The year of the virgins (13 page)

Joe was still gasping but his voice snapped, 'She opened

her eyes at last and actually looked at Annette. I came in at the tail-end. I don't know what had happened before.'

When something again hit the door, Maggie said, 'She'll wreck the room.'

'Let her.'

Daniel turned and went down the stairs, and they followed him into Don's room, to find his son white and shivering.

'What actually happened?' he asked Annette. 'How did the news break?'

She bent her head a moment before she said, 'I was undressed and she could see Don had a hand on my stomach. She must have been in the sun-room; she came in that way unexpectedly.'

'Well, she had to find out sometime, hadn't she?'

Annette looked up now and said, 'I'm moving him tomorrow, Dad.'

'There mightn't be any need, lass; when the doctor comes, he'll need to take a second opinion, but she's got to be put away. It's been coming for a long time.'

When, half an hour later the doctor, together with Maggie, cautiously entered Winifred's room, he stopped on the threshold and gazed around him in amazement. The only item seemingly to be in one piece was the four-poster bed, and sprawled across it was the woman whom he had attended for years and to whom he had doled out pills that he knew would do her no good whatever.

He moved towards the bed, and avoiding the side over which her legs were hanging, he went round to where her head lay. And cautiously he touched it, saying quietly, 'It's all right, Mrs Coulson, it's all right. Sit up, there's a good woman.'

She raised her head and stared at him. Her face was empty of expression, quiet; yet her voice belied this when, as if he knew all that had transpired, she said, 'I tell you he was a virgin. I watched over him. Except - ' She turned her head to the side and screwed up her eyes as if trying to recall something and then, springing from the bed, she cried, 'He did it! He was going to make him like father like son; he couldn't bear to see anything pure. No, no.' She shook her head wildly now and, putting her hand out and gripping his arm, she appealed to him: 'No; it was Joe. You see that he owns up. Joe gave it to her. Joe always wanted her.'

'There, there. Sit down. Come on, sit down.' He drew her gently down on to the side of the bed again; then glancing towards where Maggie stood, he motioned his head towards his bag, which he had dropped on to the floor, and she brought it to him and placed it on the bed. And when he opened it and began to pick out one thing after another, Winifred jumped to her feet, saying, 'You're not putting me to sleep; I haven't finished yet. Oh, no, I haven't finished yet, not by a long chalk. I'll destroy them and everything in this house. It won't be fit to live in when I'm finished with it.'

'Well, we'll talk about that tomorrow. Come, sit down.'

As she backed away from him, he stood for a moment, looking at her helplessly; then, without turning his gaze towards Maggie, he said quietly, 'Fetch the men.'

As they were both outside the door it was only a matter of seconds before they were in the room, and when Winifred saw them she looked wildly about her, searching for something to throw. And when she made towards the dressing-table and the glass bottles and powder jars scattered around it on the floor, both Daniel and Joe rushed towards her and held her as best they could, trying

to ignore the volume of obscenities once more pouring from her mouth, while the doctor inserted a needle, none too gently, into the thick flesh of her arm.

Winifred struggled for another few seconds before finally subsiding on to the floor.

As he stood looking down on the huddled form, Doctor Peters let out a long slow breath before saying to Daniel, 'She'll have to be admitted, of course. And before she comes round. I'll phone the hospital and arrange for an ambulance.'

'The County?' Joe's voice was small as he continued to stare at the crumpled heap of flesh, more animal than human.

'If not the County, then Hetherington. In her case I think the Hetherington would be preferable. It will depend on which one has a vacancy, though, so I'd better find out,' Doctor Peters answered.

While this was going on, Daniel hadn't spoken a word, and he didn't break the silence that followed when left with Joe and Maggie.

They both watched him as he stared down at his wife, and he was unaware of Maggie's touching Joe on the arm and of their leaving the room, for he was searching deep into his mind, asking questions, giving himself answers. Was he to blame?

No, no. He couldn't say he was to blame because he would never have taken up with anyone else if she had behaved as a wife.

But had she ever been a wife, a willing wife? Wasn't it that she hadn't wanted a husband so much as security and position?

But when had the big rows started? the recriminations?

From the time she knew that Stephen was retarded.

Had she been a wife to him during the time she had played mother to the adopted boy, Joe?

Only under protest.

