A Bouquet of Barbed Wire, page 21
The telephone rang and she answered it, but so automatically that at first the words meant nothing, might have been scrambled for security reasons or spoken in a foreign language. She had to get the voice at the other end to repeat everything, and she thought how odd that it managed to sound calm and urgent both at once. Then she made out that it was saying something about an accident and she must hurry.
32
‘I DON’T understand,’ she said. The doctor was patient. He began telling her all over again. A nurse brought them both cups of tea, very hot and sweet and strong. Cassie tried to drink hers but it burned her lips and she put it down.
‘Your daughter is going to be all right, Mrs. Manson,’ the doctor said with frightening compassion. ‘And probably the baby, too; we can’t be sure yet. But we’re doing everything we can and you must try not to worry. It’s very important for you to be calm when you see your daughter. At the moment she’s asleep, of course.’
The room was white and dark hospital green, with a funny smell. There were papers on the doctor’s desk and filing cabinets around the walls. People passed continually in the corridor, quiet brisk footsteps. Cassie shut her eyes to stop everything spinning round but immediately opened them again, afraid she was going to faint.
‘Are you all right?’ the doctor asked with concern.
‘Yes.’ She took a deep breath and forced herself to gulp some of the hot tea, hoping it would shock her back to normal. ‘Yes. I’m all right. Really.’
‘Good.’ He looked pleased with her, as if she had passed some kind of test. ‘You’re being very brave.’
She shook her head. ‘But I don’t understand. Where’s Gavin—my son-in-law? Wasn’t he with her? They left the house together. What happened?’
The doctor said, ‘That’s what I was trying to tell you before. It’s … very difficult, but apparently there was some kind of argument and your daughter was, um, rather badly assaulted by, er, her husband.’
The room spun like a roundabout. Cassie put her hands on the desk as if that would steady it. The doctor leaned forward and offered her a cigarette. He seemed embarrassed, she thought. Details like this were terribly clear while words made no impression, like balls bouncing off a wall.
‘Could you light it for me?’ she said, unable to leave go of the desk. She was very conscious of the feel of the wood beneath her fingers; abnormally conscious, the way she imagined she might feel if drugged. The wood seemed the only real thing in the room.
The doctor lit two cigarettes and put one in her mouth. He began to speak rather rapidly. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs. Manson, I know how difficult this must be for you, but it seems your daughter and her husband had some kind of argument on their way home and he hit her and went on hitting her. Then he carried her in here unconscious, with a threatened miscarriage. But as I’ve told you we think we can avert that and your daughter is certainly going to be all right. It’s only fair to add that your son-in-law is extremely upset—in fact he arrived here in a state of shock. On the other hand we only have his account of what happened, as your daughter hasn’t been able to talk yet.’
He paused. Cassie, nearly blinded by smoke, forced herself to take the half-smoked cigarette from her mouth. She said, ‘Gavin beat her up?’
‘So he says.’ The doctor cleared his throat. ‘But he’s completely overwrought. Quite frankly I don’t know what to make of it. If his story is true then of course you could inform the police, but as it’s a family matter you may not wish …’ He paused again, adding hesitantly, ‘May I ask if there is any, er, history of violence?’
‘What?’
‘Do you know if he has ever struck your daughter before?’
‘No. I mean I don’t know.’ Gavin hit Prue. It was unbelievable. They might as well have told her that the world had come to an end and she was in hell.
‘Never mind. Drink your tea,’ the doctor said soothingly. She drank. How quickly it cooled. He pushed the phone towards her. ‘I expect you’d like to contact your husband.’
She looked at the phone and shook her head, noticing that her cheeks were wet. Without being aware of starting to cry she found everything in the room had blurred and tears were falling on her coat. She searched in her bag for a handkerchief and blew her nose.
‘I’m sorry.’ The doctor shook his head, exonerating her. ‘I don’t know where my husband is. He … had to go out.’ She wiped her eyes: this was not a time to break down. She could not afford such a luxury when she had to go through this whole thing alone. But it was getting worse because she was beginning to believe it. ‘Can I see my daughter?’
