When the Bough Breaks (24 page)

Dennis felt a sharp pain in his back, he tried to kick his legs – heavy legs with water-laden boots and clothes – legs that had no power.

‘You go on,' he tried to say the words, but he didn't seem to know what was happening. Water over his face, over his head. He was going down. This is it! ‘Kathie! Jess!' He believed he was shouting their names but how could he be when he couldn't breathe and his lungs were filling with water. Someone was dragging him – where to? Consciousness finally left him.

Ambulances were waiting on the quayside. The walking wounded were loaded aboard, as many as could be carried safely in each vehicle. For those who were more fortunate, army lorries were lined up to take them to the station for rail travel by special trains to the base where they would be medically checked, then issued with fresh uniforms heavily impregnated with the hated disinfectant, given ration slips and passes for fourteen days' leave. As the open-backed lorry drove away from the quayside, the first of the stretchers was being carried ashore. How else could casualties be offloaded, some conscious and thankful to be on home soil, others who had breathed their last as the little boat had chugged its way across the Channel. And still there would be hundreds on the beaches waiting, ducking for cover, praying not to lose the freedom that was so close. With their human cargo all delivered to English soil the little boats refuelled and set out again.

As each special train travelled, at any vantage point where the railway line ran alongside a road, there were people waiting and watching, men waving their hats, women their hankies and children small Union Jacks. Dirty, exhausted, weak beyond imagination, the troops waved back to the welcome parties. If there were a few who weren't aware just how near the surface tears threatened, Bert wasn't one of them.

Could this be the defeat Hitler broadcast about to his people? Rather, this was a family welcoming home its sons. Pride had never been higher.

‘Bert Delbridge came in the pub last night,' Sarah said a couple of days later. ‘He'd not been hurt, but Mrs H he looked really rotten. Dad said he had to be careful not to push him with questions. But it's awful, he said Stanley Stone had been shot dead. Stanley! He was here working when they were on leave, remember?'

Oh yes, Kathie remembered. She remembered all the years he had been one of them. How many times had she heard Den's heartfelt, ‘bloody war'? Stan not coming home, not going to marry the girl he had got engaged to before he went away. There were no words. How could she say ‘I'm so sorry', or ‘How dreadful'? She looked at Sarah in silence.

‘Did he say anything about Den?' It took all her courage to ask. Her mouth felt dry and stiff; she had to force the words. ‘I've not heard a thing.'

‘I thought you would have heard from him by this morning. Bert said he helped get him onto a boat, but it was too full to take anyone else. So Bert got picked up by a different one. But Mr H was definitely on board and the boat got across OK. Bert said he saw that much. But his lot was offloaded first. Mr H had to be lifted aboard because he was wounded, but it can't be anything too serious or he wouldn't have been able to swim to the boat. Him being older than Bert, I expect he was exhausted with the swim.'

Kathie nodded, thankfulness seeming to deprive her of speech. Thank God, Den is safely back in England. Perhaps he wants to surprise me, just arrive like I've been dreaming. She leant on her hoe letting her mind run wild while, her news both bad and good told, Sarah went to the shed to fetch her tools ready to set to work.

Over the last few days, at some stage during each morning Bruce had walked through the wood to the lane, not climbing the gate but using the key and undoing the padlock, then those few steps more and he was at Westways. More often than not Claudia would be there and would see him, hailing him with a wave. The magic of this place never failed. That glamorous and worldly Claudia should have been drawn to it was the biggest surprise of all. He could understand what had attracted Oliver, and certainly Elspeth who would have responded by instinct rather than design, but it seemed to have touched a chord he had never suspected in Claudia.

That morning, arriving unnoticed, he stopped just inside the gate to take in the scene. There had been rain in the night and even though it had soon dried away, Claudia was wearing the red wellingtons to which she seemed very attached. To protect her hands as she picked broad beans she wore the same gardening gloves he had seen on previous visits. Where did she manage to find these things? They were gauntlets, as red as her boots, not thick heavy gloves as most people wore for gardening (at least, those who wore gloves at all, he thought, a smile tugging the corner of his mouth as he thought of Kathie), but made of strong rubber, with an artificial white rose on the back of each wrist.

