Wait For the Dawn (23 page)

‘I’m glad I did,’ Guy said. ‘I think it was time.’

‘Yes, it was time all right.’ A brief, rueful smile touched at the corners of the old man’s mouth. ‘And perhaps just in the nick of time, too.’

Silence in the room. The sweet, sickly smell was pervasive. There was no getting accustomed to it. From the distance Guy could hear the chime of a cathedral bell.

‘I don’t believe you liked responsibility that much,’ Mr Anderson said. ‘I think you shied away from it. And commitment. Oh, yes, I think you were afraid of commitment.’ The smile came again. ‘You might still be, for all I know, but one day you’ll learn. Perhaps you’re learning now. I hope so. At your age it’s time.’

‘I am learning, Father,’ Guy said. At that moment he felt like a child, but he had to be strong. Now it was necessary that he should be strong.

‘Ah . . .’ The sound from Mr Anderson’s lips was long, drawn-out, almost a groan. ‘Ah, dear boy,’ he said, ‘I have to tell you that I’m not sanguine about the outcome of this operation.’

‘Father –’

‘No, I’m not, and no one can make me feel differently. Oh, I wish I were fit enough to travel. I’d get you to take me home. I have very bad feelings about it all, I don’t mind telling you. I haven’t spoken like this in front of your mother – I can’t – but I have to tell you. Tomorrow could be too late.’

The seconds ticked by. Mr Anderson lay back against the pillows, gazing out into the room. Through the open window a pale blue butterfly came. It fluttered about the room in its dancing flight, and then found its way back to the window and out once more into the air. Guy watched it as if mesmerised.

Mr Anderson had also watched the butterfly, and his head was still turned to the window after the creature had gone. ‘There,’ he said, his voice low, frail, ‘life goes on, doesn’t it? Whatever your crisis, the rest of the world keeps turning, and when you’re through it will carry on turning without you.’

Shifting his glance from the window, he focused again on Guy. ‘I had so hoped to see certain things before I go,’ he said.

‘Such as what, Father?’ Guy said.

‘Well, the things that most men want to see when they get past a certain age. For a start I’d like to have seen grandchildren. A grandson – someone who would carry on my name, my blood, and perhaps carry on my work, too.’ He sighed. ‘Well, it’s too late for that, I realise that now. Of course, if you hadn’t decided to get a commission and gone to the ends of the earth you’d probably have been married by now . . . but that’s all done with. You aren’t, and that’s that. Perhaps I’ve been hoping for too much – you came into our lives so late. We had long given up expecting a child, but then, there you were, and our lives were complete, fulfilled. Perhaps we should be content with that. At least we have you.’ He managed a smile. ‘There’s no denying that your mother has so longed for you to meet some nice young lady and settle down, but with your being in the army out in South Africa, we couldn’t see that happening at all. She always had hopes that you’d make a match with George Fellows’s daughter Clarissa. You entertained her when you were a child, and you seemed so right together, but there you are. Apparently she’s still not settled – so I suppose your mother can go on entertaining her high hopes. How old would the girl be now? Twenty or twenty-one, I suppose, and she’d be a good catch. Do you remember her?’

‘Yes, I remember her. I’ve seen her since she was a child.
She came to the house on a few occasions with her parents.’

‘That’s right, so she did.’ He paused. ‘Is there anyone in your life, Guy? Have you met anyone? I doubt it – you’ve only been out of the army a few weeks. You’ve hardly had the opportunity.’

Guy said nothing, not knowing what to say.

‘What does that silence mean?’ Mr Anderson said, taking in Guy with a quizzical glance. ‘Do I take it that you
have
met someone?’

‘Well . . .’ Guy said.

‘Tell me, son. It’ll cheer me up.’

Still Guy kept silent.

‘What’s the matter?’ his father said. ‘Why can’t you tell me?
Have
you met someone?’

‘Well, I – I did meet a young woman.’

‘Good. I’m glad to hear it – and not before time, if I might say so.’ He paused. ‘So? Where did you meet her?’

‘In Redbury. She was visiting the town just for the day.’

‘When was this?’

‘A few weeks ago.’

‘And where was she visiting from?’

‘A village in the country. Capinfell. Not far from Merinville.’

‘Oh, yes, Capinfell. I don’t think I’ve ever been there, but I know of it, of course. I believe it’s quite small.’

