Wildthorn Page 11

  Mamma turned to me. "I was thinking we should send for Tom. But really, there's no need now."

  I agreed. I wasn't surprised she wanted Tom home, but I could just imagine his annoyance at being dragged all the way from London for nothing, especially as he was about to sit his first medical examinations.

  ***

  Papa opened his eyes. For a moment he looked round in an unfocused way. Then his gaze fell on me and he tried to smile.

  "Lou." His voice was faint.

  As always, when he was lucid again, I felt weak with relief. If only this time it would last. If only the crisis were over. I concentrated on practicalities. "It's time for your pill, Papa."

  I put it between his poor, cracked lips and tilted the glass of water. As he drank, a trickle ran from the side of his mouth. I wiped it away. He licked his lips and I saw that his tongue was brown.

  I felt his nightgown. It was drenched with sweat so I fetched a clean one. When I took off the soiled one I was shocked again. In the month since I was summoned home from Carr Head, he'd grown so thin his ribs protruded. And the telltale spots were clearly visible on his chest and back.

  Why had it taken Dr. Kneale so long to realise? I'd shivered when he said the word and Mamma gave a little cry and went quite white.

  Typhoid.

  Although she didn't mention it, I knew Mamma would be thinking of her brother. But after all, there was hope. People recovered from typhoid.

  When Papa was settled on his pillow again, I said, "Would you like anything? Beef tea? Or toast and water?"

  He shook his head. "Not now. Later."

  "I could read to you."

  "No. Thank you. Feel sleepy."

  He shut his eyes. Soon his breathing deepened.

  I tiptoed over to the window and looked out, parting the curtains carefully so the light didn't disturb Papa.

  Morning had come to the street. Over the way, the maid was scrubbing the step, her back bobbing up and down with her energetic strokes. A delivery boy with a basket slung over his arm went whistling round the corner. I felt cut off from them by more than a pane of glass.

  This had been going on so long.

  I wanted it to end. I dreaded it ending.

  The door opened and Mamma came in. Her face was even paler than usual, the hollows beneath her eyes darker.

  "How is he?"

  "Much calmer now." We kept our voices low and both glanced towards the bed. Papa stirred but didn't wake.

  Mamma was still carrying a handkerchief and I wondered if she'd been crying again. She started twisting it as if she'd forgotten she was holding it. "Do you think we should send for Tom today?"

  She'd asked me this every morning since the doctor had pronounced the word. My reply was the same as usual. "No, Mamma. You know the doctor said it wouldn't be wise because of the danger of infection. And Papa specifically said we were not to send for Tom or Aunt Phyllis. Besides, it may not be necessary."

  Mamma seemed to seize on my words gratefully. "Yes, of course, you're right. We'll wait." Then she stood still, as if at a loss as to what to do next.

  Mamma, who'd always seemed so firm, so clear, now seemed to be softening and blurring ... like a melting candle. She even seemed to be smaller than before, as if she was shrinking.

  "Why don't you try to rest?" I suggested. "I can sit with Papa."

  She came to then. Drawing herself upright, she said, "I must see to my chores."

  She went out of the room leaving me to watch the rise and fall of Papa's breath.

  ***

  A few days later, after examining Papa, Doctor Kneale touched me on the shoulder and said gently, "I think you should send for your brother now."

  I looked at him, not understanding. "But Papa is better, isn't he? He's been so much quieter the last day or two."

  The doctor shook his head. "I fear he is sinking."

  He went out and I heard him call for Mary. They spoke quietly at the door. All the time I sat there feeling numb.

  Then Mary came in. "The doctor says you want me to send a telegram, Miss Louisa." Her eyes glistened as if she were holding back tears.

  I roused myself. "Yes, to Tom."

  "What shall I say?"

  "Say, You must come now."

  ***

  Mamma and I sat there through the evening, not speaking. There was nothing to say.

  I didn't want this quiet dream to end. Papa was still here, that was the main thing. I held his hand and stroked it. He was breathing rapidly and there was a dusky tinge to his face but otherwise he lay peacefully.

  At one point Mamma went out to fetch some fresh water and while she was gone, Papa opened his eyes and seemed to be listening.

  "What is it, Papa?"

  He spoke but his voice was a croak.

