The Angel Tree (34 page)

‘NO! NO! NO! I’m not listening to you, I’m not listening. You’re lying! You’re lying to me!’ Cheska put her hands over her ears and began to shake her head
from side to side.

People were starting to glance in their direction. ‘Darling, please try to keep calm. I swear I’m telling you the truth. Why would I lie?’

Cheska removed her hands from her ears and stared at Greta. ‘Because you can’t bear the thought of losing me, that’s why. Because you want me to stay your little girl forever
and to keep me all to yourself. You don’t ever want me to have my own life with Bobby, or with any man, for that matter. Well, it won’t work, Mummy. I love Bobby and I’m going to
marry him and have his baby. And if you can’t handle that, then it’s your problem, not mine!’

Greta shuddered as Cheska’s face twisted into a hideous scowl, her rare beauty wiped away by her manic expression.

‘Darling, listen to me. I understand that you’re upset, but—’

‘Upset? No! I’m not upset! I just feel sorry for
you
, that’s all. Scared of being lonely for the rest of your life, are you?!’

‘That’s enough!’ Greta’s control shattered under the barrage of her daughter’s bile. ‘Let me tell you something about me and my “lonely” little
life. I was eighteen when I got pregnant. Your father was an American officer who shipped out to the United States without so much as a goodbye, leaving me high and dry. I was penniless and
homeless, but Uncle David saved me from destitution and sent me off to Wales. I met Owen Marchmont and married him so as to give my baby a father. When Owen began to drink, I took you to London and
struggled to try and keep a roof over our heads. The only thing I’ve ever tried to do is to give you what I never had. Everything has been for you, Cheska. I don’t want anything in
return, but I do ask you to have the decency to believe what I’m telling you is true!’

Cheska smiled slowly, but her penetrating gaze was full of venom. ‘Okay, Mummy. Can you tell me how you expect me to believe what you’ve told me about Bobby when you’ve
obviously lied to me all these years about my real father?’

Greta crumpled. Her body sagged as all her energy left her. Slowly, she reached for her handbag, opened it and took out some money to pay the bill.

‘I’m going to leave now. I suggest you wait here for Uncle David and have him confirm what I’ve just said. I can’t do any more than tell you that I’ll always be
there for you if you want me, that I love you very much and have always tried to do what is best for you.’ Greta stood up. ‘Goodbye, Cheska.’

Cheska watched her mother walk out of the bar. And the voice began its insidious whispering.

She’s lying, she’s lying . . . Bobby loves you . . . he loves you
. . .
She hates you, she hates you, she wants to destroy you
. . .

Cheska shook her head from side to side, closed her eyes, then opened them. Everything she saw was coloured misty shades of purple.

She stood up and followed her mother through the lobby and out of the hotel.

David was walking fast along the Strand from Bush House. The meeting had run over and he was late to meet Greta and Cheska. The smog was still dreadful, but at least patchier
than it had been. As he headed towards the Savoy, he wondered if Greta had told Cheska about Bobby Cross. He stood on the pavement opposite the hotel, straining his eyes in the swirling, ice-cold
mist, looking for a gap in the traffic so he could cross the road.

Before he could move, he heard the sound of tyres skidding on the wet road, a loud crash and then an ear-piercing scream. The traffic came to a standstill.

Dodging between the stationary cars, David began to cross. A small huddle of people had collected in front of a car on the other side of the road. They were looking down at someone lying
there.

‘Oh my God!’

‘Is she dead?’

‘Someone call an ambulance!’

‘She must have tripped and fallen. One minute she was standing on the pavement, the next . . .’

‘I couldn’t see because of the smog and . . . !’

Just before he reached the circle of people David stumbled over an object lying in the road. He knelt down and picked it up.

He moaned as he cradled the dainty alligator shoe in his hand. ‘No . . .
please
!’ Pushing his way through the crowd, he knelt down next to the crumpled body that was lying
so still. He tilted Greta’s face up towards him and saw it was unmarked, just a patch of dirt and a slight graze on the cheek where she had fallen. He checked her pulse, and its weakness
indicated her life was slowly draining away.

‘Greta, darling Greta,’ he whispered softly into her ear, placing his cheek against hers. ‘Please don’t leave me. I love you, I love you . . .’

