Wildthorn (10 page)

My feet are clamped to the ground and I can't move. Long white fingers like maggots creep over my body, I'm sinking into the earth, deeper and deeper until I'm lost. The cold creeps up my body and then I know. I'm dead. I'm buried.

I open my eyes.

It's totally dark. I'm numb with cold, and fear beats in my ears. I can't move. A heavy weight is pinning me down. My mouth, my eyes, my ears are blocked with darkness. I've been buried alive. They have dug a pit and put me in it and stamped the earth down on top of me so that I can't cry out...

Drip.

I remember. I'm still in the bath. How long have I been here? Why has no one come?

I try to call but only produce a croak.

The door opens sending a bar of light across the canvas cover.

"Miss? You're still here?"

It's Eliza, with a lamp.

"Oh, Miss, are you all right? I'd have come to top up the hot water, but Weeks sent me on an errand. I thought she'd see to you."

All the time she's talking, she's unfastening the cover, helping me out. I can hardly stand. My teeth are chattering.

Eliza supports me on one arm, rubbing me vigorously with a towel.

"You're right perished! It's wicked. Can you walk?"

A nod. All I can manage.

Eliza helps me along the hallway to the dormitory, where she unlocks the door.

"You'd best get into bed, Miss. It's the only way to warm up. Here, slip under the covers, while I fetch your night gown."

She holds back the bedclothes and I climb stiffly into bed. I lie curled up with my arms wrapped round me, trying to get warm. My hands and feet are numb.

Eliza is soon back. She helps me to sit up and puts my nightgown on me, as if I were a child. My skin is blotchy,
wrinkled like a prune. I try to fasten my nightgown, but my shrivelled fingers won't work. Eliza does it for me, patiently tugging at each button with her broad fingers.

She smells of milk, and almonds.

When I am tucked in, she pauses by the bed.

"I'm sorry about this, Miss. I'd say something, but it'd cost me my place, you see."

I manage another nod.

"You have a good sleep."

Don't take the lamp away. Don't leave me alone.

The light goes from the room. I'm in the dark again. The fear is waiting.

Just once I let myself think, "Grace, where are you?" Then I roll into a tight ball and tell myself, over and over again, "It will be all right, it will be all right..."

Seven Months Earlier

I didn't want any pudding and strangely, Mamma didn't insist. She was staring out of the window and seemed to have forgotten the food going cold on her plate.

Neither of us spoke. In the silence, the ticking of the clock seemed louder than usual. I wondered if Mamma, like me, was thinking of Papa, lying in bed upstairs.

I looked at her. "Shall I see how he is?"

"Yes, do." Another strange thing. Usually I couldn't leave the table until everyone had finished.

***

Papa was lying back on his pillow. On the tray in front of him, the bowl of soup was half full. Still, he had eaten a few spoonfuls.

He smiled at me. "Hello, Lou. Had your dinner?" He was trying to speak normally, but his voice sounded hoarse. His face was flushed again, a deep red.

"Papa, I think I should take your temperature."

"Don't be silly, Lou. It's not necessary."

"I think it is. Papa, you know it is. Please."

He gave in as if indulging my whim, and I fetched the thermometer from his study. When I saw the result, I exclaimed. "It's a hundred and three! We should send for Dr. Kneale."

He lifted his hand in protest. "No. There's no need to trouble him. I've probably got a touch of influenza, that's all." He
broke off in a fit of coughing. Perhaps he was right about the influenza.

When he'd recovered, he murmured, "What I need is a good sleep."

I took the hint and left him in peace.

Alone at my desk, I tried to read, but I had to keep going back over the same sentences. I couldn't stop thinking about Papa.

"Louisa!" It was Mamma's voice, sharp, urgent.

I ran to my parents' bedroom.

Papa had vomited. He was tossing around in a tangle of sheets and he still looked very hot.

Mamma tugged at his soiled nightgown but he was flailing his arms so wildly she couldn't get if off. "Help me, Louisa."

We managed to pull the gown over his head but as we were trying to put on a fresh one, he sat up and pushed us away.

"Don't touch me, you blackguards!" he shouted and, seizing his pillow, he thrashed it about as if he was fighting off an unseen enemy.

"Papa, it's me. Louisa!" But he didn't know me.

Mamma cried, "Edward!" and tried to catch hold of his arm, but he pushed her violently against the chest of drawers.

I went to the door and shouted for Mary. As soon as she appeared, I said, "You must run for Dr. Kneale. Hurry, Mary!"

***

It seemed like an age until the doctor came. All the while Papa thrashed about and babbled nonsense in a voice I'd never heard before. Mamma and I watched in silent horror. There was nothing we could do.

Dr. Kneale arrived. Although he was a colleague of Papa's at the Dispensary, we didn't know him very well. He examined Papa then turned to Mary and said, "Have you any ice?"

