Crimson (2 page)

The legendary Elinor winced abruptly. The burning pain had started again, and it was within her body. Lying inert in the heat of her shaded bedroom, she realized that she could not move her limbs. There seemed to be no strength in her arms or legs: she willed her arms to lift, and they did not do so. She was paralysed. She was not dreaming. She could not move! She tried to speak, then to scream but she couldn’t. Nor could she open her mouth. Her head felt woolly and muddled. The thought slowly registered she must have uda stroke. No! It couldn’t be! She didn’t-want it! She hadn’t yet finished living!

The effort of her anguished thinking exhausted her. Her eyelids fluttered shut, and black oblivion slowly drew over her. She willed her mind to go blank, yet somewhere outside her mental enclosure she heard a sound. It was the well remembered rustle of a nurse’s starched apron. She smelled the hospital smell of ether and the sour whiff of medicine. I “Am, I dying?” Elinor whispered in French, finally willing her frozen mouth to move awkwardly.

“No. Do not upset yourself.” The nurse’s voice was calm, flat, and disinterested. Elinor knew she was lying. Her first reaction was one of indignation. She was used to being in command of her life, used to writing the plot herself as she did those of her best-selling novels. But now she was rendered impotent by her helplessness at the mercy of this mean-voiced nurse. An invisible, inexorable pen was scribbling “The End” before Elinor had finished her story and this time there would be no happy ending.

For years Elinor had successfully avoided thinking about death. Like many strong-minded and successful people, she had not wanted to face the fact that, one day, she would die. She had not bothered to make a will, for that would mean having to make unpleasant decisions, decisions dealing with her own mortality. So she had put it off, resisting her lawyer’s gentle, persistent urging, preferring to ignore the subject, to think of herself only as enduring, invincible.

But today, lying in this shuttered room, she knew that the invincible had met the inevitable. She could only hope that she might have some time to get things in order. And she had better make her decisions quickly or she might ‘lose the chance to do so.

Elinor felt the uncomfortable contraption being tugged from her face.

She felt too tired to move, to think, or to complain; she felt helpless and at the mercy of this impersonal stranger. Obviously, death was going to be a humiliating business, and she knew that helplessness was only the start.

Hearing the sharp, efficient moves of the nurse around her bed, Elinor fleetingly remembered daydreams from many years ago from 1917, after she had left the small family farm near Excelsior, Minnesota, to train as an auxiliary nursing aide. She was only seventeen, still idealistic and romantic enough to envisage herself as a calm, reassuring angel of mercy. The First World War had inspired many young women to volunteer for auxiliary service of some kind; for most, it was a first step away from home. For most, it was also an abrupt end to innocence.

Elinor remembered her own reaction when she first arrived at the casualty clearing station in northern France to which she had been posted. She had expected the quiet orderly calm of the wards at her training hospital, not that shocking, awful noise in Ward C: the animal-like whimpers, sobs, sharp shrieks of agony, men crying in loose-mouthed delirium, while a phonograph played a Bing Boys” tune to comfort those who knew they were about to die.

Now, almost half a century later, realizing what little time remained to her, Elinor’s patience vanished as instantaneously as had her innocence. Lying there, trapped in her bed, she found to her surprise, however, that it wasn’t the physical act of dying that she minded, or leaving what she had fought so hard to achieve. But the girls still needed -her; they needed her strength, her advice, her emotional and moral support: despite the fact that two of them were married women and the, third had already established a thriving business, Elinor was convinced that the girls could not yet survive without her. Her fortune, of course, would ensure their comfort and their social prestige, but who would be there to advise and protect them?

Elinor had been able to give her granddaughters what she had not had, and what she had been unable to give her only son, Edward: a life virtually free from care; a life in which there was the time and opportunity to look for happiness and, should they find it, simply to enjoy it; a life untroubled by the financial anxiety with which Elinor had lived for the first forty-five years of her life. It was an anxiety that had faded only when thanks to her darling Billy she had been able to grasp success and to savour its rewards.

At the thought of Billy, Elinor’s eyelids slowly lifted. In the dim light, she could just make out the small group of Over-framed photographs on her bedside table. Once again Elinor gazed into the smiling, confident eyes of the fairhaired young man she had loved so much. There he stood, flying goggles pushed back on his head, hands thrust in the bottom pockets of a battered tunic; his plane, a primitive machine made of canvas and struts, was behind him.