  I bent towards him.

  "Birds," he said. "I can hear birds."

  He turned his head and looked directly at me. "Lou?"

  "Yes, Papa?"

  Speaking with great effort he said, "You'll make a fine doctor. God bless, my darling." Then his voice sank to a whisper. "Fetch Mamma."

  Fierce wings beat about my heart.

  He mustn't go. He couldn't.

  Tears blurring my eyes, I stumbled to the door and opening it, called out, "Mamma, come quickly."

  My voice seemed insubstantial, as if the dark shadows were swallowing it.

  ***

  So. He had gone.

  In a state of dreary blankness I did what had to be done. Mary and I drew down the blinds, silenced the clocks, covered the mirrors. I helped Mamma order our mourning clothes and write to those who needed to know. All the time I felt cut off, as if I was under a glass dome. Mamma's anguish, Tom's anger because he had come too late and he blamed me—none of it reached me.

  Sometimes I sat with the body, watching the shadows cast by the candle light flicker over the waxen face. This wasn't Papa anymore. He had gone. But even so, when they came to make a plaster cast of his face, I couldn't stay but went and sat in his study. I clasped the cushion that still smelt of him. But I didn't cry.

  The undertaker's men brought the coffin downstairs to the dining room and laid it on the table. I couldn't help thinking of Papa carving the Sunday joint and my heart missed a beat. But still I didn't cry.

  When it was my turn to say goodbye, I looked down at the face, which wasn't Papa's face any more, just a mask. I knew I should be feeling something. But I was numb.

  Sitting with all the other women in the parlour, Grace beside me, I was all right until I heard the death knell. I knew then that the body had been brought to the grave and I imagined Papa being lowered into the cold earth.

  He doesn't feel it, I told myself, but still I shivered.

  ***

  The house was strangely quiet.

  When Grace left with her family, I wanted to run after the carriage and get in with her and be carried away. Not be left behind with Mamma and Tom, as if we'd been marooned.

  Mamma was inconsolable so I took over the running of the house. I kept expecting to hear Papa arriving home, to see him at breakfast. Every day it came to me, with a fresh jolt, that I would never see him again. But I still couldn't accept it.

  The days went by, each as blank and dreary as the one before, and after a while, at the back of my mind a little voice started up, asking: what will happen to me now?

  It seemed wrong to be thinking about myself at such a time, but I could see my life stretching in front of me, with nothing in it but staying at home and looking after Mamma.

  At the thought of it, I felt stifled and a kind of dread filled me.

  I had to do something.

  Before he became too ill, I'd told Papa about my dreams. He said he was proud of me and it made my heart swell. But he'd warned me not to speak of my plans to Mamma until he'd talked to her first. I was sure he hadn't—she hadn't mentioned it. Now it was too late. I knew she'd never agree but I clung to one hope—maybe Tom could persuade her.

  He
and I had scarcely spoken since he'd come home. He'd spent time with Mamma, but largely ignored me. I didn't want him to leave with things as they were. Surely we'd be able to mend the breach...

  ***

  I found Tom in Papa's study. I was dismayed to see that he was sorting books into piles. "What are you doing?"

  "Mother said I could take anything that would be useful. I'm leaving tomorrow, you know."

  Papa's books...

  Aside from the fact that I might want to use them, I couldn't bear to see them going. But I swallowed my protest. I didn't want a row now, when I needed him to be on my side.

  I'd decided to approach the subject of my future in a roundabout way, so I said tentatively, "Are you enjoying your studies? Are things progressing well?"

  He shrugged. "Well enough."

  "You know Mamma's unhappy about you going back to London. Now you've completed a year, had you thought of transferring to the hospital at Leeds? Then you'd be able to come home more often. Mamma would be pleased, and so would I."

  As I said this, I realised it was true. Perhaps it was something to do with the loss of Papa, but I wanted to feel closer to my brother, to know him better. And not just because we shared the same interest in medicine...

  Surely, now that we were older, this was possible?

  Tom scowled. "Why would I want to transfer? Everyone knows the London teaching hospitals are the best. And if I want to get on—"

  "Get on? What do you mean?"

  He rolled his eyes as if he couldn't be bothered to explain it all to me and took another book off the shelf.

