wondering when at last she fell asleep.

By Christmas, Emmy was growing accustomed to life in Wisteria Ward. Though the days seemed long, the staff were beginning to let her take part in some, at least, of the activities around her. A brisk, fat little woman, with grey hair cut in an Eton crop, came in twice a week and supervised what she described as gentle exercise. At first, Emmy had just watched the others, but now, though she was still confined to her bed, she did the breathing exercises, hands on her ribs so that she could feel the movement drawing the icy air slowly and carefully into her lungs, and holding it for as much as three seconds before gently expelling it in a long sigh.

Then there was Miss Bolsover, who came in every other day with a supply of various materials, such as raffia, coarse linen, balls of wool and wicker. She taught them to make raffia place mats and bags, wicker waste paper baskets and footstools, tray cloths, shoe bags and aprons. With Christmas coming, Miss Bolsover did her best to persuade them to make presents for those at home, and Emmy was quite pleased to occupy her time by knitting a blue cardigan for Diana and crocheting a collar and cuff set for Beryl. She and the other girls enjoyed Miss Bolsover’s sessions for though they were not encouraged to exert themselves, it was pleasant to chat quietly as they worked, knowing that Miss Bolsover never demanded silence and made it plain that she thought a joke or two, and a gentle smile, or even a laugh, did more good than harm.

Of all the girls in Wisteria Ward, Emmy and Violet
were the ones who received fewest visitors, for it was a considerable trek from Liverpool to Llandudno, and expensive, too. First there was the tram to reach the nearest underground station – or the ferry, if you were so inclined – then there was the train fare from the Wirral down to the coast, and then a bus fare to the sanatorium itself, for though one could walk it meant shortening one’s visit by thirty or forty minutes.

Three days before Christmas, however, Emmy was sitting up in bed, putting the finishing touches to a cross-stitch kettle holder which she was making for old Mrs Symons, when someone came on to the ward, which was empty save for herself. She glanced up, beginning to say that the other girls were all in the dining room, for it was a weekday and her visitors almost always came on a Sunday. In fact, she had already said, ‘If you are wanting . . .’ when she recognised the visitor. Forgetting that she must never display excitement or emotion, she sat up so abruptly that the kettle holder flew from her hand. ‘Johnny!’ she shrieked. ‘Well, if it isn’t you! Whatever are you doing here?’

Johnny Frost gave her his shy, attractive grin, and the colour rushed into his face. He leaned over the bed and took her hands and then, as if impelled, dropped a light kiss on her forehead. ‘Oh, Emmy, if only I’d known you were here, I’d have called before,’ he said, his voice breaking a little. ‘I’ve been living in Llandudno for the last six months and it weren’t till I went home to visit me mam that they telled me you were here. I were that distressed, queen . . . well, as soon as I got back here, I made up me mind to come and see you the first chance I got. How
are
you, Em? Mam telled me you’d been working yourself
into the ground . . . if only I’d known, I’d have stopped you . . . done something . . .’

‘What could you have done, Johnny?’ Emmy asked gently. ‘You’ve commitments of your own, now, after all. You’re a married man. You’ll need all your spare time for your wife and your home.’