He didn’t know how long it was before an ambulance pulled up beside him, lights flashing.

‘Sorry, sir, could we take a look at her?’ An ambulanceman was at his shoulder.

‘She has a pulse, but . . . please be careful with her,’ David cried.

‘We’ll take over from here, sir. Can you stand aside, please?’

Despairingly, David stood up, knowing he could be of little help. He watched from a distance as Greta was placed gently on a stretcher. Then he saw Cheska, standing alone under a street light a
little way off. He walked over to her.

‘Cheska,’ he said quietly, but she didn’t respond. ‘Cheska.’ He put an arm around her shoulders. ‘It’s all right. Uncle David’s here.’

Cheska looked up at him, her eyes registering a glimmer of recognition.

‘What happened? I—’ She gave a small shake of her head and looked around her as if trying to remember where she was. ‘Mummy? Where’s Mummy?’ Cheska’s
eyes searched the street in desperation.

‘Cheska, I—’ He pointed at the ambulance.

She pulled away from David and ran towards it. Greta was lying on the stretcher beside it whilst the ambulance crew prepared to put her inside. Her face had the colour and glassy appearance of
white porcelain. Cheska let out a scream, hurled herself onto the stretcher and put her arms round Greta’s limp body.

‘Mummy! Mummy! I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it! Oh God! No!’

David stood behind Cheska, as he listened to her muttering into Greta’s chest, then sobbing hysterically. He knelt down and tried to pull her away, but she clung on, her words muffled.

‘Come on, Cheska. Come on, sweetheart. We have to let them take Mummy to the hospital.’

Cheska turned to David, a look of raw anguish on her face. Then she fainted in his arms.

In the days after the accident David shuttled between Greta in the intensive care unit and Cheska on a female medical ward at St Thomas’s Hospital, in a hellish blur of
anxiety.

After Cheska had fainted in the street that dreadful night, David had little choice but to stay with her, despite being frantic with worry about Greta. One of the ambulance crew had stayed
behind to attend to Cheska but, as she was being examined, she came to and began screaming at the top of her lungs, then gabbling incoherently about ghosts and witches and coffins. She lashed out
wildly at David when he tried to calm her. Eventually, the ambulanceman had no option but to sedate her whilst they waited for another ambulance to arrive.

Once he’d seen Cheska settled and sleeping on the ward, David had asked the nurse where he’d find Greta. Panic clutching at his heart, he took the lift to Intensive Care, not knowing
whether she was alive or dead. He was informed that she was currently in a coma and that her condition was critical but stable. Visitors were out of the question.

For hours there had been nothing he could do but pace up and down the corridor, anxiously questioning various medical personnel as they bustled in and out. They could tell him nothing, except to
repeat that Greta was seriously ill.

It was two days – during which the doctors remained tight-lipped about her condition – before he was allowed in to see her. The first sight of her, rigged up to a bank of machines,
tubes protruding from her mouth and nose, her face swollen and bruised, made him weep.

‘Please be all right, my darling,’ he whispered to her over and over again, as he sat at her bedside. ‘Please, Greta, come back to me.’

‘Ah, Mr Marchmont.’ The consultant stood up and shook David by the hand. ‘I’m Doctor Neville. Please, take a seat. I gather you’re a relative of
Greta’s?’

‘Yes, I am, I suppose, by marriage. She’s also a very close friend.’

‘Then I can tell you what we know so far. When she was hit by the car she suffered a badly fractured femur and severe trauma to her skull that has caused her to slip into a comatose state.
It’s obviously the head injury that’s of the greatest concern, particularly as Greta has not yet regained consciousness, even fleetingly.’

‘But surely she’ll wake up eventually?’

‘We’re running tests, but I’m afraid there’s nothing conclusive to report yet. If we don’t find anything, we may transfer her to the brain injury unit at
Addenbrooke’s Hospital in Cambridge for further assessment.’

‘So what’s the prognosis at this stage, doctor?’

‘As far as we can tell, we’re in no danger of losing her, if that’s what you mean. Her vital signs are encouraging and we’re now confident there’s no internal
bleeding. As to the coma, well . . . only time will tell. I’m sorry.’

