Swansea Summer (19 page)

‘Thought it was you.’ Sam stepped out of the darkness to join him. ‘Going home?’

‘Yes.’

‘Bit early to leave a celebration, isn’t it?’ Sam fell into step beside him.

‘Didn’t feel in the mood for drinking. Anyway, you’re a fine one to talk. Looks like you’ve cut your evening short too.’

‘Only because I had to,’ Sam said sourly. ‘I’m on nights, remember.’

‘I forgot. So where have you been?’

‘Fish and chip shop with a mate and I couldn’t even join him for a pint afterwards. The duty sergeant has a nose like a bloodhound and he plays merry hell if he smells booze on anyone’s breath at the start of a shift. But I have two days off starting tomorrow. How about we take the girls somewhere?’

‘Have you asked them?’ Shivering, Martin fastened the top button on his overcoat.

‘Nope.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m afraid that if I ask your sister to go out with me on a date she’ll say no, whereas a foursome with you and Lily puts a different connotation on the situation.’

‘Jack and Helen will be back tonight.’

‘So?’

‘They may have made plans that include us for tomorrow.’

‘You’re not going to help me with Katie, are you?’

Martin smiled. ‘No.’

‘I’d help you if you were after my sister.’

‘I thought you didn’t have one.’

‘I don’t.’

‘A word of advice.’ Martin reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. ‘If you’re after Katie, the first thing you should know about her is she despises people who try to get others to do their dirty work for them.’

Loaded with his own and Helen’s suitcases, and a brown-paper carrier bag marked
Patient’s Property,
Jack walked unsteadily up Craddock Street and rounded the corner into Carlton Terrace. There were no lights on in Helen’s house or Roy Williams’s house or basement. Dropping the cases, he checked his watch, peering at the hands in the twilight. It was half past nine. Seven and a half hours since he and Helen had boarded the train out of London. If only they had caught the mid-day train as he had wanted to instead of eating that last meal in the Italian restaurant. Helen would have been safely in Swansea when the pain started and he would have got her into hospital that much sooner.

Martin would be down the Pier with Lily and the others. Roy Williams would be on duty or in the White Rose. John Griffiths – he suddenly realised he had to tell Helen’s father where she was. Stumbling under the weight of the cases, he staggered to Helen’s front door and rang the bell. The sound reverberated hollowly down the passage, echoing through the empty rooms.

He sank down on the step. He’d given Martin his door key when he’d left, so he and Sam could use it as a spare, and he didn’t have a key to the Griffiths’ basement. He had told Helen there would be plenty of time to get a copy cut from hers when they came back from honeymoon.

Feeling as though he were prying, and hating himself for it, he opened the carrier bag. Helen’s hat shone, a splash of white in the gloom, on top of her neatly folded gloves and handbag. Beneath them was her blue costume. He brushed his hand over the silk and Helen’s favourite perfume, Bond Street, wafted into the cool night air, bringing tears to his eyes. Struggling to compose himself, he replaced the gloves and hat and removed her handbag. The gold push clasp was fiddly, doubly so when the darkness prevented him from seeing what he was doing, and he was afraid of using force lest he break it. How Helen would laugh if she could see him now – defeated by a girl’s handbag.

It took him ten minutes to work out that the clasp had to be swung back to release the catch. Lifting out a small red leather purse he had seen Helen use a hundred times in London, he set it on the step next to him. As he delved into the bag his fingers closed over her gold-plated powder compact, then he brought out a gold-cased lipstick, comb, small hairbrush, a tiny bottle of perfume, a lace-edged handkerchief, a card of hair clips – all intensely personal possessions he felt he had no right to touch. Swallowing hard, he slipped his hand inside again. The bag was empty. He peered inside but it was too dark to see. He felt around the silk lining. Surely she would have her keys. He shook the bag and heard a metallic rattle.

They were folded into a buttoned-down pocket sewn into the lining. He took his time over replacing everything, trying to imagine Helen’s reaction if he had to tell her he had lost any of her precious possessions. But the only image he could conjure with any clarity was her lying unconscious on the stretcher being loaded into the back of the ambulance.

Rising from the step, he realised he was shattered. He ached as if someone had been using him as a punchbag and there was a sharp pain between his eyes that stabbed deeper every time he moved his head. He walked back through the gate and climbed down the steep flight of steps to the basement. He tried both keys on Helen’s ring, the lock turned when he inserted the second. He reached out and switched on the light before stepping down into the kitchen.

