A Question of Guilt (22 page)

‘There's no point you staying, Sally,' Mum said, doing her best to sound calm and in control. ‘You can't keep Jeremy waiting half the night, and in any case you've got to get home to look after things on the farm in the morning.'

She was right on both counts, of course, but I really didn't want to leave her here alone, and I wanted to stay at least until Dad came out of surgery. I was wishing fervently now that I'd driven myself to the hospital – at least that way I'd have had freedom and flexibility. As things were, the best option, as I could see it, was to tell Jeremy to go home, and I'd get a taxi when I knew that Dad had come through his operation safely.

Leaving Mum in the relatives' room, I made my way out to the car park. Jeremy was sitting in the BMW just as he'd said he would be, and I could hear Classic FM playing softly on the radio. He'd reclined the seat and his eyes were closed; I thought at first that he might be asleep. But when I tapped tentatively on the window, he sat up immediately and opened the door.

‘What's happening? How is he?'

I explained about the operation, and that it would be a couple of hours at the very least before I was able to leave the hospital, and suggested it would be best if he didn't wait for me any longer, but Jeremy would have none of it.

‘I'll wait, Sally. The last thing you're going to want to be doing is trying to get a taxi in the middle of the night.'

‘It should be easy enough here,' I argued. ‘We're not out in the sticks now.' But Jeremy, bless him, was insistent.

‘I'm not going to abandon you, Sally, so you might as well give up trying to make me. I will stretch my legs, though, and I could use a cup of coffee.'

‘It's pretty rubbish,' I said, ‘but it's better than nothing.'

‘Tell you what,' Jeremy suggested. ‘I'll go for a drive around and find a Pizza Hut or a McDonalds. I can get a takeaway and bring it back here. I don't suppose you or your mum have had anything to eat since lunchtime.'

‘We haven't, but I'm not at all sure I could eat anything . . .'

‘You can at least try,' Jeremy said. ‘You go back to your mum, and I'll come and find you when I've done my late-night shop.'

And so it was back to the relatives' room, back to the endless anxious waiting, albeit this time with Jeremy and the pizza he brought back with him, which Mum didn't touch and I could only nibble at.

It was the wee small hours before the doctor came to tell us that Dad was out of theatre. The operation to remove the clot had gone according to plan, but the doctor was still cautious about giving us a positive prognosis. Dad was still in a critical condition and it was too early to know if any lasting damage had been done. We were allowed to go and see him, but it was dreadfully upsetting to see him lying there, unresponsive and on a ventilator, and the thought that he might remain in this state for days, weeks, months, even perhaps forever, made me feel sick. My lovely dad, my rock, reduced to this! I wanted to kill the motorcyclist who had been the cause of it with my bare hands.

Mum was insistent I should go home now.

‘There's nothing you can do, Sally. There's nothing any of us can do but wait. I'll stay here, of course, but you need to be around on the farm to keep an eye on things. It's what your dad would want. You can always come back tomorrow when you've got everything sorted out.'

I didn't tell her I was very worried about getting the help we would need in the weeks ahead; tomorrow morning was covered, and that would have to suffice for now. But I did say as much to Jeremy when we were driving home through the pitch black of a wet February night, and I could hardly believe it when he offered his help in that direction too.

‘I'm sure we can spare one of our hands until you can find a more permanent solution,' he said. ‘Rod, my manager, was telling me only the other day that he thought we were overstaffed, but they've all been with us so long I'm reluctant to get rid of any of them.'

Relief flooded my weary, stressed-out body.

‘Oh Jeremy, that is so kind! We'll pay for the labour, of course.'

‘Let's not worry about that now. You've got enough on your plate.'

That much was certainly true, but I knew Dad would want it sorted as soon as possible. He was old school, paying bills the minute they came due, not holding off to the last possible moment. He hated owing anyone a penny. Jeremy might be well off, but that was no reason to take advantage of his generosity.

‘We'll talk about it tomorrow,' I said.

Jeremy dropped me in the farmyard and waited until I reached the front door before driving away. There was no sign of Scrumpy; she must be asleep, I supposed, but it was very unusual for her not to emerge, barking, from her kennel at the sound of an unfamiliar vehicle entering her territory.