Billy O’Dare had been one of the few men to survive Ward C. His navigator had pulled him, unconscious, from his shot-down plane before it burst into flames. Billy had suffered a concussion, a slight cut on his head, and a bullet through his left foot that fractured the calcaneum.

Nearly fifty years later, Elinor still happily remembered the evening she fell in love with Billy O’Dare. The war was relatively quiet when, shortly after midnight, she heard Aoking cries from bed 17. Grabbing the lantern, she hur2-1tied to find out what was wrong. Gently she shook the young man awake he’d had a bad dream, that was all. “Fliaht Commander O’Dare continued to sob, however, now clinging to Elinor’s hand. His face was partly covered ky. a turban like bandage, but her lantern shone into his eyes, reducing the pupils to pinpoints of black against irises of an unusual, dazzling shade of aquamarine. Elinor thought she had never seen anything so beautiful.

-Sorry to make such an ass of myself,” he mumbled. Don’t worry. “Plenty of patients have nightmares,” Elinor comforted, trying to ease her hand away. She could smell, against the harsh wool of his blanket and the antiseptic whiff of bandages, the pungent male perfume of his body. He was no longer sobbing now, and she knew she should move away. Still, she could not stop staring into his eyes.

Patient 17 raised Elinor’s hand to his lips and she felt the tickle of his blond moustache against her thumb. For a moment, she thought he was going to kiss her hand, but instead, he turned it over and pressed her palm to his mouth. As Elinor felt the caress of his warm breath, Billy O’Dare gently licked her hand. She felt his moist tongue run slowly over her flesh and knew again that she should move away; her feet, however, seemed glued to the floorboards. She felt a blush rise from her breast and held her breath as he continued to stroke her hand with his warm, catlike tongue. Her trancelike state was broken only when another patient suddenly screamed.

By morning, Nurse Elinor Dove knew patient 17’s medical notes by heart. She also knew-that Flight Commander William Montmorency O’Dare of the British Royal Air Force was twenty-five years old.

By some odd form of osmosis, the entire ward seemed to know immediately that Nurse Dove had tumbled in love with O’Dare. Beneath Elinor’s nun like white headdress, her grape-green eyes glistened, and her cheeks were even pinker than usual. There was a lively spring in her step, and Sister had to admonish her for singing to herself.

On a visit to Ward C, Billy’s former navigator, Joe Grant, immediately spotted the romance. He told Billy he was a lucky dog, that Nurse Dove was special, different from the rest, When Billy repeated this observation to Elinor, she sniffed, “That’s what you men say to all us girls. What’s so different about meT Billy looked at her thoughtfully, then said, “The girls at home are pale imitations of LIFE compared to you. You have such vitality, such get-up-and-go! You have energy. It’s positively infectious!” He hesitated.

“It is so American, it seems. I’ve seen these qualities in your soldiers as well; it’s something you don’t see in the Frenchies or Tommies. Whatever it is, you really are very special.” Looking up from his pillow, Billy O’Dare hunched his right shoulder and slightly bent his bandaged head towards it as he smiled gently at Nurse Dove. From that moment on, she was forever in his control. Long after they were married, when Elinor knew fully the true cost of love, the slow grin that so clearly showed Billy’s impudent Irish charm that complex combination of innocence and artfulness would always wipe away her anger in an instant.

All these years after their meeting, Elinor recalled that irresistible grin; it was how she liked to remember Billy. In fact, it had become the only way she allowed herself to remember Billy as the smiling, dashing young war hero who became her romantic bridegroom. Any subsequent unpleasant memories had been hidden in some dusty corner of her mind.

It was a pity that colour photography hadn’t been invented then, she thought as she stared at the silver-framed, sepia photograph. All three sisters had inherited Billy’s aquamarine eyes, although only Miranda had inherited the beguiling grin. From Elinor they had inherited … Elinor was suddenly reminded again that she hadn’t made a will. Their inheritance: yes, there was that to deal with. She closed her eyes, then, with an effort of will, opened them again. Slowly the room settled into focus.

