Convalescence (4 page)

I wasn't ready for sleep, and my book couldn't hold my attention, but I was reluctant to leave my room. The thought of bumping into Miss Holt or Mrs. Rogers held no appeal at all. Worse, I could run into Amy and I was eager to avoid that.

As I stood there staring out through the window, the crying started again. As before, it started as an almost-inaudible moan, but gradually the volume increased until there were clearly defined sobs.

Finally I overcame my reluctance to leave my room.

Creeping out of my bedroom I quickly identified the direction the sound was coming from, and I headed straight away to the end of the landing. This time, though, the door to the corridor was locked, but the door on the opposite side of the landing was ajar. I went across, pulled it open, and the volume of the crying increased.

With the door open I was confronted by another flight of stairs. These were plain, wooden and uncarpeted, and stretched up through the house, ending at another door.

I walked up the stairs quietly until I was standing outside the door. I put my ear to it and listened to the heartrending sobs coming from behind the wood.

I wrapped my fingers around the round door handle and gently turned it. To my surprise I heard the
click
of the latch, and the door swung inwards silently on well-oiled hinges.

The room was a bedroom, plain and sparsely furnished, with whitewashed walls. A low-wattage bulb hung from a plain plaster ceiling rose and lit the room dimly.

There was an ordinary-looking wardrobe against one wall and a simple dressing table with a brown-spotted rectangular mirror against the other. Separating them was a bed with a cream-painted iron frame that looked like it might have come from a hospital.

Amy was lying facedown on the bed, sobbing into the pillow.

I crept into the room and across to the bed, standing there, watching her shoulders heave as she cried, and felt inadequate.

Eventually I reached out and laid my hand on her back. “Amy?” I said softly.

She reacted as if she had been stung, twisting around on the bed to face me, her eyes wide.

“It's only me,” I said.

She breathed in, sucking in air in short staccato gulps. “What do you want?” she said.

“I heard you crying,” I said.

“Go away.”

I didn't move. “Can't I help?”

The look on her face became hard. “Haven't you done enough?”

I shook my head. “No, you've got it wrong. I didn't say anything to Mrs. Rogers. She just came out to the summerhouse with me and saw you down by the trees.”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You didn't tell?”

I shook my head again harder, more emphatically. “No! Why would I tell on you?”

She continued to stare, challenging me, looking for the lie.

Finally the hard look melted from her eyes. She sniffed and turned away from me. “Leave me alone,” she said.

I stood my ground. “No,” I said. “Earlier you said that you thought we were friends. Well, so did I. I
want
us to be friends. Tell me what I can do to help.”

She spun round on the bed again to face me. Her eyes were puffy, her nose was red, and her brown curls had been plastered to her forehead by her tears. She sat up, reached for a tissue from a box on the small bedside cabinet and blew her nose noisily. “All right. I believe you. You didn't tell.”

I gave half a shrug.

“Sit down,” she said and patted the bed beside her, shifting to make space for me.

I hopped up onto the bed and sat there cross-legged.

“I love him, see? Andy, I really love him,” she said. “But she's forbidden me from seeing him.”

“Mrs. Rogers?”

“The old cow,” she said venomously.

“Can she do that?”

Amy nodded. “Says she'll get Mr. Bentley to sack him…and he needs this job. Since his dad ran off, there's just him and his mother. They need the money.”

“What's Mrs. Rogers got against him?”

“He's a gypsy…lives with his mum in a caravan on the other side of the woods. Rogers would have them driven off if she had her way.”

“But surely my uncle—”

“You uncle will do as he's told. Mrs. Rogers rules the roost here. She lets them stay because your uncle needs him to do the work in the house and garden,” Amy said. “But that's the only reason.”

“But she seemed so nice when I first arrived.”

“Because you're a boy, and you remind her of her son, her precious Hughie. He had the sense to get away from her. Moved up to London on his sixteenth birthday and hasn't been back to see her since.”

“When was that?”