‘So I believe.’

‘What’s her name, and how old is she?’

‘She’s twenty-one. Her name is Lydia Halley.’

‘Halley.’ Mr Anderson thought on the name for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No, it doesn’t ring any bells. There are the Tindall-Halleys in Hebberly . . . Is she anything to do with them?’

‘I don’t believe so.’

‘They’re a good family. You’re sure?’

‘Yes.’

A pause. ‘Are you fond of the girl?’

‘I – I met her just a few weeks ago, and I’ve been seeing her only this past week.’

‘A very short time. You didn’t answer my question. Are you fond of her?’

Guy did not answer.

‘Surely you know the answer to that,’ his father said. ‘Who are her parents? What do they do?’

‘Father,’ Guy said, ‘she has no background that you would recognise. She’s a clerk.’

‘A clerk.’

‘She’s a postal clerk. She works in Seager’s department store.’

‘A clerk.’

‘Yes.’

Mr Anderson sighed. ‘Oh, my dear boy, the world is full of pretty little postal clerks, and I’ve no doubt that you could have your pick of them, but truly, I wouldn’t want you getting serious about such a girl, nice as she might be. Your mother and I – we have somewhat higher hopes for you.’

‘I told you – I’ve known her so little time.’

‘Oh, and don’t think lack of time has ever prevented a man making a fool of himself.’ The old man narrowed his eyes slightly, studying Guy’s expression. ‘You’re not – serious about her, are you?’

‘Serious?’

‘I mean, you’re not thinking you’re in love with the girl?’

‘Oh, Father – it’s too soon for me to think of anything like that.’

‘And what might that mean?’

Guy gave a little sigh of frustration. ‘As I said, I’ve only recently met her and – and all this happening now. I feel I don’t know where I am.’

‘Well – you just try to keep your feet on the ground, my
lad, that’s the least you can try to do. I mean, it can all seem very pleasant – you meet some young girl who’s pretty and flattering – and it’s easy to get carried away, but you’ve got to be realistic about it all. You haven’t gone making foolish promises to the young woman, have you?’

‘No.’

‘Well, that’s something. Because I tell you now, if the worst happens to me you’re going to have to face a lot more responsibility every day. When the business here is disposed of, you’ll still have the
Courier
to look after, and however well my manager is able to care for it, it’ll still be yours, the basic responsibility will still be yours. And even if I come through it all right, I simply shan’t be as able as I was. That has to be faced.’ He reached out and pressed Guy’s hand. ‘Son, we want you to make a good match. You’re not going to disappoint me over this, are you?’

‘I never want to disappoint you, Father.’

‘There’s a good fellow. Bear in mind, son, that no matter how you might think you feel about the young woman right now, you’ll get over it. Believe me, you will.’

He patted Guy’s hand, and then coughed two or three times. Guy gave him the glass of water again and he drank. Afterwards he lay back against the pillows, exhausted. ‘I must rest,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk again later.’

Just before noon Dr MacElroy returned, bringing with him the consultant surgeon Signor Martinelli, and while Guy and his mother waited in the vestibule on the ground floor the two physicians visited Mr Anderson in his hospital room. Later they came down and called Guy and his mother into a small ante-room nearby.

The Italian surgeon was a tall man in his fifties with steel grey hair and a lean, clean-shaven face. As the introductions were made he shook hands with Guy and Mrs Anderson with a grave expression.

With occasional references in Italian to the surgeon, Dr MacElroy told Mrs Anderson and Guy that he and the consultant had just finished examining Mr Anderson. The situation was very serious indeed, he said, and remedial measures would have to be carried out as soon as possible.

‘Signor Martinelli agrees that we must operate without delay,’ the doctor went on. ‘I shall assist him. The hospital is fully equipped, so the surgery can be carried out on the premises.’

‘Is there nothing else to do but to operate?’ Mrs Anderson said.

‘No.’ The doctor shook his head deliberately. ‘It’s the only thing to do. The gangrene is progressing at a very swift pace, so we need to operate at once. and the leg has to come off above the knee.’ He half turned to the surgeon. ‘Signor Martinelli will go straight now and fetch his instruments, and in the meantime I’ll make sure that the operating room is prepared, and that the nurses are ready.’ He took out his watch, flicked it open and said, ‘With luck we’ll be able to start by two-thirty, and we shall have good light.’ He closed his watch and put it back in his pocket. ‘Now – we must get busy.’