I fitted my key into the lock and attempted to turn it, but couldn't. Puzzled, but too tired to think straight, I tried again without success before it dawned on me – the door wasn't locked. In my haste to get to the hospital I must have forgotten to lock up properly.

I opened the door and went inside, switching on the hall light, and was totally taken by surprise to see Scrumpy in the kitchen doorway. Her tail was down and she looked thoroughly wretched.

‘Scrumpy? What on earth are you doing in here?' I asked, puzzled. Scrumpy rarely, if ever, came into the house; when she wasn't out on the farm with Dad, she lived in her kennel, and the last time I remembered seeing her was cowering in the yard when I rushed out to go to Dad after his accident.

She must have slipped in unnoticed during all the subsequent comings and goings, I supposed, and unknowingly I'd shut her in.

‘It's all right, Scrumpy,' I said. ‘I'm not cross with you. You've got to go outside now though.'

Scrumpy slunk towards me, then put on speed, running out of the door and heading for her kennel. I followed her out and clipped her to her leash. She was obviously very upset, and I didn't want her running off again, perhaps in search of Dad.

Back inside, I locked the door after me and eased my feet out of my boots. The answering machine was blinking, indicating messages, and I was half tempted to leave picking them up until morning. But I couldn't bring myself to do that. Though common sense told me that if Mum wanted me she'd have called me on my mobile, I couldn't take the risk.

None of the messages were from Mum, of course.

The first was Josh.

‘Sally – I've just heard from Belinda about your dad. I've tried to get you on your mobile, but it's switched off, so I assume you're at the hospital. I just wanted to say if there's anything I can do, just let me know.'

A little spark of warmth flared in the cold place inside me. Josh sounded worried. Josh cared. He was there for me.

There were a couple of other messages in the same vein from friends of Mum and Dad – bad news travels fast, I thought. The last one was Rachel.

‘Steve just came in from playing skittles and says he heard Jack has had an accident and is in hospital. Is he all right? I'm really worried. Big hugs to you all. I'll ring again tomorrow.'

Good old Rach. Another real friend. The concern everyone was expressing made me feel less alone, though of course it did nothing to alleviate my awful anxiety. I went into the kitchen, intending to make myself a hot drink, decided I couldn't be bothered, and poured myself the last of the brandy from the half bottle that was still on the table. Then, somehow managing not to spill it, I hauled myself upstairs, got undressed, and collapsed into bed.

Predictably, I slept badly, horrible dreams interspersed with periods of wakefulness when I tossed and turned and worried. I couldn't get the picture of Dad lying in the lane out of my head, nor the one of the last glimpse I'd had of him in hospital, hooked up to drips and the ventilator. By six thirty I was wide awake again, feeling as if the weight of the world was pressing down on my chest, and my mouth dry with the horrible aftertaste of the brandy. There was a dull throb behind my left temple too; I hoped it wouldn't develop into a full-blown headache.

I got up, got dressed, and went out into the cold, grey dawn to make sure Mark Turnbull had turned up to help Sam with the milking. He had, and he promised to come back again this afternoon – no need to call on Jeremy's farmhand today at least then.

I returned to the farmhouse to make myself some breakfast. I wasn't at all hungry, but I thought I really must force something down – goodness only knew what the day would bring. It was too early yet to ring the hospital, anxious though I was for news, and too early to return the calls of the people who'd left messages on the answering machine.

I set the kettle to boil, and a pan of water for a boiled egg, then went to switch on the radio, more for company than because I wanted to listen to it. But it wasn't in its usual place on the window ledge. Mum must have moved it, I supposed – sometimes, if there was a programme she was particularly interested in, she carried it around with her. It was very unusual for her not to have brought it back to the kitchen, though.

I went through to the sitting room to see if it was there, but as I pushed the door – which was ajar – fully open, I froze, confused and alarmed. The sitting room was in disarray, drawers in the dresser open, their contents spilled over the floor, and the television had been removed from its stand and propped up against the fireplace. What on earth . . .? In disbelief I glanced around, and saw that the mantelpiece was bare but for a couple of framed family photographs, and one of them appeared to have been knocked over. The anniversary clock that was Mum's pride and joy was missing.