Seeing him she raised one elegantly clad hand in a wave just as she always did. As a rule that drew him to stop and talk to her, but on that day he acknowledged her greeting and walked on down the field to where he could see Kathie checking the progress of the outdoor tomato plants and tying them to the poles as they grew. He watched unseen for a moment as she gave her concentration to examining each plant, pricking out any young shoot that grew in the leaf joints. In those old working trousers of Dennis's she so often wore – and from the look of her, an old shirt of his too on that morning – and with a scarf covering her hair and tied like a turban, it was impossible not to find himself comparing her appearance with Claudia's. His Adam's apple seemed to fill his throat. At that moment she sensed that someone was watching her and turned around.

‘Bruce! How long have you been standing there? I was just finishing checking the tommies. They're coming on well. What's that in your hand?'

‘I met the post-lady at the gate. She broke the rules and let me have it to give you.'

The buff envelope looked ominously official. Don't let it be bad news for her, he begged silently. She hurried towards him with her hand out, but one look at the typed envelope and hope faded.

‘I thought it might be from Den.' She tore the envelope open and took out a single typed sheet

‘Wounded,' she murmured as she read. ‘It's his spine. Operating . . . until after the operation they won't know how fully he will recover.'

He had never seen that lost, frightened look in her eyes before.

‘Where is he?'

Kathie passed him the letter, a letter that told so much and yet so little. At least he was alive – and surely before any operation the medical people had to give that warning. That's what Bruce tried to make her believe as taking back the sheet of paper she reread the message.

‘There's a telephone number. You must ring them, Kathie, find out if you can see him.'

Biting hard on her bottom lip, she cast a glance at the field that surrounded them. She felt trapped. The hospital was miles away. She had a child to care for; she had a business to run. The girls worked hard but they only obeyed instructions, she couldn't possible leave them. Anyway, what about Beth? She felt Bruce's firm touch on her shoulder.

‘I'd never do it in a day. His spine. That sounds . . . sounds . . .' But the words died before she could speak them. It was probably something minor – yet in her heart she knew it wasn't.

‘We'll go indoors and you telephone the hospital. The letter was sent yesterday. Perhaps he's already had the operation and they'll be able to give you good news.'

She nodded. Brave words, but she wouldn't look him in the eyes.

Ten minutes later they were back outside. He would be out of the theatre within the next hour. It would be evening before he was recovered sufficiently to know she was there, and even then he would be under heavy sedation. The sister she spoke to was sensitive and helpful. ‘If you can make the journey to be here tomorrow, I believe that would be best. But I do suggest you telephone again this evening.' The reason for calling again remained unspoken.

‘There's Beth . . . there's this place . . . regular orders to be filled . . .'

‘I believe, Kathie, you are hiding behind excuses. But you are strong. Whatever has to be faced you will find the courage. As for leaving Westways, you have all day today to arrange with the girls what must be cut – dug, or whatever you do with things – and I am offering you my services to make the delivery round. Unless Claudia sees that as an intrusion and wants to do it.'

But when the idea was put to Claudia it was clear that much as she enjoyed herself at Westways she had no ambition in the direction of delivering the packed boxes. Right from the day of her arrival she had stood apart from the villagers and that was the way she meant to continue.

‘There are the chickens to be looked after – and, more importantly, there's Beth.'

‘Beth is welcome to spend the night at the school. It won't be a hardship for her, I promise.'

‘And I'll do the chickens. You can let me take a couple of eggs for my breakfast,' Claudia said with a smile that dug those dimples deep. ‘Beth can take me on as an apprentice when she does them after school today so that I know what they expect of me. There now,' she beamed with satisfaction, ‘all your problems are taken care of.'