For the next hour Guy and his mother remained with Mr Anderson in his room, but there was little conversation, for the old man seemed exhausted by the pain and by the assault to his system. So the mother and son sat for the most part speaking only desultorily, while doing what they could to make the patient comfortable.

Then, just on a quarter to two there came a tap at the door and Sister Teresa was there, asking them to leave so that the patient could be prepared for his surgery. Mrs Anderson, forcing back the tears, kissed and embraced her husband, and Guy squeezed his hand. They would see him later, they said. Downstairs, they met Dr MacElroy who told them that they should come back in the morning at
ten-thirty when visiting hours began, by which time everything would be done, and the patient would have had a good night’s sleep.

After passing a restless night at the apartment, Guy and his mother returned to the hospital. Sister Teresa got up from her desk as they entered the vestibule and came towards them. While Guy tried to read her face, she said to his mother, ‘Dr MacElroy, he wishes to see you, signora. He has been waiting for you. Please, come this way.’

She led them to the small ante-room they had sat in before, and on entering they found the doctor standing by the window. He turned at their approach and clasped his hands before him. Guy could see at once from the man’s expression that the situation was not good.

‘Please,’ the doctor said to them, ‘do sit down.’

Mrs Anderson sat on one of the hard wooden chairs, and said at once, ‘Doctor, how is my husband?’

The doctor waited until Guy was also seated, then said, ‘Madam, I’m very sorry to tell you that the situation turned out to be more serious than either one of us thought.’

Mrs Anderson reached up a hand, pressing it to her mouth. ‘What are you saying?’

Dr MacElroy shook his head. ‘I’m afraid the infection had travelled much further than we had anticipated. We had to amputate very high up on the thigh.’ He sighed. ‘And even then, we don’t know yet whether we caught it all. We’ll know in a very short time. I shall be back this afternoon to see how he is.’

Over the hours that followed, Guy and his mother sat with Mr Anderson whenever they could. As before, there was little in the way of conversation, and all they could hope to do for him was to ease his discomfort in whichever way might be possible, so they gave him water, soothed his hot
brow with damp cloths and fetched the nurse when the pain grew too much to bear. He ate nothing.

He did not complain, but lay as before, half propped against the pillows, and the smell of rotting flesh returned and lay close under their nostrils. The nursing sister opened the window wider, but it did no good, the ghastly scent only got worse.

They knew now from the doctor – and the surgeon concurred – that there was no longer any hope. The poison had invaded his whole body. The flesh was dying on his bones.

‘
So
,’ said Lydia, reading from the book, ‘
when Hansel looked about him there were no breadcrumbs to be seen. Somehow, they had all gone
.’ She turned and looked down at Hennie who sat snuggled up against her on the sofa. Hennie’s eyes were wide, and as Lydia’s glance met her own the child put her hands to her mouth in a faint expression of horror, her pink lips forming a perfect little O. Distantly, from the scullery, came the sounds of chinking china as Evie washed the dinner dishes. It was Sunday, and Lydia, back in Capinfell for the weekend, had called round at the cottage to see her friend.

‘So what d’you think has happened?’ Lydia asked the child. ‘I wonder what can have happened to Hansel’s trail?’

‘
I
know, Hennie said with a nod.

‘You do?’

‘Yes, the birds have eaten all the breadcrumbs and now Hansel and Gretel haven’t got a trail to follow.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Yes, and now they’re lost and they can’t find their way home.’

‘Ah.’ Lydia shook her head. ‘Poor Hansel, poor Gretel.’

‘But in the end they will, after they kill the old witch. Please – go on.’

Lydia smiled. ‘Very well.’

Lydia continued to read from the storybook, and had just reached the point when the two children had come upon
the gingerbread house when Evie came in from the scullery.

‘All right,’ Evie said, ‘that’s done. Come on, let’s go out for our walk.’

‘But Mammy,’ Hennie protested, ‘we’re just getting to the good part.’ She added anxiously, ‘They’re just about to go into the little house.’

‘Are they, now? Well, I’m sure it’ll keep for a while longer, dear. I’ll finish reading it for you later on, when Aunt Lydia has gone off in the coach, but she hasn’t got long here today, and we can’t spend it all on your storybook, can we?’