The nurse leaned over her patient, “Can you open your mouth, madame? … A little more…” From a spouted cup, she dribbled a few drops of water into Elinor’s mouth; then she carefully rubbed ointment over the dry lips.

Painfully, Elinor whispered, “Where … are … my granddaughter sT She couldn’t move the right -side of her face, so she spoke slowly and awkwardly, slurring her words as if tipsy. She could move her right fingers and toes, but she could not feel those on her left side.

Feeling panic start to rise, Elinor remembered that when she was very young and woke at night, she used to clutch her rogary to keep the devil at bay; now she groped for something similarly comforting to reassure her. More urgently she croaked, “Where are my granddaughters?”

“I believe the ladies are on the terrace. I will call them.”

The nurse went to the window and pulled back the shutters. Yes, there they were, typically heedless of the afternoon sun. She called down.

From her bed, Elinor could hear excited voices, then the sound of metal chairs scraping against earthenware tiles. Tremulously she smiled, struggling to adjust her eyes to the sudden infusion of light.

A few minutes later, her bedroom door was flung open. Elinor first saw Clare’s animated, pale face, framed by long, straight dark hair.

“Darling, we’ve been so worried.” Clare’s voice was high and soft. She rushed to the bedside, knelt down and kissed her grandmother’s face, then the thin, blue-veined hands.

“Don’t overexcite her,” warned the nurse.

“My turn, “said Annabel, whose long, honey-coloured hair was wet and tangled after swimming. For the past seven years, Annabel’s lovely face had gazed, wide-eyed, from every Avanti cosmetics advertisement around the world. When Elinor looked at her, she thought of white Persian kittens, feather beds, and pale pink peonies: Annabel was soft, voluptuous, and feminine. Gently Annabel stroked her grandmother’s long, fair hair, now white at the roots, as it spread, fanlike, upon the pillow. She kissed the sunken cheeks and whispered, “Oh, Gran, we thought we’d lost you.”

Both sisters were close to tears as they gazed lovingly at d3their grandmother. Only Clare had even the slightest memory of their parents killed in 1941 in a German bombing raid on London, and Elinor had always been the centre of their world. They couldn’t imagine life without her. She had always seemed a combination of Isadora Duncan and Elinor Glyn - a bold, dramatic, and immortal figure.

“Where’s Miranda?” Elinor whispered.

“She had to return to London for the day a business meeting,” Clare said softly.

“We’ve all been here for the last two weeks. Annabel flew from New York as soon as we heard you were ill, but it took me a bit longer to get organized in Los Angeles. Miranda’s flying back tonight, by helicopter.”

“And where is Buzz?”

Buzz was Elinor’s lifelong friend, now her secretary.

“Gone to Nice to get your medicine. After that, she’s calling at the airport, to see if Annabel’s luggage has turned up. Buzz never gives up hope!”

“We don’t want to overexcite Madame before the doctor sees her.” The nurse firmly held open the bedroom door.

“You must go now, and I will call him.”

Annabel turned rebelliously towards the nurse, clearly prepared to ignore the edict.

Clare, however, immediately became the anxious and responsible elder sister.

“Don’t be difficult, Frog,” she coaxed, using the childhood nickname that referred to Annabel’s large and sensuous mouth.

“We’ll be back as soon as they let us.” Clare gently pushed her sister out of the bedroom. Elinor turned imploring eyes towards the nurse. Silently they said, please get a move on. I have so much to do. Elinor’s indomitable spirit was reasserting itself.

Clare, wearing a white bikini, lay on a beach mattress by the pool. She was small and skinny, but managed to look slim and fragile; she had a fey, elusive charm: you felt that she might slip between your fingers, like clear water from a mountain stream.

Lying on the next beach mattress, Annabel wore a claret-coloured silk dressing gown that belonged to her husband. She always carried this item and a set of spare underwear in her hand luggage, for the rest of her baggage seemed invariably to travel on without her. This trip had proved no exception.

When the poolside telephone rang, Annabel grabbed the ivory receiver.

“Maybe it’s about my luggage. If it’s gone on a trip to eternity, the airway will have to pay for all those new clothes.” She looked at the buttons on the telephone, which also served as an intercom, and frowned.