My Word You Do Look Queer! written by Carol Ross
Rwandan Miracle written by Ann Kerr
Before Christmas written by Neil McKeown
These stories are all included in "Night and Day" a collection of short stories published by Arts Connection. The stories were the result of classes led by Ruth Carter and run by Powys County Council Lifelong Learning Department. The book is available from Llanfyllin Library.
On the day when Laura discovered that she had her mother’s hands, she was in the swimming pool, doing her normal lunchtime swim.
It was a Friday, and still part of the ‘Women Only day’. Nineteen chattering ladies had just finished their water aerobics class, and were taking the last of their pool side showers, talking animatedly throughout. They had taken their shampoo and conditioner bottles, and had removed their draped towels from the edge of the waterside.
It was astonishing to Laura that they could speak to each other for so long, week after week. She wondered what on earth they found to talk about together so light- heartedly. Their heads drew closer together, to hear each other above the running water.
This was usually the time Laura loved best, when she would do length after length, solitary, weightless and feeling so graceful, free from her other commitments in her busy schedule. She was proud of herself in these moments, feeling always rather smug at her youthful fitness, “not bad for fifty nine, am I? Better than some of those lumpy women!” She felt a surge of energy, as she started on her thirty sixth length.
The next ten lengths seemed to pass by effortlessly. It was as she approached the deep end that the bright fluorescent lights shone on her hands, and she suddenly saw them clearly. They were not her hands. These were the hands of a much older person, with many of the larger veins raised up and protruding as far as the knuckles. The veins looked dark blue, and they crisscrossed alarmingly.
She reached the end of the pool and clung weakly to the side before looking again. Someone had swapped Laura's hands with those of an older woman, an old woman with irregular brown liver splodges scattered freely over the back of both hands. These were not, surely not, hers. Then, aghast, she recognised them; they belonged to her mother, dead these last sixteen years. Her mother was in the pool beside her! No, her mother had given Laura her old hands, and had taken her nicely mature, but still sprightly ones away with her, to her grave. Why?
Laura swam very slowly to the shallow end and climbed out unsteadily. She felt extremely stiff, and had trouble walking over to the showers. She turned on the water, hoping that the warmth would ease the discomfort in her knees, and saw in a flash of awful realisation that she had her mother’s knees, and, worse still, her mother’s legs as well. They had been quite shapely, but had always stiffened up after any sort of exertion. She didn't dare to look any closer at the rest of her body, in case her worst fears were confirmed, and she would see her mother staring at her from the mirror on the changing room wall.
She almost fell into the changing cubicle, feeling so shocked, and dried herself slowly, lifting her limbs gingerly, like an older person would. Was this to be her pattern from now on? Moving her body carefully, in case of pain, or even accident, a sudden fall provoking a fracture? And later on shuffling along, to save the strain on her knees? And soon to find her back rounded, slightly hunched, and to find when measured that she had shrunk a good two inches in height? The thoughts were unbearable. She didn't want to become her mother, not at all, and especially not that aspect of her mother that had suffered so much in the last three months of life, after her last stroke.
Was she not Laura Harrison of Hereford, super-fit granny, and mother of four grown children, landscape gardener, wife, friend to many, afraid of very little?
Or was she Agnes Brown, a little old lady with pains which her daughter, Laura, had somehow always seemed to despise? Somebody who had not trained in any field, but who made the most remarkable shortbread biscuits, shaped like rabbits, fish, little men and ducks. When she came home from school there was often a plate waiting for her. Laura hadn't thought about those biscuits for so many years.
Turning back to her drying, Laura wondered why her own clothes had remained in the locker, and hadn't materialised into her mother’s garments. She had been putting on her usual cotton Marks and Spencer's underwear and her loose dark purple cotton top and now she noticed with relief that the multicoloured striped Nepalese trousers, bright, comfortable and stretchy, bought from Newtown in the summer, were still waiting for her. These were definitely hers.
There was no hint of Crimplene, nothing fitted, nothing tight and restricting and thank goodness, no elastic girdle, always stretched slightly out of shape with daily usage. It was a blessing that Agnes Brown had not expected her to wear one of her girdles. So if she was allowed her own clothes, what did her mother actually want from her?