The doctor hesitated. ‘Well, you won’t be able to talk to her; she’s asleep. Of course you can see her if you wish but you must be prepared for rather a shock. Now don’t be alarmed; I assure you that her injuries are largely superficial. It’s just that her face … well, she looks much worse than she really is.’
Cassie began to tremble. Terror and shame swept over her. My child. I’m afraid to look at my own child. ‘Yes, I understand,’ she said calmly. ‘I’d still like to see her.’
* * *
She was sick, and a nurse even younger than Prue held her head. She felt she had disorganised the whole hospital, that everyone’s valuable time was being expended on her family. And it was humiliating being sick. The tea and the drinks back home and the lovely meal she had cooked and half-eaten before Prue really began to talk. She felt she was regurgitating the whole hideous evening.
‘That’s better,’ said the nurse, pleased with her, producing a glass of water. ‘Now drink this. You’ll soon feel better.’
Cassie drank the lovely cold water. She couldn’t even say thank you. She couldn’t speak at all. She had never seen anyone’s face in such a condition, except perhaps boxers on television being helped out of the ring. But it was Prue. Prue’s face smashed and discoloured and bandaged. She felt herself beginning to heave again and quickly drank more water and tried to breathe deeply. The nurse disposed of the bowl and returned.
‘She really is going to be all right, you know,’ she said. ‘She looks a lot worse than she is, honestly.’
Cassie stared at her. A pale freckled face of a child with incongruous dark shadows under the eyes. They were all understaffed and overworked, so people said. She found her voice. ‘Are you going to look after her?’
‘Part of the time, yes. I’m on night duty in this ward.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Jones.’
‘Nurse Jones. I’ll remember.’
The girl smiled. She didn’t know what to say.
‘And the doctor I was talking to just now?’
‘Doctor Carter.’
Cassie repeated the name. She had no idea why she wanted this information, but it seemed something to hang on to. If these two people had names they must be real and they were taking care of Prue. She couldn’t take care of Prue. Her own child and she couldn’t even look at her without being sick. What kind of a mother was she? And without Peter there was no one she could call on to help her. Unthinkable to inform her parents; they had troubles enough. The shock might kill her mother, even. But it meant in effect they were as useless to her as she was to Prue. And she had no friends. What had she done with her life that she had no friends, now, when she needed them? She began to cry again, pure tears of self-pity and helplessness, not tears for Prue. She was ashamed. But she had never felt more alone in her life.
‘Oh, please,’ said Nurse Jones, patting her shoulder in a motherly way. ‘Please, Mrs. Manson. She is going to be all right, honestly. You’ve had a bad shock; would you like to lie down for a bit?’
* * *
There were new arrivals as she walked through Casualty, more people who had injured themselves or been injured. It was a busy road. She had to wait to see Dr. Carter and while she waited she phoned home in case Peter had changed his mind and returned. But he had not, and indeed she had not thought it likely. She let the phone ring for a bit—there was always a chance he was there and asleep—and listened to the strangely disquieting sound of her own telephone ringing in her own house. Then she put it down, suddenly chilled. There was no one to help her through this. She was on her own. Then she wondered if perhaps Peter was with Rupert, not with Sarah, or in an hotel, but she saw it was nearly midnight so she did not like to ring Rupert, and in any case, if Peter was not there, what could she say?
Dr. Carter said briskly, ‘How are you feeling now, Mrs. Manson? I thought you were lying down for a bit.’
‘I was.’ She had dozed for ten minutes in a chair. ‘I feel much better now.’ After all, what was the point in saying she did not think she would feel better ever, in her life? ‘I’d like to see my son-in-law. Gavin. Could I?’
The doctor looked at her doubtfully.
‘I’m quite calm now,’ she said, trying to sound convincing.
Dr. Carter said, ‘Well, from our point of view he’s a patient too, although we expect to discharge him in the morning. Could it wait till then? We had to give him a sedative so he’s probably asleep in any case. I’d really rather you didn’t disturb him.’