We'd been burgled! Somebody had been in here ransacking the house while Mum and I had been at the hospital! I could scarcely believe it, but now the things that had puzzled me last night were making sense – the front door unlocked, Scrumpy in the house, looking guilty – when someone who had no business to be here had either broken in or walked in through the open door if I'd forgotten to lock it, she must have tried to warn them off. Maybe she'd succeeded and that was why they'd left the television behind, making off with just the small items they could carry easily – the radio, the anniversary clock, and maybe a few other bits and pieces that I hadn't yet missed.

The phone was ringing. Leaving the drawing room I hurried as fast as I could manage into the hall. My heart had begun to hammer so hard it was making me feel sick. For the moment I forgot all about the burglary – what did a few stolen possessions matter? The only thing of any importance was news of Dad.

I grabbed the phone. ‘Hello?'

‘Sally. It's me. Mum.'

‘Yes? How are things?' I could scarcely breathe.

‘Better. You'll be glad to hear, Sally, your dad has regained consciousness.'

My knees went weak from relief. ‘Oh, thank God!'

‘I know. It's wonderful, isn't it? I can't tell you, Sally, when I saw his eyelids flutter . . . and when he squeezed my hand . . .' She broke off, emotion overcoming her. ‘He's not out of the woods yet, of course,' she went on after a moment. ‘He's still very drowsy, and I don't think he can remember anything about what happened, but at least he's come round. And there doesn't seem to be any serious internal damage either. He's badly bruised, of course, but nothing is broken. I think he must have flung himself out of the way when the cows stampeded, but got kicked as they went by. And he would have dislocated his shoulder when he fell.'

‘Yes, that makes sense.'

‘How are things there?' Mum asked.

No way was I going to tell her we'd been burgled. She had quite enough on her plate just now. There would be plenty of time to break that to her later.

‘Fine,' I lied. ‘Mark Turnbull came to help Sam with the milking, and he's coming again this afternoon. And Jeremy has promised us one of his hands for as long as we need him. So everything is under control.'

‘Oh, that's good. Your dad will be relieved.'

I couldn't help but smile. The idea of Dad being relieved was almost amusing, given the state he'd been in the last time I'd seen him. But it was also amazingly cheering.

‘Do thank Jeremy for me,' Mum went on. ‘He's been a brick, hasn't he?'

There was no denying that. The last thing he'd said to me when he dropped me off last night was that he'd take me to Frenchay again today if I wanted to go and didn't feel up to driving myself.

‘I'll be in later, Mum,' I said. ‘I've got a few things to do here first though.'
Understatement of the year
, I thought grimly.

‘All right, love. No rush.'

‘Give Dad my love. And Mum . . . I am so glad he's back with us.'

‘You and me both,' Mum said.

I hung up, and wondered if I should ring the police now, while I had the phone in my hand. But perhaps it would make sense to check again what was missing before I did that. I could still scarcely believe that we really had been burgled. Could it be that Mum had been doing some spring cleaning yesterday and not got around to clearing up after herself? But why would she take the TV off its stand? In all honesty, I doubted she could even manage it, even if she'd wanted to. It wasn't a huge set – Mum and Dad were not the home-cinema types – but it must be at least two feet in width, a flat screen that sat in a groove on its stand. And where was the anniversary clock and the DAB radio? And why had the dresser drawers been pulled out and rifled through?

No, unlikely as it seemed, a burglary was the only explanation. I looked around the living room to see if anything else was missing, but couldn't spot anything obvious, and what Mum kept in the drawers of the dresser I hadn't a clue, beyond the tablecloth and napkins that came out on special occasions, mail-order catalogues and the Yellow Pages and local telephone directories, all of which were scattered about the floor. Perhaps the burglar had been looking for money – but he'd be lucky! Apart from a jar of loose change on the kitchen shelf and the cash in her purse, Mum never kept money in the house, and more often than not Dad's wallet was empty. He didn't go anywhere to need cash, he always joked; he left that to Mum.