  "Aren't you coming back here—to the practice?"

  He appeared to be studying the title of the book intently. "To tell you the truth, Lou, I'm not interested in that anymore."

  "But I thought Grandpapa intended—"

  He cut in. "Things have changed since Grandpapa's day. I could be a top consultant in the West End, earning thousand of pounds a year."

  I stared at him. "Did Papa know about this?"

  His cheeks reddened and he dropped his eyes. "No. I was going to tell him..."

  We both fell silent. I felt sure Papa would have been unhappy about Tom's plan, but I couldn't speak of it. Even to think about Papa made my throat tighten.

  I looked around the study—all the other familiar things were still here: Papa's Gladstone bag, his pewter tobacco jar, the owl pipe-rack. It all looked just the same and yet it wasn't.

  I swallowed. "Mamma will be upset, don't you think?"

  He put the book down and took another. The silence lengthened.

  I noticed that there were dark smudges under his eyes. Perhaps he'd been studying too hard. "How did your exams go?"

  "Oh, well enough," he said again. He added hastily, "We haven't had the results yet." There was something odd about his tone, but I didn't want to press him. This might be my last chance to talk to him about my future. I had to seize it.

  I took a deep breath, then the words came tumbling out. "Tom, there's something I wanted to ask you. I spoke to Papa about it and he agreed, but I don't think Mamma will, but she might, if you ask her."

  Tom's frowned. "What are you talking about, Lou?"

  "I want to be a doctor too."

  Tom stared at me. I waited, praying that he'd understand. But to my astonishment, he started laughing. "A doctor! Don't be ridiculous, Lou. How could you be a doctor?" He shook his head and slapped his leg as if this was the funniest joke he'd ever heard.

  His mockery stung, but I also felt a burning sensation in my chest, as if someone had lit a fuse. Why was it so ridiculous?

  "Why not?"

  "It's not something a woman can do."

  "But there are women—"

  He snorted. "Yes, but it's preposterous!"

  I began to tremble, but I bit back the retort that rose to my lips. I had to get him on my side.

  I looked him straight in the face and said as calmly as I could, "I'm not joking, Tom. This is what I really want. I've worked hard and I think I nearly know enough for the preliminary exams. And Papa"—I stopped, swallowed, then went on.—"Papa supported me. He said I could, if Mamma agreed. That's why I'd like you to speak to her."

  I think he could tell that I was serious. Abruptly his manner changed. The colour left his face and he just stared at me, shaking his head slowly.

  A horrible feeling started to grow inside me. "Tom—"

  He put out his hand to stop me. "It's out of the question. I am the head of this house now and I won't allow it."

  I couldn't believe it. Papa had warned me that I'd face strong opposition from other doctors but I never thought my own brother would oppose me.

  "But Tom—"

  "I won't let my sister embark on an improper course that will bring shame on her and all the family."

  It was my turn to stare. Why was he talking in that odd, stiff way? And then the full import of his words hit me and suddenly all thought of being grown-up vanished and we were back in the nursery again, all the familiar old frustrations welling up in me.

  "But that's not fair. Why should you control what I do?"

  Tom looked at me with the old maddeningly superior expression. "Because it's my right."

  I felt as if I'd been struck. I clenched my fists and tried to control myself.

  He turned back to the books as if the subject was closed. Over his shoulder, he said, "By the way, have you still got Papa's stethoscope?"

  I was immediately suspicious. "Yes. Why?"

  "Can I have it? It's much better than mine."

  A hot flame seared my chest, but I managed to say, "No, you can't. Papa left it to me."

  "But you won't be needing it, will you?"

  My self-control vanished." I hate you! "I shouted and flew at him, pounding him with my fists.

  He caught hold of my hands and calmly held me at arm's length until, my strength exhausted, I stopped struggling and glared at him, panting.

  "You see," Tom said, with another smile, letting go of me. "What a temper. You'd need more self-control if you were going to be a doctor."

  I had no breath to respond.

  He moved towards the door, carrying a pile of books. "You're not to say anything to Mamma, by the way. I won't have her upset by your silly notions."

  Then he went out, closing the door behind him.

  Seizing the cushion from Papa's chair, I flung myself down and buried my face in it.