‘You don’t trust me,’ she said, smiling.
‘Well.’ He paused, selecting tactful words, or so she felt. ‘It’s not that, of course. But I do feel that a confrontation at this stage might be rather too much. For both of you, I mean.’
They were protecting Gavin from her maternal wrath. They were afraid of what she might do. ‘You’re quite right,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘I have to admit I’d rather like to kill him. It must be what they say about violence breeding violence, do you think?’
‘Something like that.’ Dr. Carter was beginning to look anxious, as though she might actually be dangerous. ‘You don’t mean it, of course, but I quite understand your feelings. If it was my daughter I’d feel exactly the same, I’m sure.’
He was trying to reassure her. Trying to make her feel better by telling her that they were all barbarians under the skin. She thought how abruptly her whole world had turned over. Nothing was as it had seemed: Prue’s marriage, even her own character. It was all quite hideous. And somehow it suspended all moral judgments. If she could feel so savagely she was just like the others and not entitled to blame any of them. She said aloud, ‘It’s a very ugly world, isn’t it? I didn’t realise before.’
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SARAH SLEPT badly. Manson, exhausted with drink and emotion, fell asleep immediately while she still had her arms round him, and she lay awake, listening to him breathing rather heavily and feeling the arm that was under him grow gradually numb. The scene he had described revolved in her mind until it became so vivid she could hardly bear it and switched her attention to the morning and how tired they would both feel, and how unfit for work. The thought of work then instantly reminded her that he had come as he was, with nothing, and while he was welcome to use her toothbrush and tiny razor, she could hardly provide him with a shirt. She was quite appalled at the idea of him going to the office in a dirty shirt and spent about five minutes gingerly extricating her arm, now painful with pins and needles, so that she could get up and go to the bathroom to wash the shirt. It seemed vital to do this, quite disproportionately vital (since he could have bought one and in any case did not have superiors to impress with a smart appearance), probably because it was something practical that she could do to help.
It was the first shirt she had ever washed and while she was doing it she thought, Would I like to do this for ever? and looked at her pale, smudgy-eyed reflection in the bathroom mirror with a sense of isolation, as if she were the only person in the world awake. It was half past two. She wrung out the shirt in a towel and hung it up, leaving the bathroom heater on all night to ensure that it would be dry by morning. By the time she went back to bed she felt so alone that she was quite startled to see him lying there in her bed (or was it his?), and he had moved so that he was lying almost diagonally and there was hardly room for her to get in. She squeezed herself into a tiny space beside him and he flung his arm across her body without waking and began to snore.
34
CASSIE SAW him coming up the drive. Although he was alone, it made her feel the drama of the previous day was being replayed: time had turned back. She had slept heavily and absolutely, to her own amazement, for about three hours, then wakened at six, far from her usual time. She was in the kitchen by half-past, boiling a kettle and looking blearily out of the window, when she saw the familiar figure in flowered jeans and sweater, with tousled black hair, and a scarf floating around his neck. She thought quite calmly, Well, that takes guts, and waited for the bell to ring.
She opened the door. He did not seem surprised to see her up and dressed, merely relieved. ‘I hope I’m not too early,’ he said, and waited.
She looked at him. Far too dark and angular and attractive, he was the other son she might have had, but had not. He was unbearably familiar, and yet only last night she had wanted, really wanted, to kill him. She said, ‘Come in, Gavin,’ and held the door open for him. The past flooded back and suddenly it did not matter that she had a daughter in hospital because of him: she understood. She did not know if it was the effect of too little sleep, or the drinks of the night before, or what, but he was suddenly a person in distress and she knew him.
He came in. He looked around, as if the hall, the whole house, was strange to him, and said, ‘Mrs. Manson, I guess you hate my guts but I had to see you.’