How many women had she caused him to use? Because he had just used them; there certainly had been no feeling of tenderness or love in his dealings.

Perhaps Father Ramshaw could answer that question better than he himself, for he had a good memory for confessions. Following each time he had gone off the rails, he had gone to confession.

Had it been just fear of the retribution of God that had driven him to confession? Or the fact that he had liked the priest and thought he would understand? And he did understand, even about Maggie.

How was it that he loved Maggie? He must have loved her all the time, but had only become aware of it during recent years. Now, if she had given him some hint, he wouldn't have had to sully his soul as much as he had done, for he had never kept up a connection with any one person for long.

Looking at his life, it had been hellish. He had money, a thriving business, a fine house and, except by a few men, one being Annette's father, he was highly respected. Yet what did it all amount to? He could only repeat: hell. The only thing that mattered in life was love. It wasn't even essential to be able to write your own name; you could be deaf or blind, or just dim; but if you really loved that's what got you through.

He stretched his body now and looked away from his wife. Hadn't she loved? No; that wasn't love, that was a mania, a possessive mania; more than that, it was almost incest. Love was something else. What else?

He looked around the room as if searching for an answer

and then said aloud, 'Kindliness. Aye, that's it.' To be kind, that was love. To give comfort, that was love. To like someone for themselves, forgetting their faults, yes, that was the best kind of love. And he would have never known anything about it except that Maggie had come into his life. Odd that. She had always been there, but she had just come into it.

He turned and, stooping, righted an upturned chair; then as he was about to pick up a broken picture from the floor, he straightened, saying to himself, there'll be plenty of time for that tomorrow, for the house will be at peace tomorrow, and for the next day, the next week, the next month, please God.

He turned again and looked at his wife. And now the knowledge that she would soon be gone, as well as the sight of her lying in that undignified heap, brought from him the urge to go and lift her on to the bed, to straighten her limbs, to bring back to her a little dignity, because this heap that now represented her had stripped her of all dignity. And he recalled that when she walked she had done so with dignity. Fat she may have been, fat she was, but she carried it well.

He could not, however, make the move towards her; for now an overwhelming feeling of revulsion was preventing him from touching her. When the ambulance men came they would see to her, or perhaps Joe, or the doctor, or anybody.

He scampered from the room, tripping over broken furniture as he went. Joe was waiting outside. It was as if he was always waiting, waiting to be of help, and it was natural for him to put his hand out towards him, saying, 'I'm going to be sick, lad.' And Joe, taking his arm, hurriedly led him across the landing, pushed open the

bathroom door and guided him inside. And he continued to support his head while the retching continued, and even after the stomach had given up all it held. Then he sat him down on the bathroom chair and sponged his face with cold water. This done, he said, 'I would go to bed if I were you, Dad; I'll see to things.'

'No, no; I'll see it through.' Then he added, 'The doctor's been a long time on the phone.'

'He had to go and see Don; he was in a state. He gave him a sleeping draught. He's with Annette now; and she's not much better.'

Daniel got to his feet and adjusted his clothes. Pulling his tie straight, he said, 'It's odd that Stephen should sleep through all this.'

'He hasn't slept through all this; he's downstairs in the kitchen with Maggie. He must have run down when we were all in the bedroom. He was stiff with fear.'

The sound of a commotion in the hall now brought them both out of the bathroom and down the stairs, there to see two ambulance men and the doctor in discussion. And the doctor, turning towards Daniel and taking in his blanched face, tentatively said, 'Do you think you'll be able to accompany us to the hospital? Someone must come along. Perhaps you would rather your son . . .'

'No, no; I'll come.'

'Very well.' The doctor and the two ambulance men, preceded by Joe, went up the stairs, while Daniel, standing in the middle of the hall, grappled with the fact that it wasn't all over yet; he'd still to see her into the place.

There was a weird stillness on the house, a kind of stillness that exaggerated the ticking of the tall grandfather clock, which now boomed three times, announcing that it was a

quarter to twelve. Don was in a deep sleep which would take him through until the morning. Stephen too was asleep, as also was Peggie. Maggie was in her room, but she wasn't asleep. She wouldn't go to sleep until she heard Daniel's car draw up in the drive. And Joe and Annette weren't asleep. They were in the drawing-room, sitting on the sofa opposite the log fire. They had been sitting there for some time, both wanting to speak but not knowing how to begin. It was Annette who first made the effort. Looking at Joe, who was sitting bent forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands hanging between them in his characteristic fashion, she said softly, T'm sorry that you are implicated, Joe. She . . . she didn't know what she was saying. You understand that?'