Closing the door behind him he sank on to a chair. The fresh paintwork and Formica kitchen cupboards sparkled back at him. The room even smelled new – new and clean and antiseptic. Helen had been in the flat scrubbing and cleaning the moment the builders left so they’d have an immaculate home to return to. Taking the carrier bag, he rose to his feet, made his way to the bedroom and switched on the light.

He stowed Helen’s white court shoes in the bottom of her wardrobe. Her handbag and gloves he placed on the bedside table. Then he reached for a hanger for the costume. He slipped the jacket on to it, only to drop it back on the bed. He simply couldn’t bring himself to shut it in the wardrobe; it would feel as if he were relegating Helen herself to a cupboard – and the past.

He sat on the bed and ran his fingers over the eiderdown that Brian and Judy had bought them, although he suspected that, like him, Brian had little say in the presents he bought with Judy. So much money, time and effort had gone into making the basement a perfect first home. But he couldn’t help wondering if he and Helen would ever live in it.

‘Helen, Jack, are you down there?’ John Griffiths called out, as he unlocked the door that connected the main house to the basement.

Slumped on the bed, Jack rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. To his amazement they were wet. ‘Only me, Mr Griffiths,’ he answered, rising as he heard John’s step on the stairs.

‘I saw the light …’ John stepped into the passage; looked up and down the corridor and realised the rest of the flat was in darkness. ‘Where’s Helen?’ When Jack didn’t reply, he said, ‘You two haven’t had a stupid quarrel, have you?’

‘No, Mr Griffiths, it’s nothing like that.’ Jack swallowed hard as he looked at his father-in-law. ‘Helen is in hospital.’

‘John Griffiths, enquiring about Mrs Helen Clay …’ John’s voice rose precariously as his patience wore thin. He had been on the telephone for over twenty minutes and during that time he had been passed from one member of the hospital staff to another. First the night porter, then the night casualty receptionist who’d connected him to two ward sisters who both insisted they hadn’t heard of ‘Mrs Helen Clay’. At the third ward his call had been diverted to, he’d spoken to a student nurse who’d told him to hold for a staff nurse who finally conceded that there was ‘a Mrs Helen Clay on the ward’, but as she wasn’t authorised to take calls from relatives she would get Sister to speak to him.

‘Night sister speaking.’

Controlling his irritation, John repeated, ‘I am enquiring about Mrs Helen Clay.’

‘And you are?’

‘John Griffiths, her father.’

‘Her husband is down as next of kin.’

‘He is with me. Would you like to speak to him?’

‘Frankly, Mr Griffiths, with a ward to run I would rather speak to neither of you.’

‘Can you tell me if my daughter is out of surgery?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’ he pressed angrily.

‘She is as well as can be expected.’

‘What does that mean in plain English?’

‘It means what I said, Mr Griffiths. Considering she has had a major operation, she is as well as can be expected. If there is any change we will contact you.’

The line went dead. Jack jumped up from the stairs where he’d been sitting as John replaced the receiver on its cradle.

‘“As well as can be expected considering she has had a major operation.” At least we know she is out of theatre.’

‘Did they say when we can see her?’

‘No, but they said they’ll be in touch if there’s any change. If they don’t, I’ll telephone first thing in the morning.’ He patted Jack reassuringly on the shoulder. ‘You look exhausted. Why don’t you try to get some sleep.’

Jack thought of the pristine flat downstairs waiting for Helen and him to move in. ‘I couldn’t – not in the basement.’

‘There’s Helen’s room.’

‘I couldn’t sleep there either.’

‘Do you want to go back to your brother’s?’

‘If you don’t mind, Mr Griffiths, I’d like to stay here in case the hospital does ring.’

‘I don’t mind,’ John said wearily, ‘but I warn you, our sofa has to be the most uncomfortable that’s ever been made.’

John didn’t draw the curtains in the living room so he could watch the street. Every time he heard a footfall, he went to the window, hoping it would be Martin or Katie. Since he had telephoned the hospital, Jack had retreated into silence, refusing all offers of food and drink although he was sure he hadn’t had anything since leaving London. If he couldn’t get him to eat perhaps Martin could.

He jumped up as he heard a familiar voice. Walking to the front door, he opened it and shouted, ‘Martin?’

