Cross My Heart and Hope to Die (22 page)

Whether God helped or not, when I rang the hospital on Monday morning Dad's condition was said to be stable. He could have one or two visitors for a short time. I was so relieved; I'd missed him so much. Home just wasn't home without Dad.

I'd biked down with Mum to the shop, and telephoned from there. She hated using the phone, she wasn't used to it and got all flustered. She was very agitated that morning, standing ready for the customers in her respectable skirt and cardigan topped by her best nylon overall. At least Dad had recently managed to persuade his mother to invest in a proper till, and now I'd shown Mum how to use it she wouldn't need to add up in her head, which was just as well.

Hospital visiting-hours were every afternoon between two and four. I wanted to go, desperately, but I felt obliged to give Mum a chance, even though she and Dad never had anything to say to each other. I said I'd mind the shop for her that afternoon, if she liked, but she was too harassed to leave it, and when I asked Gran Thacker she said she'd got enough worries without traipsing off to Yarchester on a weekday, so I gladly went alone.

The bus to Yarchester didn't reach Byland until two, and then it dawdled round every village it could find, wasting precious visiting time. And when we reached Yarchester, there was quite a long way to run from the bus station to the hospital. I knew where it was, but I'd never been there before.

The hospital was a great sprawling place, built in bits over the past hundred-odd years, and I wasn't sure which of the many entrances to use. And once inside, in the old original building, it took me five minutes to find the right ward, up stone stairs and along gloomy corridors, a foreboding clinical smell filling my nostrils.

The Sister in charge of the ward directed me briskly. ‘Mr Thacker? Last bed on the left. He's still very weak, so you mustn't stay long.'

I hardly recognized him at first. His orange hair seemed to have thinned and faded, and his face was a dirty grey. His shoulder and chest were heavily bandaged, and one leg was in plaster, held up by a pulley. He was attached by tubes to a bottle hanging above his head, and to another bottle on the floor beside his bed. He lay with his eyes closed, and for one terrible long moment I thought he was dead. But when I whispered, ‘Dad,' his eyes flicked open. He blinked, and then smiled his wide gentle smile.

‘Janet!' he said hoarsely. ‘I'm glad it's you.'

I bent over and kissed him, on the lips as I'd always done when I was little. He smiled again, and I felt warm with relief and happiness, because he was going to get better and everything was going to be all right.

‘How are you, Dad?'

‘Not too bad. Numb, mostly. They've had to do a lot of patching up. Shan't be out yet awhile.'

‘As long as you're doing well, that's all that matters.'

‘Good as new in a few weeks.' He shifted painfully. ‘How are you all managing?'

‘Miss you like anything. But we're keeping going, Mum's helping Gran at the shop.'

‘I thought she would.'

‘That's why they couldn't come. They'll be here either Saturday or Sunday. They sent their love, anyway.' They hadn't mentioned it, actually, but I thought it was the right thing to say.

‘But you'll come as often as you can, won't you, Janet? Before you go to college, I mean.'

‘Every day,' I promised. ‘I've been wondering whether I ought to go to college, though. I don't want to be in London while you're here in hospital.'

‘Don't be silly, 'course you must go. Your future's more important than visiting me. Anyway, I'll be doing well by then. Probably be home to see you off.'

‘Hope so!'

I took his good hand, and we fell into a loving silence. Holding hands was something else I hadn't done since I was little, because once I'd started school Mum had discouraged what she called ‘slopping about'. I'd always admired Dad's hands, with their long cool fingers, and now I recalled what a comfort the contact was, I knew that I was never going to take any notice of Mum's dreary edicts again. Not that I wanted to slop about with her, of course. Dad was the one I loved.

He was obviously very tired. His eyes kept rolling up so that only the whites were showing, and I thought it was probably time for me to leave. But then he focused his eyes on me, gave a long swallow and said, ‘I've got something to tell you, Janet.'

He took his hand out of mine, reached for the hoist and eased his position on the bed. ‘Been meaning to tell you for long enough,' he said painfully. ‘You ought to know. By rights your mother ought to tell you, but she never will. I've been worried you'd find out from village gossip – you must have heard the hints and sneers. Haven't you guessed?'