It was time to face the mirror. She walked reluctantly into the main changing room, took a breath, and looked ahead. The light was extremely bright and there would be nowhere to hide. What she saw surprised her. That was certainly her own face, looking out uncertainly and that was her own hair style, with the rather hotchpotch tones. ‘Number Eight’ highlights combined with the grey and what remained of the original brown. Yes, that was her own hair but under the harsh lights she could see that the top looked thinner. She glimpsed the scalp through the layers of hair, yes, it was definitely thinning. Would it show if she rumpled the layers, so that they lay over the thin patch? Or was this just the start of a balding process, so that before long she would be forced to train the thin pathetic strands over an absurdly gleaming scalp? Laura stared at her face in the mirror. Beyond the rather anxious expression she often wore when juggling her various commitments, which she was never surprised to see these days, after some grand parenting had been added to all her other activities, she recognised the rather red cheekbones and the flushed neck she had seen in the past, when her mother had been flustered. Was that her mother’s high blood pressure face looking out at her? Her eyes looked terrified, staring and round with horror and she could feel her heart begin to pound in her chest.
If she was turning into her mother, then it would be simply a matter of time before the stroke would claim her and then she would be helpless, unable to speak, helped to sip out of a baby cup, not writing, not expressing anything at all. No longer able to swim or cuddle her grand daughter, not able to eat the soft centred Lindt chocolate she loved. Unable to go out and choose anything she wanted.
She started to panic, her breath coming in frantic bursts, she was hot and sweaty and cold and clammy all at once. She felt desperate for fresh air and she knew she would fall down and no one would help her. She would die here, in this swimming baths.
She struggled with the changing room doors and managed to stumble outside. Leaning against the wall, she dimly heard a voice say, “Are you all right, madam?”
And she murmured, “No, I feel faint,” and was helped to a chair. She put her head down, and felt all the despair of disorientation and nausea wash over her. Someone produced a drink of water, and she held it unsteadily and sipped it through shaking lips. The person said to her “You did look queer just then, are you all right now?”
Laura mustered all the power of self confidence she could find and answered, as she had answered all her life, “Oh, yes, I'm fine now, thank you”. She walked unsteadily outside and wondered how she was going to cope with the rest of today, never mind the rest of her life.
She located her Ford Fiesta car and climbed inside, finding the flask of coffee she had made earlier, sipping from it very carefully. Her mother had hated driving and had only managed to do it when faced with isolation deep in the Welsh valleys. She had never driven to see Laura in busy Hereford but was always met from the train. Her mother would therefore be unable to drive Laura's car and if Agnes Brown was taking over her persona, then she, Laura, would also find it very hard to drive.
She decided to try a gentle turn around the car park, fortified a little from the shock by the caffeine. She could remember how to use the immobiliser and the key turned and she was driving… Surely she must still be herself, Laura?
She sat very still in the driver’s seat and thought about what might be happening to her. There were two possibilities; either her mother was in fact here and was waiting to inhabit Laura's body for some obscure purpose, to take over her life. Or else she, Laura, was going mad and was on the way to freaking out completely, or else, or else… what else? What could it possibly mean? Could there be another reason altogether? Was there something her mother wanted to show her, or needed her to understand?
She realised that this could be a terribly important moment in her life; what if she missed the point altogether? What if the chance for something vital was thrown away?
For almost the first time in her life, Laura Harrison sat still, staying in the driver’s seat and simply waiting. She thought about all the times her mother had tried to tell her things, little details about their family history, little facts that Laura had found so boring that she had simply blanked out the sound of her mother’s voice, her thoughts wandering towards the current, various angst ridden problems, that had assumed such epic proportions, in her own busy life.
She could have listened. Then she would have known about her ancestors and perhaps understood her mother’s life and seen where her own world originated. She felt a wave of terrible regret, because she couldn't do any of that now. Yes, she had photographs of the family; faded black and white images, even some sepia-tinted ones, all standing very straight, very upright, facing the camera with enormous seriousness but Laura had no idea who they all were.
She knew quite a bit about her father’s side; the hearty Scots people, like her with their love of oatcakes. And she had travelled to many of their locations, as she adored the wildness of the highland landscape, so different from the gentle climate where she had chosen to settle but what of her mother’s side? Did something in the Hereford landscape relate to the maternal genes?
She realised that she had never wondered about them at all. They had always seemed too respectable to be interesting, too ordinary for Laura's notice. She had always favoured the dramatic, slightly wilder side of life. And now here she was, at nearly sixty, looking so like her mother in many respects. She would have to find out what she could about these other ancestors.
Whatever she had wanted, she could not ignore that part of her any longer. If she were to embrace it, would her mother slide back into the shadows? The next moment Laura realised how hungry she was. Swimming, embracing the family tree, dealing with shock, all in one morning was a lot to cope with, without some food! She would just nip home, grab a sandwich and there would be just time to listen to any answer phone messages before her appointment with her afternoon client. Maybe there would be time to prepare the evening meal before the client too, and…
She started up the car and checked the mirror before swinging out and saw her mother staring out at her. Laura stopped, her heart racing again. This was not going to be that simple. Her mother was not satisfied with vague decisions to research the ancestors. It became clear, in a moment of certainty, that her mother would stay with her, maybe indefinitely, unless she did something about her own life.