“About a month after I arrived here. He was nice, Hughie, but his mother had him under the thumb—suffocating him, smothering him like a mother hen. I wasn't here long enough to get to know him well, but we used to talk, and he told me how he couldn't wait to get away from her, from here. And he did just that as soon as he was sixteen. That morning I went upstairs to wake him and tell him breakfast was ready, but he'd gone—just packed a bag and left during the night.”

“How did she take it?”

“She didn't react. It was like her face was made of stone when I told her. She just said ‘very well', or something like that, and that was it.”

“Strange, if she thought so much of him,” I said.

Amy shook her head. “Not really, once you scratch away the surface. She's a cold bitch.”

“Amy!” I said. “Look, you're angry. Cross with her about not letting you see Andy.”

She shook her head. “Yes, I am, but that's not why I said it. You haven't been here long enough yet. You'll learn,” she said.

I wasn't sure I wanted to.

“If she's that awful, why don't you just leave?”

“And go where?” she said. “Back to St. Joseph's?”

“What's St. Joseph's?”

“A children's home in Dorchester.”

She noted the look of surprise on my face.

“What? Did you think you were the only orphan living here?”

“I didn't realize. What happened to your parents?”

She shrugged. “I've no idea. St. Joseph's is the only home I've ever known. The nuns there brought me up. Sister Rosalie and Sister Theresa were the main ones who looked after me, but all of the nuns there took care of me at one time or another.”

“It must have been awful.”

A small smile hovered on her lips. “It wasn't so bad. The nuns were very kind. They saw that I was fed and that I had clean clothes to wear…and at Christmas they sang carols in the chapel.” A wistful expression crossed her face. “I know girls who had it far worse than I did.”

“So how did you end up here?”

“Your uncle. He was a regular visitor at the home. Actually, I think he was on the board of governors. One day he came and told Sister Rosalie he was looking for a maid to work and live here at the manor. We all knew who he was—he'd been visiting St. Joseph's for years—and we knew it was a big deal to be chosen to work for him. I begged Sister Rosalie to let me come—
begged
her. So she did. They say you should be careful what you wish for because it might come true.”

“And you regret coming here?”

“I hadn't counted on Mrs. Rogers,” she said bitterly.

“So, can't you go back to the orphanage?”

She shook her head. “They wouldn't take me back. Not now.”

“Why not now?”

She swung her legs to the floor, walked across to the window and opened it. From the pocket of her apron she took a packet of Senior Service cigarettes and shook one out, putting it between her lips and lighting it with a match from a box of Swan Vestas, striking the red phosphorus tip on the windowsill.

I watched as she drew the smoke in deeply and blew it out through the window in a thin stream.

“Why not now?” I asked her again.

Again she shook her head. “I don't want to talk about it. Anyway, shouldn't you go back to bed?”

“Not if you're going to cry yourself to sleep again. I could hear you from my room.”

“Sorry,” she said and drew in more smoke.

“I heard you this morning as well.”

She turned to face me. “What do you mean?”

“This morning after breakfast. I heard you crying when I came back up to my room.”

She turned back to the window, pinched the glowing end from the cigarette and slid the half-smoked part back into the packet.

“Well, I don't know what you heard, but it wasn't me. I was working downstairs in the kitchen, washing up after breakfast. After that I had the downstairs rooms to clean.”

“But I'm sure…”

“It wasn't me!” she said, raising her voice. “I didn't have a reason to cry until Mrs. Rogers caught me on my way back from seeing Andy.”

“But…”

“Like I told you, this house can sometimes catch you unawares.”

She came back to the bed and flopped down. “Go back to bed, Jimmy. I'm tired. I need to sleep.”

I climbed off the bed and walked to the door. “
Unawares
,” I said. “I didn't understand what that meant yesterday, and I don't understand now.”

She shifted further down on top of the covers and closed her eyes. “Never mind me. Mrs. Rogers probably told you, I make things up.”

“She didn't.”

