Rose of Tralee (18 page)

Rose turned and beamed at her mother. ‘You’re right, we’ll both feel no end better if we
do
something. There’s nothin’ quite so horrible as standin’ an’ waitin’.’

So when Mr Brownlea had made his way back along the pavement to his own house, Lily and Rose heaved at the ropes which attached the airing rack to the kitchen ceiling and brought it down. A critical feel of their coats, scarves and gloves showed them to be, if not dry, at least a good deal drier than they had
been earlier. Boots which had been carefully stuffed with scrumpled-up newspaper were likewise emptied, felt and pronounced wearable.

‘We’ll have a hot cuppa, then we’ll wrap up warm an’ leave for the depot,’ Lily told her daughter. ‘I’m not one to imagine things, but I’ll feel a whole lot better when I see your dad for meself. It ain’t like him, say what you will, to leave us worryin’ in weather like this.’

For outside, the fog was thicker than ever. Richly yellow now and smelling of coal dust, industrial fug and the turgid reek of the river, it pressed against the windows as though it wanted to join them round the kitchen fire and when at last, fully dressed and with the hot tea drunk, they opened the back door, it flooded in like a river breaking its banks.

‘I’ll lock up because the spare key’s always on the lintel in the privy, Jack knows that,’ Lily said, suiting action to words. Now hang onto me arm, queen, an’ we’ll pur’ our best feet foremost. Only we’ll stick close to the houses, an’ check at every street corner, an’ if it gets too thick we’ll just have to try to catch a tram.’

‘Can’t see the stops, nor can’t they see us – the tram drivers, I mean,’ Rose pointed out, clutching her mother’s hand firmly. ’’Sides, a long walk’ll do us a power o’ good. I’m that tired o’ frowstin’ in the kitchen, Mam. To be honest, I just want a sight of me dad, then I’ll be grand.’

‘Me too,’ Lily sighed. They reached the corner of the street and turned into the main road. ‘Eh, Jack’ll gi’ me the rough side of his tongue when he sees you dragged out on a night like this, queen, but I dussen’t leave you in the house alone. No, I reckon you’re best wi’ me.’

‘I reckon so too,’ Rose said loyally. ‘Hello, Mam, someone’s comin’. Best stand still till they’re past – it might be me dad, it’s a feller at any rate, I can hear a man’s voice.’

The two moved to stand against the nearest house wall but the men were audible long before they became visible and Rose suddenly realised that they were talking about an accident of some sort. She tugged at her mother’s arm. ‘Mam, there’s been some trouble ... I wonder ...’

‘. . . couldn’t ha’ done a blind thing,’ the voice was saying, the words echoing eerily around the small, compact houses. ‘Me driver’s always careful, you know that, Georgie, but he never touched him, only made him jump for the kerb to get out o’ the way . . . an’ he went down an ...’

The two men loomed up beside Rose and her mother and promptly found themselves seized by Rose. ‘Georgie! I – I mean Mr Allen – what’s happened to me dad? He’s not come home an’ Mam an’ me’s awful worried.’

Georgie Allen cast a glance at the man with him, then turned back to Lily and her daughter. ‘Rosie, Mrs Ryder, I’m glad we bumped into you – we was just headin’ for Cornwall Street, me an’ Mr Edwards here. Perhaps we’d best go back to your place . . . we don’t want you hangin’ around in this cold whiles we talk.’

Rose turned obediently for home but her mother was made of sterner stuff. ‘No, Georgie,’ she said sharply. ‘Tell what you’ve got to tell, an’ tell it quick. It’s Jack, ain’t it? He’s hurt. Where is he? I knew, when he din’t come in for his meal that somethin’ bad must ha’ happened, only you keep hopin’ ... What’s happened? Ah, dear God, don’t tell me Jack’s ...’

‘Jack’s in hospital, Mrs Ryder,’ Georgie said gently. ‘He left off early, ’cos he seemed to be goin’ down wi’ either flu or a feverish cold, an’ I got a replacement driver an’ continued me work. But when I were clockin’ off at the depot Mr Edwards here spotted me an’ came over. He telled me Jack had had a bit of a knock in the street, an’ that he’d been took to Mill Lane Hospital, that being the nearest. So we thought we’d come along an’ tek you up there, bein’ as how the fog’s thrown everything into total confusion, an’ there’s no sayin’ when the trams will be runnin’ to time again.’

‘A taxi! We’d better get a taxi,’ Rose said wildly. Her mouth had gone dry at the mere mention of the word ‘hospital’ and her heart was pounding. ‘Is – is he very bad, Mr Allen? Oh, me poor dad, me poor dad!’