He was hopeful, wanting me to make it easy for him, and I remembered. ‘Oh, that! You mean I was on the way before you and Mum were married? I did guess, but I haven't lost any sleep over it. It doesn't matter, Dad, really it doesn't.'

He moved his head restlessly. ‘Yes … but it's not only that …'

Whatever it was I didn't want to hear it. ‘Tell me tomorrow,' I said quickly. ‘The Sister said I wasn't to stay long.'

‘No, I want to get it over with. I've got to tell you, Janet. Please.' He was upset, pleading with me, and I knew I couldn't walk out on him. His voice was fainter, and I bent my head towards him as he forced himself to talk.

‘It's true that your mother was expecting before we got married. That's the only reason why we married. We didn't… we didn't love each other.'

No problem so far. I'd never thought of Mum and Dad as a loving couple. Caroline Adams reckoned that her parents hated each other, but I couldn't say that of mine either. Indifferent, perhaps, but certainly not hating.

‘That's all
right
, Dad,' I said. ‘I mean – I'm sorry, I realize it can't have been much of a life for you. But it doesn't make any difference to me, I've always been very happy at home.'

‘I'm glad.'

I thought that was all. ‘I really ought to go now,' I said, but he was already struggling to find more words.

‘You see – we'd never thought of marrying. Your Mum didn't want to marry me, and I didn't want to get married at all. But you were on the way, and our mothers pushed us into it for the sake of respectability. Your mother and I haven't … haven't been husband and wife. Haven't ever been.'

He was agitated, willing me to understand, but I still didn't. Wouldn't. He closed his eyes, and I was glad because it prevented me from seeing the unhappiness in them.

‘Janet –' he said. ‘I'm not your real father.'

Once, when I was playing hockey, a rising ball struck me thump in the middle. It didn't hurt badly at the time – that came later – but it left me floundering and breathless. Now I floundered again, sick and bewildered. There was obviously some terrible mistake.

‘It's not true,' I said loudly. ‘It's not true.'

‘'Fraid it is.' He groped for my hand but I was too shocked to touch him. ‘I'm sorry, but you had to know. I'd never been interested in girls, you see, and the other lads in the village used to tease me on account of it. That was why I went to sea, to get away from them. But then my father died, and I had to come back to help Mother. Then the teasing and tormenting started all over again, from girls as well, and I couldn't live with it. I had to do something to make them all leave me alone.'

There wasn't anything to say. I just stared at him, dumb with misery. He shifted his position, drew breath and plunged on.

‘Betty Bowden – your mother – was working for us in the shop. A rumour started that she was pregnant, only she wouldn't say who the father was. It was nothing to do with me, but one day I lost my head and told another lad it was, just to shut them all up. Only that got round the village too, of course, and our mothers married us off.

‘But it doesn't matter how it happened. That's all in the past. It's worked out real well, that's what I wanted to tell you. I never wanted to marry, never wanted to be a father, but having you as my daughter has made everything worth while. We've had some lovely times together, haven't we? And you'll go on thinking of me as your Dad, you will, won't you, Janet?'

He was feverish, exhausted, his head rolling on the pillow. I knew I ought to leave. I ought to have soothed him and reassured him and said, ‘See you tomorrow, Dad,' and then perhaps everything would have been all right. I ought to have tried for once in my life to be tactful and sensitive to the feelings of others but not me, not Janet Thacker.

Because that was the point: I wasn't Janet Thacker at all, and if I wasn't Janet Thacker, who was I?

It was natural enough to want to ask, but I shouldn't have done it then, not when he was so ill and weak. But stupid, selfish Janet had to open her mouth and let the words come right out, thinking only about herself and never mind about Dad. Because he wasn't my Dad at all.

‘Who –' I croaked, ‘who is my father, then?'

He closed his eyes. ‘I don't know.'

I knew that he knew and didn't want to tell me. ‘You must tell me,' I said. ‘I've got a right to know. If you don't tell me, I'll ask Mum.'