She had the feeling that he was offering himself, freely, as a victim, that she could do anything. If she should scream abuse or attack him with a knife he would not defend himself. She wanted, illogically, to hold out her arms, but that would be too much. She said, ‘No, that was last night. I’ve been expecting you.’ And as she said it she realised that it was true.
He followed her into the kitchen. She said, ‘I’ve got the kettle on. Would you like tea or coffee?’
‘Coffee, please. Black.’ He slumped against the wall and watched her make it. She realised in that moment that she had never been alone with him before, and knew at the same moment, understood exactly, why Prue had married him. All the old clichés about animal magnetism, sheer vitality, dangerous unleashed power swarmed in her brain. And yet he seemed defenceless, like a child. He said, ‘You must think I’m the all-time shit and you’re right, but I owe you an explanation. No, that’s the wrong word. Christ, you can’t explain these things, but I had to come.’
She said, ‘I know,’ and actually smiled at him. She put the coffee things on a tray and said, ‘Come in the sitting-room; you must be worn out.’
He followed her, saying nervously, ‘Is your husband awake yet?’
She shook her head. ‘He left last night. We … needed a breathing space.’
He nodded. ‘Yeah. I understand that. But about Prue…. D’you want to get the cops? Maybe you have already. I shan’t blame you.’
‘No.’ She poured his coffee and handed it to him. ‘I’ve done nothing. I think I was waiting to hear from you.’
He drank the coffee, hot as it was, wiped his lips, and lit a cigarette, offering her one. She accepted, and he lit it for her. ‘Christ,’ he said again, ‘I think you understand. I think you’re the most together person I’ve ever met. I wish we’d talked before.’
She smiled, to her own surprise. ‘We haven’t talked yet. Don’t stop.’
He made a wry face. ‘You’re right; I haven’t even begun. Look, it’s pointless to say I’m sorry. You can’t apologise for beating up your wife, especially to her mother. What can you say?’ He took a long drag on his cigarette. ‘Look, I’m not here to make excuses for myself, that’s not my scene, and no one, but no one, could make excuses for what I did. I’m responsible for Prue being in that hospital, no one but me. And I’ve got to live with that. Believe me, it won’t be easy. But there are reasons. Not excuses. Just reasons.’
She said gently, ‘Tell me.’
There was a long silence. He drank more coffee, dragged on the cigarette. She felt her life was suspended by a thread. Eventually he said, ‘I don’t know where to start.’
‘Just start. Anywhere you like.’ She was amazed at her own tolerance. Perhaps it was partly due to the early morning light. She felt they were alone in the world.
He said, ‘In a way it’s all my fault. I mean I told Prue. That girl friend of hers who walked in when your husband and his secretary were in our flat, she told her boy friend and he told me. Then I told Prue. As a joke. Now you’re going to think that pretty sick; bear with me, please. I knew Prue had a thing about her father, I guess I was jealous, well, not jealous exactly, but it got me on the raw. I couldn’t resist telling her when I had something on him. I didn’t even think of you at the time: can you forgive that? I guess I thought it was just between Prue and me.’ He wiped his forehead. ‘I must have a pretty simple mind. I mean, I knew it wasn’t important, these things happen all the time, but I had to tell her, I simply couldn’t keep my mouth shut. Now you can say what you like and I won’t blame you, but believe me, I didn’t mean any harm, it was private, it was a family matter.’
She said, ‘Go on.’
‘I don’t know what I expected. To fix things between us, I guess. Oh, not that they weren’t okay before, but—oh, I’ll come to that. Anyway, I told her and she flipped. She went out of her mind. I tell you I was scared. It had literally—’ he stressed the word—’never struck me she might want to tell you. But never. Not in my wildest dreams. She said she did. She went mad. We both hit the roof. She was very upset and I argued with her, and when that didn’t do any good I said if she told you I’d knock her head off. Those were the actual words I used.’
He paused and she was transported years, to a studio, to wood shavings and slabs of bronze, and broken plaster. She was young again, young for the last time, and the memories that came flooding back made her reel. She said to herself, I thought I was over all this, and here it is. She said aloud to him, ‘And?’