‘No use searchin’ for a taxi in this, Rose,’ Georgie Allen said kindly. ‘You’re better on your own two feet, where you can see pavement edges an’ such. The trams have stopped now, too, so it’s Shanks’s pony for the lot of us. Mrs Ryder, this is Teddy Edwards, what fetched help for Jack. Teddy, this is Mrs Ryder, Jack’s wife.’

Greetings were exchanged as they walked, for Georgie was clearly anxious to get them to hospital as soon as possible. ‘Likely Jack’ll be conscious by the time we reaches the ward,’ he said. ‘Why, once them doctors an’ nurses get to work on him, he’ll be right as ninepence in no time. Still, he’ll be eager to see the pair o’ you, so’s he can reassure you both that he’s awright.’

Georgie had a torch which he flashed occasionally, telling them, when he knew himself, what area of the city they had reached, but apart from that they
simply continued on their way through the fog, scarcely speaking. Rose was aware of the tense urgency with which the two men hurried them along, though she did not remark on it, simply clinging to her mother’s hand and praying in a muttered gabble beneath her breath that her dad would be all right, that they would arrive at the hospital and find him pale but grinning, teasing them for the worries.

‘Here we are, ladies,’ Georgie said at last. ‘I’m to take you straight up; Sister said so. Are you comin’, Ted, or will you wait down here?’

Mr Edwards elected to wait and the other three hurried along through quiet, shiny corridors until they reached the ward where Jack Ryder lay.

‘He’s in the third bed on the left,’ the conductor told them as they slipped quietly in through the swing doors. ‘If he’s asleep you’d best not wake him. Go over there; I’ll find the Sister or one of the nurses.’

Having pointed out the bed Georgie hurried away and the other two stole over. Jack lay on his back, his head wreathed in bandages. He looked grey and old and very stern, and despite herself, Rose felt her eyes filling with tears. She sniffed, then took a deep, steadying breath. She would not cry and distress her mother further, she would not! But Lily had pulled a stool from under the bed and sat herself down on it. She began, very gently, to stroke Jack’s forehead and suddenly Rose felt that she should not be here, not now, watching her parents at such a private moment. She moved back a bit and glanced anxiously towards the doorway, where Georgie Allen had disappeared. Would he fetch a doctor as well as a nurse? Her dad looked so ill and strange, she wished that a doctor would come. But no one appeared and her father’s eyes remained closed. Quietly, Rose found herself a
stool and sat down on it. All round her, men in other beds slept, snored, mumbled in their sleep. Only her father, it seemed, lay so completely still.

Jack had only come round once after the accident when they began to work on his injuries. He was suffering from the most appalling headache, too bad to be called a headache really; it felt as though someone with a great trip-hammer had got into his head and was laying about him, striking delicate body parts with enormous force, indifferent to Jack’s pain. But even in his anguish he had tried to ask where he was, what was happening, because in the back of his mind he knew that he must be overdue at home, that Lily would be worried. But all he could do was murmur disconnected words and phrases beneath his breath, and presently he plunged back into unconsciousness once more.

The second time he came round someone was stroking his face. Very gently, very tenderly, soft, familiar fingers caressed his cheek, smoothed round his brow, descended across the other cheek. For a moment even the terrible pain in his head seemed less all-embracing, so that he tried terribly hard to move, to get nearer the source of his comfort.

There was a lovely smell, too. Hyacinths? No, not exactly, it was more like a bluebell wood in May with the sun on it – and Jack hadn’t smelled bluebells like that since he had been a small boy of nine or ten, staying with an old aunt in Ireland. She had lived on a farm and had enjoyed having a little city boy to visit as much as he had enjoyed visiting her. Remembering that magic time he tried to move his head on the pillow, but it was too difficult, and opening his eyes didn’t help much. It was night, there were
shadows round him, that was about all he knew.

After a bit, though, he realised that the soft buzzing hum that he was hearing wasn’t just the awful noises in his ears which had haunted him most of the day. It was someone singing under their breath, a song that he loved, sung by a voice he trusted. He knew the song, and the words.

’The pale moon was rising above the green mountain,

The sun was declining beneath the blue sea,

When I strayed with my love to the pure crystal fountain

That stands in the beautiful vale of Tralee.’

A voice sang, a small, sweet little voice. Rosie’s. Rosie, his own dear little daughter, his own Rose of Tralee. Which meant that Lily was here too, the woman who meant more to him than life itself. He heaved a deep breath and, with enormous effort, spoke. ‘Lil? I’m sorry, my dear love. I didn’t mean for to leave ye.’