‘Yes, Mr Griffiths.’ Leaving Sam, Martin walked up the short path to John Griffiths’ front door.

‘Jack’s here.’

‘Did they have a good time …’

‘Helen’s in hospital.’

‘What!’

‘What’s happened?’ Judy and Lily ran up to them but Katie hung back behind her brother rather than face John.

‘Helen was taken ill on the train,’ John divulged. ‘She’s in hospital.’

‘Do you know how she is, Mr Griffiths?’ Lily asked.

‘Neither Jack nor I succeeded in getting any sense out of the hospital. All we know for sure is that she’s had major surgery.’

‘Can we see Jack?’ Katie refused to meet John’s eye.

‘Of course.’ He held the door open for Martin and Katie, then looked at Sam, Judy and Lily. ‘I don’t want to stop you from coming in but I don’t think there’s anything any of you can do tonight.’

‘You’ll telephone if there is,’ Lily pleaded.

‘I promise.’

Surprised to see lights on in the house when he returned from Robin’s at one in the morning, Joe unlocked the door and walked into the living room to find his father, Katie and Martin sitting in silence. ‘Who died?’ he joked, not noticing Jack slumped in the corner of the sofa behind the door until he stepped into the room.

‘Helen was taken ill on the train, she’s in hospital,’ John said flatly. ‘They said they’d telephone if there’s any change.’

Joe stopped in his tracks. ‘Is it serious?’

‘They won’t tell us anything.’ His father gave him a warning glance before looking at Jack.

‘God, how awful. Jack, I’m so sorry.’

Jack shrugged his shoulders, not trusting himself to speak.

‘But she is going to be all right.’

‘Hopefully.’ John adopted an optimistic face for Jack’s sake. ‘We’ll find out more in the morning. If you’re making yourself a drink, mine’s a whisky.’

‘Jack, Martin, Katie?’ Joe enquired as he poured his father a generous measure. ‘We’ve brandy, gin, port, sherry …’

‘Nothing, thank you.’ Jack sat forward, rested his elbows on his knees and stared at the floor.

‘No thank you, Joe,’ Katie said.

‘I couldn’t face a drink either.’ Martin was finding it a strain to be in the same room with Joe.

‘I could make you tea or coffee if you prefer, and sandwiches …’

They all shook their heads.

‘There’s no point in us all staying up to wait for a telephone call that might not come.’ John took the whisky Joe handed him. ‘Why don’t you go to bed, that way one of us will have a clear head in the morning.’

John left his chair and limped to the standard lamp as the first pewter-hued rays of dawn filtered through the crack between the curtains. Switching off the light, he pushed aside the drapes and looked outside. There was a slight mist, portending a fine day and he noticed the leaves unfurling on the shrubs on the bank opposite. Spring was giving way to summer. Turning, he looked at Katie and Martin. They had insisted on staying with Jack but both of them had fallen asleep in the small hours, Martin in one of the chairs, Katie curled beside Jack on the sofa. Jack, like him, hadn’t closed his eyes all night.

‘Tea?’ he mouthed quietly.

Jack nodded.

Glad to leave the oppressive atmosphere, John went into the kitchen and filled the kettle. As he lit the gas Jack, looking even more haggard, drained and exhausted than when he had found him in the basement the night before, joined him.

‘Katie and Martin still asleep?’ John set cups and saucers on a tray.

‘Yes, I managed to move without disturbing her.’ Jack rubbed his arm where his sister’s head had rested most of the night. He hadn’t minded the numbness that had led to pins and needles; it had helped keep him awake, ears straining for a telephone call that he hadn’t known whether to wish for or not. ‘Can I telephone the hospital, Mr Griffiths?’

John glanced at the clock. ‘You can try but I doubt they’ll tell you anything at this time in the morning.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You know the number?’

‘They gave it to me last night.’ As Jack searched his pockets for the piece of paper the receptionist had given him along with Helen’s clothes, the telephone rang, startlingly loud in the hushed house. He charged down the passage and lifted the receiver.

‘Is Jack Clay available?’

‘Speaking.’ Jack’s hand was shaking so much he could barely hold the telephone.

‘Will you be able to meet Mrs Clay’s doctor at nine o’clock this morning?’

‘Yes – how is Helen …’

‘Nine o’clock,’ the voice repeated.