David left the doctor’s office with conflicting emotions. He was passionately relieved that Greta was out of danger but devastated by the possible ramifications the doctor had described.
He didn’t know which was worse – the thought that Greta might never wake up or that, if she did, her brain might be so damaged that her life would be untenable anyway.

Later that afternoon he made his way wearily upstairs for his daily visit to Cheska. As usual, she didn’t acknowledge him but continued to lie motionless on the bed staring at a spot on
the ceiling.

David tried everything to elicit some response from her, but there was none.

The glassy, staring eyes haunted him whenever he closed his own to snatch a few minutes’ sleep in the visitors’ waiting room. The hospital consultant had told him that Cheska was in
a catatonic state, caused, he thought, by the emotional trauma she had suffered when she’d witnessed her mother’s accident.

The following week a still-comatose Greta was transferred to Addenbrooke’s Hospital. David was told it was best if the doctors spent a few days assessing her before he
made the journey to see her. They would call him if there was any news.

Weak from lack of sleep and the sheer physical and emotional strain of tending to the two women he loved, David went home for the first time in days and slept for twenty-four hours. When he
returned, refreshed, to see Cheska, her consultant called him into his office.

‘Sit down, Mr Marchmont, please.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I wanted to talk to you about Cheska. We’d presumed when she was admitted that the shock of seeing her mother’s accident would gradually lessen and she would improve. Sadly,
so far, that’s not been the case. Mr Marchmont, we are a medical ward and don’t deal with cases such as this. I had our resident psychiatrist in to assess her, and he believes that she
needs to be moved to a dedicated psychiatric unit. Especially under the circumstances.’

‘And what are they?’

‘Cheska’s over two months pregnant.’

‘Oh good God!’ David groaned, wondering how much more he could take.

‘I presumed you didn’t know and, technically, I am breaking rules of patient privacy in telling you, but as Cheska is in no condition to tell you herself, and her mother is . . .
incapacitated, you are the next of kin. I thought it was important for you to be aware of the whole picture.’

‘Of course,’ he answered weakly.

‘Given the fact that Cheska is a famous face, I’d suggest a discreet private clinic.’

‘Is that kind of institution really necessary?’ asked David wearily.

‘As Cheska is currently unlikely to respond if anything went wrong, she must be medically supervised during her pregnancy.’

‘I understand.’

‘Let me know which part of the country you’d prefer to send her to, and I’ll ask our psychiatrist to make some calls to suitable establishments.’

‘Thank you.’ David left the doctor and walked slowly down the corridor, back to Cheska’s bed.

She was sitting in her chair, staring out of the window. David knelt in front of her and took her hands.

‘Cheska, you should have told me. You’re having a baby.’

Nothing.

‘Bobby’s baby.’ Instinct made him say the words.

Cheska inclined her head slightly towards him. She smiled suddenly.

‘Bobby’s baby,’ she repeated.

David put his head in his hands and wept with relief.

‘Is Leon in?’ David asked the receptionist, as he walked purposefully towards the closed office door.

‘Yes, but—’

Leon put down the telephone when David walked in without knocking. ‘Hello David. Merry Christmas! How are Greta and Cheska?’

David went over to Leon and put his hands on his desk. He leant forward, using his height and powerful frame to the full.

‘A little better, but no thanks to you. I want you to tell me whether you knew Cheska was having an affair with Bobby Cross and, if you did, why you didn’t warn her about his marital
status?’

Leon shrank back in his chair. David, usually so good-natured and gentle, seemed positively menacing.

‘I . . . I . . .’

‘So you
did
know?’

‘Yes, I had a vague idea something was going on.’

‘Oh come off it, Leon! Greta told me you called and said Cheska would have to stay down in Brighton for the weekend. Cheska admitted to her mother there was no filming then. You were
covering for her, Leon. Why, for God’s sake? You, of all people, know what Bobby’s like!’

‘Okay, okay! Sit down, David, please. You look like a hoodlum standing over me like this.’

David remained standing and folded his arms. ‘I want to know why,’ he repeated.

‘Look, I swear I didn’t actively encourage the relationship, although I know Charles Day wanted to because of the film. Cheska was having problems making the transition from the kind
of little-girl parts she’d played, and Charles thought a pleasant romance with her co-star wouldn’t do her any harm, in fact would help her mature a little. And it certainly helped her
performance. You should see the rushes. Cheska’s fantastic!’