When she nodded, he told her to fetch some, wrapped in a cloth, and hold it on Papa's forehead. Papa was less agitated now and submitted to this quietly, although he continued to mutter and once said, very distinctly, "Pecked off her nose!"

Dr. Kneale took Mamma out of the room and I followed.

On the landing, Mamma was saying, "He's been so restless at night, unable to sleep. It's unlike him."

"And he's had diarrhoea," I added. "Not much and not very often, but it's yellow, like pea soup."

Dr. Kneale surveyed me with his mild blue eyes. "Well, now. That's a very precise observation, young lady. You're quite the nurse, aren't you?"

His tone made me squirm, but before I could say anything, Mamma asked, "What do you think it is?"

We both stared at him anxiously until he said, "I don't think there's anything to worry about. I'd say it was a common fever. It shouldn't last more than a week or so."

A sigh escaped Mamma and her shoulders relaxed. I felt reassured too. The doctor left, saying that he would look in the next day.

Mamma turned to me. "I was thinking we should send for Tom. But really, there's no need now."

I agreed. I wasn't surprised she wanted Tom home, but I could just imagine his annoyance at being dragged all the way from London for nothing, especially as he was about to sit his first medical examinations.

***

Papa opened his eyes. For a moment he looked round in an unfocused way. Then his gaze fell on me and he tried to smile.

"Lou." His voice was faint.

As always, when he was lucid again, I felt weak with relief. If only this time it would last. If only the crisis were over. I concentrated on practicalities. "It's time for your pill, Papa."

I put it between his poor, cracked lips and tilted the glass of water. As he drank, a trickle ran from the side of his mouth. I wiped it away. He licked his lips and I saw that his tongue was brown.

I felt his nightgown. It was drenched with sweat so I fetched a clean one. When I took off the soiled one I was shocked again. In the month since I was summoned home from Carr Head, he'd grown so thin his ribs protruded. And the telltale spots were clearly visible on his chest and back.

Why had it taken Dr. Kneale so long to realise? I'd shivered when he said the word and Mamma gave a little cry and went quite white.

Typhoid.

Although she didn't mention it, I knew Mamma would be thinking of her brother. But after all, there was hope. People recovered from typhoid.

When Papa was settled on his pillow again, I said, "Would you like anything? Beef tea? Or toast and water?"

He shook his head. "Not now. Later."

"I could read to you."

"No. Thank you. Feel sleepy."

He shut his eyes. Soon his breathing deepened.

I tiptoed over to the window and looked out, parting the curtains carefully so the light didn't disturb Papa.

Morning had come to the street. Over the way, the maid was scrubbing the step, her back bobbing up and down with her energetic strokes. A delivery boy with a basket slung over his arm went whistling round the corner. I felt cut off from them by more than a pane of glass.

This had been going on so long.

I wanted it to end. I dreaded it ending.

The door opened and Mamma came in. Her face was even paler than usual, the hollows beneath her eyes darker.

"How is he?"

"Much calmer now." We kept our voices low and both glanced towards the bed. Papa stirred but didn't wake.

Mamma was still carrying a handkerchief and I wondered if she'd been crying again. She started twisting it as if she'd forgotten she was holding it. "Do you think we should send for Tom today?"

She'd asked me this every morning since the doctor had pronounced the word. My reply was the same as usual. "No, Mamma. You know the doctor said it wouldn't be wise because of the danger of infection. And Papa specifically said we were not to send for Tom or Aunt Phyllis. Besides, it may not be necessary."

Mamma seemed to seize on my words gratefully. "Yes, of course, you're right. We'll wait." Then she stood still, as if at a loss as to what to do next.

Mamma, who'd always seemed so firm, so clear, now seemed to be softening and blurring ... like a melting candle. She even seemed to be smaller than before, as if she was shrinking.

"Why don't you try to rest?" I suggested. "I can sit with Papa."

She came to then. Drawing herself upright, she said, "I must see to my chores."

She went out of the room leaving me to watch the rise and fall of Papa's breath.

***

A few days later, after examining Papa, Doctor Kneale touched me on the shoulder and said gently, "I think you should send for your brother now."

I looked at him, not understanding. "But Papa is better, isn't he? He's been so much quieter the last day or two."

The doctor shook his head. "I fear he is sinking."

He went out and I heard him call for Mary. They spoke quietly at the door. All the time I sat there feeling numb.

Then Mary came in. "The doctor says you want me to send a telegram, Miss Louisa." Her eyes glistened as if she were holding back tears.

I roused myself. "Yes, to Tom."

"What shall I say?"

"Say,
You must come now.
"

***

Mamma and I sat there through the evening, not speaking. There was nothing to say.

I didn't want this quiet dream to end. Papa was still here, that was the main thing. I held his hand and stroked it. He was breathing rapidly and there was a dusky tinge to his face but otherwise he lay peacefully.