He didn’t know why he had said that; he wasn’t leaving ... was he? His head hurt terrible, to be sure, and his eyes weren’t seeing so good, but ... he wasn’t leaving his lovely Lily, his dear little girl, to manage without him? He could not, must not, do that!

Panic struck him. He tried to sit himself up in bed, or he thought he tried, though it had no result whatsoever. But he shouted – only it came out as a whisper – that they must come nearer, so he could speak to them.

He felt their presence, though he could scarcely make them out, shadows amongst shadows. But it didn’t matter because suddenly a little strength returned to him. He said, ‘Tek care of each other.
Rosie, help your mam. Lil, dearest, tek care o’ the kid. I’m – I’m not feelin’ so good,’

There was a choked sob and he felt a small hand slide gently into his. He tried to grasp it but could not. No strength, no strength. He, who had once been so strong that he had lifted a poor dead horse out of the path of his tram, could now not command sufficient strength to hold his little daughter’s hand.

‘Dad? It’s Rosie. Can you hear me?’

He tried to nod and made a buzzing murmur of assent. He thought she understood.

‘Dad, I’m goin’ to stay on at school an’ try for work on a newspaper! How about that, eh? Mam says you’ll be proud of me if I do that, really proud.’

He made another little buzz. He wanted to tell her he was proud of her anyway, proud of his bright, sweet-natured little tomboy of a daughter, even if she settled for working on a market stall or in some obscure little shop. But now he heard Lily’s voice and smelled the most wonderful scent ... lilies and roses, he thought confusedly, the flowers of paradise, lilies and roses.

‘Jack, we loves you so much, Rosie an’ me. You won’t leave us? You’ll stay wi’ us, get better, come home to us?’

He wished he could answer, but the darkness was deepening even as the smell of the flowers became stronger and stronger . . . and suddenly the scene changed and he was in a meadow, the grass studded with flowers and the scent of them heavenly. He saw that the sky above was blue and the sunshine fell golden upon the scene then he was jumping to his feet, running through the grass which swished gently against his bare, sunburned legs and shouting with pleasure as he ran. He was ten again; his aunt’s dog,
Floss, ran ahead of him, her brown eyes beaming with pleasure because she had someone to play with at last. He ran and ran, and felt the wind of his going in his soft, child’s hair, and shouted with delight because, presently, he would go back to the farm for tea and see his gentle mother waiting for him.

For a moment the thought of his mother disturbed him; where was Lil? Where was Rose? For a fleeting second he was back in the dark, with the two of them pressing close to him, the tears of one falling on his forehead, of the other on the back of his hand. It’s all right, he wanted to tell them, we’ll be all right, all of us. You have each other and I have ...

But he was back in the meadow, picking daisies and buttercups, the lingering sadness disappearing as the bouquet of summer flowers grew between his small, rather dirty hands.

‘Come on, queen, we can’t do any more here,’ Lily said quietly, taking her daughter’s hand as they made their way out of the ward and down the stairs. ‘Internal injuries the doctor said ... there was nothin’ they could do.’ She heaved a sigh and squeezed Rosie’s small hand. ‘Oh, Rosie, I don’t know how to go on without your dad and that’s the truth.’

‘I don’t know either, Mam,’ Rose said sadly, her face white and tearstreaked. ‘But Dad’s gone to heaven, hasn’t he? Because everyone loved him, and he was so ... so
good
, me Dad. Why, just before he ... he went he was smilin’, I saw him smile. He knew we was there, lovin’ him, didn’t he? He heard me sing “Rose of Tralee”, I’m sure he did.’

‘That’s right, Rosie,’ Lily said steadily. ‘He knew we loved him all right, same as we know he loved us. An’ it’s love that matters, in the end.

Outside, the fog had disappeared completely. It was a different world from the one they had left hours earlier. The sky was clear and black, the stars very large and bright against the darkness. The moon swung high above them, turning the city into a black-and-silver enchantment. Rose peered upwards, trying to see whether heaven was visible on such a night, whether the soul of her father, flying towards the moon, could be glimpsed, just for a second or two.

But she knew she was just being foolish, because she could not, right now, bear to be sensible. To tell herself that she would never see her father again, that she and her mother were on their own now. Earlier, she had been so happy, longing for him to come home so that she might surprise him with her news. Now, the bright day had died on her; triumph, excitement, pride in herself had all died with him. Now all she wanted was to go home and go to bed . . . and wake up to find it was a horrible nightmare, that he was alive and well, and whistling as he shaved in his bedroom, before the cracked little mirror which hung above the washstand. ‘Mam? It – it still don’t seem real, somehow. I don’t want it to seem real.’