Not for the first time Kathie brought to mind the image of the elderly Marleys and imagined their reaction when their beloved grandson produced over-glamorous and down-to-earth Claudia. It was apparent from Bruce's expression as he watched the young woman who had been rejected that his understanding of her went deeper.

Late that afternoon, the deliveries made and Beth put in Oliver's care at the school, Bruce dipped into his meagre petrol allowance and drove Kathie to Exeter. From there she travelled eastward and by dusk she arrived at the hospital. She had been told she couldn't see Den until after the surgeon's ward round in the morning, but she had to be reassured that he was out of theatre and had regained consciousness. More than that the nurse she spoke to could tell her nothing except that he was under heavy sedation and could have no visitors that evening.

After a night at a nearby bed and breakfast establishment, she returned to the hospital where, before she was allowed into the ward, she was taken to the sister's office.

‘Sit down, Mrs Hawthorne. I spoke to you when you called by telephone yesterday and it's because you have come so far and for such a short time that you are to be allowed to visit out of normal hours. Five until six in the evening is usual, but I believe you will be well on the way home before that.'

‘Yes, I can't be away long. I run our market garden until Den can be home to do it himself.'

‘I see.'

‘I was told last night that the operation was over,' Kathie prompted; but why was her heart beating so hard? She must keep that hopeful smile on her face, she mustn't let the kindly sister know how frightened she was.

‘There will be many jobs he can undertake, but working a market garden won't be possible. What a mercy you are so capable. There is more to running an establishment than doing the hands-on work.'

‘What are you trying to tell me?'

‘Yesterday's operation was to remove shots from his back and to examine his spine. There were three shots, one of which had severed his spinal cord low in his back. You understand what that must mean?'

‘Severed his spinal cord? He won't walk?'

‘He will learn to get around. Wheelchairs are very different from what they used to be. And he will learn to use crutches, even without putting one foot in front of the other, this war is showing us that planting the crutches, swinging the body, it's amazing the independence that can be achieved. More than amazing, it is truly humbling to see some of the lads we have had in here. But gardening, even simply
getting around
on land that is dug and cultivated . . .' She shook her head helplessly.

‘Does he know?' Kathie asked in a voice that seemed trapped in her dry throat.

‘Colonel Fulbrook, the surgeon, saw him this morning. I told him you were coming in after he left and I hoped he would let your husband hear it from you. But he said he would tell him himself; the sooner he knew the better. And perhaps he was right, perhaps too it was easier to take from a senior officer. I've seen so many times over these last months just how much it means to a man to be one of that band of servicemen. Each is isolated in his own tragedy and yet they are one small part of . . . of a brotherhood.'

But had Den ever felt himself to be that? ‘Bloody war', she seemed to hear him say.

‘Now I'll take you to the ward. This way.' It was like a living nightmare, and what a moment for Kathie to remember how she had imagined Den would return unexpected to surprise her. ‘Here we are. You'll find him at the end of the ward in a bed with the curtains closed around him.'

‘Thank you.' Kathie remembered her manners and added, ‘You have been kind.'

The sister bustled away and if Kathie had been able to read her thoughts she would have found they were similar to Dennis's.

All eyes were on her as she walked the length of the ward. In a second she would see him. He was home, for him the war was over; wasn't that cause for thankfulness? Through recent weeks she had, if not forgotten, at any rate ceased to be haunted by the memory of how distant they had become when last he was home, but now without warning it flooded her mind. With her hand on the curtain she found herself hesitating, then as suddenly as it had come so the memory faded and she was filled with certainty. However difficult he found the adjustments he would have to make, they would share the problems; that wedge of ice that held them apart had melted under this new challenge. Losing their precious Jess would never grow less painful but surely as they made a new future – for it must be a new future, nothing could ever be as it was in the past – they would be able to reach out to each other and share their sadness. Almost timidly she pulled the curtain aside and stepped into the enclosed space.