At one point Mamma went out to fetch some fresh water and while she was gone, Papa opened his eyes and seemed to be listening.

"What is it, Papa?"

He spoke but his voice was a croak.

I bent towards him.

"Birds," he said. "I can hear birds."

He turned his head and looked directly at me. "Lou?"

"Yes, Papa?"

Speaking with great effort he said, "You'll make a fine doctor. God bless, my darling." Then his voice sank to a whisper. "Fetch Mamma."

Fierce wings beat about my heart.

He mustn't go. He couldn't.

Tears blurring my eyes, I stumbled to the door and opening it, called out, "Mamma, come quickly."

My voice seemed insubstantial, as if the dark shadows were swallowing it.

***

So. He had gone.

In a state of dreary blankness I did what had to be done. Mary and I drew down the blinds, silenced the clocks, covered the mirrors. I helped Mamma order our mourning clothes and write to those who needed to know. All the time I felt cut off, as if I was under a glass dome. Mamma's anguish, Tom's anger because he had come too late and he blamed me—none of it reached me.

Sometimes I sat with the body, watching the shadows cast by the candle light flicker over the waxen face. This wasn't Papa anymore. He had gone. But even so, when they came to make a plaster cast of his face, I couldn't stay but went and sat in his study. I clasped the cushion that still smelt of him. But I didn't cry.

The undertaker's men brought the coffin downstairs to the dining room and laid it on the table. I couldn't help thinking of Papa carving the Sunday joint and my heart missed a beat. But still I didn't cry.

When it was my turn to say goodbye, I looked down at the face, which wasn't Papa's face any more, just a mask. I knew I should be feeling something. But I was numb.

Sitting with all the other women in the parlour, Grace beside me, I was all right until I heard the death knell. I knew then that the body had been brought to the grave and I imagined Papa being lowered into the cold earth.

He doesn't feel it, I told myself, but still I shivered.

***

The house was strangely quiet.

When Grace left with her family, I wanted to run after the carriage and get in with her and be carried away. Not be left behind with Mamma and Tom, as if we'd been marooned.

Mamma was inconsolable so I took over the running of the house. I kept expecting to hear Papa arriving home, to see him at breakfast. Every day it came to me, with a fresh jolt, that I would never see him again. But I still couldn't accept it.

The days went by, each as blank and dreary as the one before, and after a while, at the back of my mind a little voice started up, asking:
what will happen to me now?

It seemed wrong to be thinking about myself at such a time, but I could see my life stretching in front of me, with nothing in it but staying at home and looking after Mamma.

At the thought of it, I felt stifled and a kind of dread filled me.

I had to do something.

Before he became too ill, I'd told Papa about my dreams. He said he was proud of me and it made my heart swell. But he'd warned me not to speak of my plans to Mamma until he'd talked to her first. I was sure he hadn't—she hadn't mentioned it. Now it was too late. I knew she'd never agree but I clung to one hope—maybe Tom could persuade her.

He and I had scarcely spoken since he'd come home. He'd spent time with Mamma, but largely ignored me. I didn't want him to leave with things as they were. Surely we'd be able to mend the breach...

***

I found Tom in Papa's study. I was dismayed to see that he was sorting books into piles. "What are you doing?"

"Mother said I could take anything that would be useful. I'm leaving tomorrow, you know."

Papa's books...

Aside from the fact that I might want to use them, I couldn't bear to see them going. But I swallowed my protest. I didn't want a row now, when I needed him to be on my side.

I'd decided to approach the subject of my future in a roundabout way, so I said tentatively, "Are you enjoying your studies? Are things progressing well?"

He shrugged. "Well enough."

"You know Mamma's unhappy about you going back to London. Now you've completed a year, had you thought of transferring to the hospital at Leeds? Then you'd be able to come home more often. Mamma would be pleased, and so would I."

As I said this, I realised it was true. Perhaps it was something to do with the loss of Papa, but I wanted to feel closer to my brother, to know him better. And not just because we shared the same interest in medicine...

Surely, now that we were older, this was possible?

Tom scowled. "Why would I want to transfer? Everyone knows the London teaching hospitals are the best. And if I want to get on—"

"Get on? What do you mean?"

He rolled his eyes as if he couldn't be bothered to explain it all to me and took another book off the shelf.

"Aren't you coming back here—to the practice?"

He appeared to be studying the title of the book intently. "To tell you the truth, Lou, I'm not interested in that anymore."

"But I thought Grandpapa intended—"

He cut in. "Things have changed since Grandpapa's day. I could be a top consultant in the West End, earning thousand of pounds a year."

I stared at him. "Did Papa know about this?"

His cheeks reddened and he dropped his eyes. "No. I was going to tell him..."

We both fell silent. I felt sure Papa would have been unhappy about Tom's plan, but I couldn't speak of it. Even to think about Papa made my throat tighten.