“No, she probably said I have a
fanciful imagination
, right?”

“Er, right.”

She yawned. “Thought so. Go to bed, Jimmy. We'll talk again. Oh, and turn the light off as you go. Good night.”

“Good night,” I said, reached out and flicked the light switch, closing the door behind me.

I went back to bed and lay there, half expecting the crying to start again, but there were no more sounds from Amy's room, and gradually I drifted off to sleep.

I awoke suddenly the next morning. I had been dreaming.

In the dream I was in the corridor at the end of the landing, walking toward the black door, my hand outstretched, reaching for the handle, but I was moving so slowly it was as if my legs were wading through treacle, and the handle remained tantalizingly out of reach.

As I moved, the droning sound started, coming this time from behind the door, and I knew I had to find out what was causing it. In my head it was imperative, and I was driving my legs forward—one agonizing step after another—until I could reach the handle.

My fingers touched the metal and closed around it, all the while the awful droning getting louder and louder, making my heart thump in my chest and my lungs scream with exertion. With a final effort I forced the handle down, and the door started to swing inwards, but so slowly I was craning my neck forward, trying to catch sight of what lay beyond it.

“James! How dare you!”

At the sound of the voice I jerked awake, and the dream slipped away like water down a drain. All that remained was the sound of the voice running through my mind, and gradually it faded away until it was nothing more than the memory of an echo.

I lay there trying to gather myself, to bring myself awake. I'd woken to another fine day with the sun pouring into the room like warm syrup, and from outside my window came the dawn chorus of birdsong. I had no idea what time it was but it seemed early.

I felt under the sheets for my radio and switched it on, but there was nothing but static crackling from the tiny speaker. With my thumb I located the dial and started to turn it, searching for a station to listen to that might give me some idea of what time it was. All I got were faint snatches of music and a few random voices, but I could find nothing to settle on that had a strong enough signal to hear anything very clearly.

I gave up, switched off the radio and tossed it back onto the sheets. Throwing on my dressing gown I walked out onto the landing in time to hear a car cough into life, its engine revving.

I ran along the landing to the window and peered down at the garage. The doors were open, and a dark-green Mini was easing its nose out into the sunlight. Mrs. Rogers sat in the driver's seat, leaning forward, her hands gripping the wheel as she steered it out.

“Is that Mrs. Rogers with the car?”

I spun round. Miss Holt was standing farther along the landing, outside the door of her room.

I nodded.

“Well,” Miss Holt said, “I'd better not keep her waiting. She's driving me to the station.”

It was then I noticed her suitcase.

“You're going then?” I said.

“Yes. With luck I'll catch the nine-thirty back to Waterloo and then the connecting train to Cambridge.”

“Weren't you going to say goodbye?”

“I thought it best to let you sleep. You need the rest. I saw your uncle earlier and told him when you were to have your tablets. I've already told Daphne…Mrs. Rogers…so you'll be well looked after.” She reached down and picked up her case. “Right, I'd better not keep Mrs. Rogers waiting. Goodbye, James.” She stuck out a bony hand.

I took it and she shook mine. “See that you behave yourself, and do what they tell you. They only have your best interest at heart.”

“Are you coming back?”

“Only if I'm needed, and I think that's most unlikely. You seem well on the road to recovery.” She tried on a smile, but it didn't seem to fit her face, so she let it slide off again.

She reached into the pocket of her jacket, produced a thin card and handed it to me. “That is the number of my direct line at the hospital, and is only to be used in the gravest of circumstances. I don't want you ringing me up just to chat.”

I thought that was a most unlikely scenario. “No, I won't,” I said.

“Right, goodbye then.” And then she spun on her heel and walked back down the landing to the stairs.

A few moments later she was gone, out of my life, probably forever.

I hadn't liked the woman from the first time I met her, and I was pretty sure she didn't have a lot of time for me. So why was I feeling upset that she was going? Was it because she was the only tangible link with my past life? Possibly.