The Other Child (29 page)

Towards evening she could not bear her pain any longer and finally she seemed to realise that something had to be done.

‘Run to the docks,' she croaked hoarsely, ‘as quick as you can! Fetch Harold. He has to come at once!'

Without a doubt it would have been more sensible to go straight for a doctor, but I was relieved to be able to let an adult take responsibility. It was not far to Harold's dock from our house, maybe a twenty-five-minute walk. That frosty February evening in 1943 I think I made it in about ten minutes. Although there were dangerous patches of black ice everywhere, I flew through the terraces, my heart hammering. I had a stitch, a dry mouth and was wheezing. My panic gave me strength. My instinct was telling me that Mum could die if she did not get help. We had wasted far too long. I prayed that I would meet Harold, and that he had not already headed for one of the grotty pubs at the docks for his first drink of the evening. In that case, I knew, I would have almost no chance of finding him. Luckily I caught him, just as he was saying goodbye to his mates. He was completely astonished by my sudden appearance in front of him out of the dark. I fought for breath and bent double with the stitch.

‘Mum,' I gasped. ‘You have to come home at once. She's … she's in a bad way!'

Harold surprised me. Without further ado or questions, he hurried home with me. I would not have thought that this large man could move so quickly. His face was a deep red and glistened with sweat when we arrived; he had not paused for a second. We could probably say he was lucky not to have had a heart attack.

Mum lay bent double on the sofa, her arms around her stomach. Her face was gaunt and yellow. I could not understand how, but it seemed as if she had become years older and pounds lighter in the course of that afternoon. She stared at her husband with eyes like saucers.

‘Harold.' It sounded like a sob. ‘I think … our son … he's …'

‘Rubbish,' said Harold. ‘We'll have the most beautiful boy in the world, you'll see!'

He accompanied her to the hospital. For a moment I saw his face when he was not putting on a show for Mum. It did not bode well.

My memories of that evening and the following night are hazy. I think I tried to distract myself by tidying up the flat and washing the blood out of the sofa, at which I did not succeed completely. Later there was always a darker patch on it, and when Mum could no longer stand the sight of it, Harold had to have it taken away. I never found out where he took it.

Finally, when there was nothing else to do, I waited and waited. I made myself a cup of tea, sat at the table and stared at the walls. I felt terribly guilty. I had felt such a strong inner resistance to this child. I had often wished it would not see the light of day, and now it seemed as if my secret wishes were coming true in a horrible way. And on top of it all I would lose my mother. She had looked terrible, and had lost so much blood. What would happen if she did not come home? Why had I not ignored her order and fetched a doctor much earlier? I wrestled with my feelings, I cried. For the first time in my life I realised that waiting can be the worst of tortures.

It was after midnight when I heard Harold's slow, heavy steps outside. It sounded as though he were pulling himself up the banister. I raced to the door. He was standing in front of me, staring at me with bloodshot eyes and stinking of alcohol. He must have stopped off in a number of pubs on the way back from the hospital.

‘Fiona,' he said, dragging out the syllables.

‘What is it? Harold, how is my mother?'

He swayed into the flat and headed straight for the sideboard in the kitchen. He got out a bottle of the hard stuff. I could have hit him.

‘Harold! Please! How's Mum?'

‘She'll be all right. They op-operated on her.'

I closed my eyes. I felt faint from relief. Mum was not dead. She would come back to me.

‘The child,' whispered Harold. He was tongue-tied. He took a long swig from the bottle and turned to face me. ‘It r-r-really w-was a b-boy. My son … is d-dead.'

I have to admit that I was not particularly moved by this news. I had nothing to do with Harold Kane's son, even if he was my half-brother. I could not stop thinking: Mum's alive, Mum's alive, Mum's alive!

An enormous weight had fallen from my shoulders.

Harold, however, was in the middle of a terrible crisis. He was in utter despair. He drank more and more, moaning and complaining with an ever more mumbling voice about the unborn child. The child that they had been waiting for. The child who had meant everything to him. The child who was supposed to change his life.