‘No, don't,' he begged. ‘Don't let on that I've told you, it'll only upset her.' He put out his hand weakly but I wouldn't take it.

‘Who is it, then?' I insisted. I thought quickly of all the men of the village who would have grown up with Mum, and I couldn't bear the thought that any of them might be my real father, but I had to be told. ‘Is it someone I know?'

‘No – no, truly it's not.'

A passing nurse told me it was time I went. I got up, but I had no intention of leaving until I knew the truth. ‘Tell me!' I hissed angrily. ‘You've got to tell me!'

Sweat was gathering on his face. He seemed to be drifting away from me. He opened and closed his lips, trying to get the words out. Eventually he whispered, ‘An American. From the airfield. They were all over the village in those days. You mustn't blame your Mum, she was very young –'

‘But who was he? What was his name?'

‘I don't know.'

‘I'll ask her, then.'

‘No, don't. She doesn't know.'

‘Of course she does. If she had a love affair with him she couldn't forget his name. What was it?'

‘She doesn't know … It wasn't …'

‘Wasn't what?'

‘It wasn't love – she doesn't know which one …'

My arm was suddenly gripped from behind. It was the Sister, sternly pulling me away. ‘You
must
leave now. Your father is still very ill, and you've stayed far too long. You've been very inconsiderate.'

She bent to attend to him and I just stood there, lost. ‘'Bye, Dad,' I whispered, ‘see you tomorrow,' but he didn't hear me.

I walked up the ward. It was two miles long and everybody was watching me and I could hear my shoes clumping on the polished floor. I turned at the door to look back at him, but my eyes were so blurred and there was such a confusion of beds and heads and flowers and pulleys that I couldn't see him at all.

When I telephoned the hospital later that night from the village call-box, shaking with remorse, they said that Dad's condition had deteriorated and was giving cause for anxiety, and when we finally got there they told us he was dead.

‘Are you sure you've got everything, lovey?'

Mum and I were standing at the door of the shop, saying goodbye. I knew she'd want to make a scene of it so I'd gone to bed very early the night before, and pretended to be still asleep when she'd come to call me before she went to work. Mr Vernon had said he was going in to Breckham Market, and had offered to drop me at the railway station. I'd felt that I had to ask him to stop for a minute at the shop so that I could say goodbye, and he was now sitting at the wheel of his car looking tactfully at the other side of the street. But it wasn't going to be a sentimental farewell, on my side anyway.

Mum gulped. A single tear detached itself from one eye and slid downwards, leaving a snail's trail on her cheek. ‘You'll send your towels and things home for me to wash, won't you, lovey?'

‘No, thanks, I'll take everything to a launderette.'

‘That'll ruin your clothes.'

‘No, it won't, everybody does it. Well –'

Mum produced a pound note from the pocket of her overall. ‘Your Gran said to give you this.'

I was surprised and touched. Old Mrs Thacker wasn't my Gran at all. Even if she believed she was, she must have thought that Mum had snared her son into marriage, which would account for the disapproving way she'd always treated us. In the circumstances it was very nice of her to think of giving me anything.

‘Thank her for me. I'll have to go now, can't keep Mr Vernon waiting.'

A customer approached and we stood aside to let her pass between us into the shop. ‘Be with you in a minute, Edie,' said Mum. ‘Just seeing our Janet off to college.'

‘Oh ar. Mind what you get up to, then, Janet.' But she spoke kindly, as people had taken to doing ever since Dad's death.

‘Well,' I said, anxious to go. I could see more tears washing round in Mum's eyes. She'd want to kiss me, and I couldn't stand it. ‘Cheerio, then.'

She lunged towards me but I dodged. And she didn't understand, and the tears spilled over, and they left me cold. I wanted to shout at her that I'd heard all about her and the American airmen, and to ask if she knew which one of them my father was.

‘Mind you write regular, Janet. Take care of yourself, lovey.' She wiped her eyes, and I escaped to the car. She didn't know it yet, but I was leaving home for good. I didn't feel in the least sentimental about it, but Mr Vernon put the radio on and as we left the village I found that I was quite glad to listen to the Jimmy Young programme.