Joe now slowly turned his head towards her and he gazed at her for a long moment, in which his thoughts were racing and shouting at him: if only there had been even a vestige of truth in the statement. But what he actually said was, T know that, dear. It was an utterly ridiculous suggestion to make. But as you say, she didn't know what she was saying. And . . . and you've always been like a little sister to me.'

She smiled wanly now, saying, 'Oh, I didn't think of you at one time as a brother! Remember when I used to follow you about? I had a kind of pash on you when I was fourteen.'

He made himself smile, saying, 'And it would be a kind of pash.'

'Don't be silly, Joe; you always underestimate yourself. You always have done, and there's no need. There's Irene, Irene Shilton. You would only have to lift your little finger. And Jessica Bowbent's another.' Then, her voice dropping, she said slowly, 'You should marry, Joe, and get away from here. Yes - ' She shook her head now and turned

and looked into the fire, repeating, 'Get away from here, from all of them . . . from all of us, from Stephen, he's Dad's responsibility, and from Don; he's . . . well he's my responsibility now, and from Dad himself, because if you don't, you'll find us all on your shoulders.'

When she turned her gaze on him again he wanted to put his arms out and pull her into them and say, 'I'd carry you on my shoulders at any time. I'd wait a lifetime if I thought there would be any chance of bearing you as a burden.'

She went on, 'They take advantage of you, Joe; you're too kind. You've always been kind. You think you owe them a debt because they took you in when you were a baby. To my mind you owe nobody a debt; you've paid it by filling a gap in their lives.'

'Maybe, but only for a short time.' He shook his head ruefully. 'From the moment Don arrived, the gap was closed. I faced up to that as a child, but it didn't make me think the less of Don. I loved him. I still do.'

'Joe. Oh, Joe.' She put her hand out to him, and he hesitated a moment before taking it; then he gripped it and said, 'Don't cry. Oh, please, please, Annette, don't cry. It'll all work out, you'll see. We'll get him better in the end.'

The tears now were raining down her cheeks; her lips were trembling and her words came through her chattering teeth as she said, 'Don't hoodwink yourself, Joe, or try to hoodwink me. He'll never be better. If it was just his legs there'd be some hope, but he's all smashed up inside. You know he is. He knows he is. We both know he'll never get better.'

'Annette. Annette. Oh, my dear.' Her head came on to his shoulders and his arms went about her, and as he felt the nearness of her he made a great effort to disbelieve her words, because it was true what he had said: he loved

the man he thought of as his brother, the brother who had usurped his place in her life.

He let his mouth drop into her hair as he said, 'He'll live a long time yet. Between us we'll see to it that he holds his child, and see it romp an' all.' And he was about to mutter more platitudes when she drew herself away from him; and after she had dried her eyes she put her hand out and gently touched his cheek, saying, 'You're the kindest man in the world, Joe. I could tell you anything and not feel ashamed. I didn't feel ashamed when I told you about the baby coming. And now I can tell you of my fears too. I'm afraid of going home tomorrow - I still think of my parents place as home - and giving them my news. Because you know what will happen, Joe? They'll disown me.'

'Never! Never!'

'Oh, yes, they will, Joe. In a way, my mother is akin to Mam; she's got religion bad. I never pray now, you know, Joe, I never pray to God for Don or for anything that I want because all my young life it was prayers morning, noon, and night, at the table and away from it; and religious books, The Lives of The Saints, the martyrdom of this one and that one; then life at the convent school: Mass and Communion every morning during Lent. I would feel faint with hunger but she would make sure I went to Communion. Even the nuns didn't expect me to have Communion every day; but they could see me as a potential saint, such a good little girl. And all the while I was getting to hate God. Dreadful, terrible feelings inside. As for the Virgin Mary, I suffered agonies in what I thought about her. And I longed, longed for escape. And on our wedding day we both thought we had made it. But as Mother always says, God is not mocked, and after the accident I began to believe it was true, and that what had happened to us