In the end I could not stand it any more and said, pretty stroppily, ‘For God's sake, Harold. She'll have another child. It'll be all right!'

He lowered the bottle he had been about to put to his mouth.

‘Never … again,' he said. ‘Never again. The d-doctor said it w-wouldn't be p-possible a-again.'

‘I'm sorry,' I said awkwardly. What else should I have said? Harold stared at me and then to my horror he burst into tears. ‘Oh God,' he moaned. ‘Oh God!'

He swayed over to me. ‘F-fiona, F-fiona, hold me … hold me tight.'

I immediately stepped back, until I had the edge of a cupboard pushing into my back.

‘Harold!' I said sternly.

He was right in front of me. He stank terribly of alcohol. I almost felt sick. He was also scaring me. We had never hugged, even if Mum would have liked us to. I did not want to, and he had respected that. But now, here in our flat, in the middle of the night, in his extreme emotional state, drunk and in despair, he was losing it.

‘Not a step closer,' I warned him with a hoarse voice.

‘Fiona,' he moaned again and went to grab me.

I ducked under his hand and was now standing in the doorway. I was more agile and quick than he was. Plus I was sober. But naturally he was much stronger, and if push came to shove, I did not stand a chance. Not a chance – if what, exactly, happened?

Later I came to the conclusion that Harold Kane was not planning to assault me sexually. Neither on that night nor any other had he ever given any indication that he had his eye on me. On the contrary, I came to realise that he was completely fixated on my mother. He never even seemed to notice other women.

He really had only wanted to be consoled. He was in utter despair. His world had collapsed. To feel better he would have thrown himself into anyone's arms right then, whether a man or a woman. But I was very young, and touchy. I already felt such a strong suspicion and dislike of him. I was exhausted after my horrific afternoon with my groaning, whimpering mother. My nerves must have been completely shot.

‘I'll scream,' I warned him. ‘If you come a step closer, I'll scream so loud the house comes down!'

He stood there, confused. ‘Y-you d-don't really think …?'

I did not wait for him to finish the question. I turned round in a flash and raced through the tiny hall and into my room. I slammed the door shut behind me and leant against it from the inside. There was no key, which I had often regretted but never as much as that night. I felt completely exposed, in danger. Harold could enter at any time and I would not be able to defend myself from him. The only thing I could do was to stay awake and make assault as difficult as possible. If he were to try to step into my territory, I would fight and scream. He would not catch me asleep, in any case.

So I kept watch all night, until the morning. I sat on the floor, with my back leant against the door, and stared into the darkness. I was dead tired and at the same time awake. My heart was pounding. The thoughts were racing through my head. I could not stay here. That much was certain. Harold had said Mum had been operated on. That meant she would have to stay in hospital for a while. At least ten days, maybe even a fortnight. There was no way I was going to stay in the flat alone with her drunk husband all that time. I could not bear him. I was afraid of him.

There was just one place in the world where I felt safe. I could only hope that what I had saved of my pocket money would be enough for a train ticket to Scarborough. Once I was there, I would see what came next. I did not think that my mother and Harold would simply accept me taking flight, but at least Mum was out of action for now and Harold could not tell me what to do. And the main thing was for me to feel safe.

That was the most important thing.

So I sat and waited and brooded until morning broke. I had heard nothing more of Harold. He had not tried to follow me into my room. At some point I must have nodded off for a moment, because I jumped when I heard the front door slam shut – the first noise for hours. Right after that I heard the sound of someone going down the stairs. Thank God Harold was going to work like any other day.

I stood up, feeling stiff. My eyes were stinging with exhaustion. Nevertheless, I was resolved not to grant myself even half an hour's sleep. I was going to wash, get changed, pack the basics. Then I was going to head for the railway station.

I would spend the next night on the Beckett farm.

10

It felt like I was travelling for ever. My money had been enough for the ticket, and I was in Scarborough that afternoon. But from there it seemed to take an eternity: first to find out which bus I had to take, and then to wait for it to come. According to the timetable, the bus should have been there much earlier, but when I complained to the driver he just shrugged his shoulders. ‘We're at war, young lady,' he said. The fact that he called me a
young lady
raised my mood no end. ‘Most drivers are at the front. Us stand-ins can only do so much.'

The bus soon reached Staintondale. I pressed my nose to the window, and in the last light of day drank in the images of the landscape I knew and loved so well. Although that February day was cold and grey, with fields and sky disappearing before the horizon in a foggy haze, and all the trees were bare, I wanted to hug every patch of field, every meadow, every stone wall and every crooked hedge. I knew what it would look like in a few weeks' time when the daffodils shot up, the open March sky was an unearthly blue and all the trees were in bud.

Dear God, please let me still be here then, I prayed silently, please let me stay!

The farm was quite a walk from the road where the driver had dropped me off. Although I had not packed much, the bag was still heavy. But now I was within reach of my destination – knowledge which lent me renewed strength. I had not slept in thirty-six hours, but that did not stop me from being wide awake. I would see Chad soon. Emma would hug me.

I was almost home.

The farm lay in complete darkness, which rather surprised me. It was already evening. Only the western horizon was still a lighter grey. The bare trees stood out in front of it like a bizarre silhouette picture. The wind picked up, blowing in cold and salty from the sea. I was warm from my walk. Standing at the gate I looked at the house. Emma always used to have lots of lights on, because she wanted her home to give out a feeling of warmth and life. I had often been witness to the quarrels she and Arvid had had over this. He of course found her wish wasteful. In spite of his objections, she had always won, although she normally acted rather submissively towards her husband.

Perhaps no one was at home. But where should they all go on a cold weekday evening?

I approached the house slowly. After stopping briefly at the door, I hesitantly pushed down on the handle. The door opened. A cat, which had been sitting right behind the door, shot out of the hall and disappeared behind me into the darkness.

The house did not smell good. I noticed that immediately. It had not been aired. It smelt of old food and dust. In spite of not being well off, Emma had always kept her house clean and fresh. It had smelt of flowers or candles or the hearth fire. A house which seemed to welcome visitors with open arms. But now … Could the farm have changed this much in the half year since I had been here last? Or had I changed? Was I seeing things differently? Was I overtired, burnt out?

‘Hello?' I called out. They never left the door unlocked when no one was at home.

I went down the hall and peeked into the living room. Dark. Cold. No fire in the hearth, no candles in the window.

I walked on. ‘Hello?' I called out again. ‘Isn't anyone home?'

When I reached the kitchen, I noticed a weak light coming from under the door. I gave a sigh of relief. Someone was home. But somehow I still felt on edge.

Something was not right.

I opened the kitchen door.

The ceiling light was turned off. Only the little light above the kitchen sink was on. It barely lit the room. It was rather cold in there too, even though the oven was lit. Arvid was sitting at the kitchen table – big, dark and silent. A cup and a teapot were on the table in front of him. There was a strong smell of lime-tree blossom tea, the one Emma liked to make in the evening before going to bed.

‘Arvid!' I stepped into the kitchen, afraid he might have a shock, but he did not even blink. He must have heard me coming and calling, but he did not react. ‘Arvid, it's me. Fiona.'

He raised his eyes. I knew him to be taciturn, but at this moment he did not seem to be merely his usual silent and bad-tempered self. It was as if he were … paralysed.

‘Arvid, where's Emma? Where's Chad?'

He just looked at me. A cold, heavy fear took hold of me. ‘Where are they?' I insisted.

At that moment I heard steps on the stairs.

Somebody was running down the hall. I turned around and Nobody shot into my arms. He was beaming and making unintelligible sounds. The only word which crystallised out of his gobbledegook was ‘Fiona! Fiona!' As he said it, he stroked my face, slobbering with happiness.

I was no more enthralled by him than I had been before, but right now I was so relieved to meet someone else as well as mute Arvid that I hugged the boy.