Laura decided that she needed to be at home. Yes, she would have to face whatever was being asked of her, that was now abundantly clear but she also needed to go home, where she felt safe, to do this. And some food would give her strength and energy. Right now she felt weak and shaky, so she drove home more carefully than usual, avoiding the rear view mirror, only glancing in it automatically as she signalled to turn into her driveway. Her mother was still present but Laura thought she might just possibly look slightly calmer than before.
At home the answer phone was bleeping, heralding the arrival of eleven messages to be attended to. Laura would normally listen straight away, without even sitting down or taking off her jacket and would then contact all the callers immediately. After all, she was organised, wasn't she? This time she paused and turned away to make a sandwich, which she forced herself to eat slowly, without making notes at the same time about her gardening plans and without catching the latest world news on either the radio or television. So that for once, she simply ate and was still.
Then she walked over to the cupboard where the old photographs of her mother’s family had been hurriedly deposited after the funeral. That had been so long ago, and Laura had avoided looking in there ever since.
The cupboard was crammed with memories from the past. Laura rummaged beneath several tiers of childhood games; Snap, the old version of Happy families, where Master Bun, the baker’s son, met Miss White, the washerwoman's daughter. And the Chinese Checkers board, with the old box of marbles next to it. She could even see the TiddlyWinks pot and remembered days of earnest play with her brother.
She wondered why she hadn't brought all these out for her own children to play with. After all, surely they would have enjoyed them too, all these mementoes of life in the past?
She leafed through a pile of old birthday cards, tucked under the games and saw that they celebrated her mother’s fortieth birthday. A card from her father, of course and one from her aunt and then one from Laura herself. Laura at five years old presenting a scrawly picture of herself, with a big beaming ear to ear smile. It was the sort of enormous, lopsided, unquestioning smile that only young children can draw and next to herself she had placed their dog, Penny, twice as large as Laura and also smiling broadly. Beside the drawing some shaky writing proclaimed ‘To My Mummy, happy birthday’.
Laura swallowed hard. There seemed to be a lump in her throat, making her feel so terribly, terribly sad. Her mother must have cherished this card and had kept it forever. Not throwing it out as it grew out of date, as Laura had done with her children's cards and little notes. And here it was, reminding her of the past, of childhood and of being wanted. She had simply forgotten that fact, that she had been wanted. She had been a much loved child, after all. How had she managed to convince herself otherwise? Underneath the cards were some photographs of their family, taken on various holidays, with the dog and their enormous old black Riley car. On one of them Laura was standing on the running board, with her mother next to her and they were both laughing, as if her father had just told them a good joke. Her mother looked really well and so young! Her father must have taken all the photographs and Laura remembered that only he could manage the intricacies of the camera.
How much had changed since then, with cameras now digital and so immediate. Laura recalled how much slower life had been when she was little. Her mother had taken her for a walk every afternoon, down the lanes as far as the railway line, to wave to the driver as the train puffed past. There had always seemed to be plenty of time then. But then her mother was not trying to juggle different schedules, nor to account for different people’s expectations. Maybe Laura's life had simply become too frantic, now that she was actually getting older. She hesitated before trying out the phrase again, one which she had resolutely refused to countenance before; she was ‘getting older’.
Laura sighed and tried it again on the tongue, yes, she was getting older and yes, this was the truth. Maybe she had to yield up some of her hard won power, some of her deadlines, some of her attitudes. Perhaps it would not be too bad to grow a little older.
Maybe she too, like the middle-aged woman in Jenny Joseph's poem ‘Warning’, could also, “wear purple with a red hat which doesn't go and doesn't suit me”.
Maybe it might even be possible to have a little fun on the way after all, she had already packed a lot into her life. Life had always been earnestly occupied. Perhaps it could even get better, who could tell?
Laura stood up and cleared away the memorabilia from the past for the moment. She made herself a cup of tea and decided to look in the mirror again. She peeped at first and then stared more confidently. She could recognise her own face now. It was certainly a somewhat older face than she had desired, rather lined, but many of the lines were from smiling and surely smiling was about being alive?
Her mother’s face had gone but Laura could see some of her features in her own reflection. After all, was she not part of her mother’s historical line? Perhaps it was all about reconciliation, as simple as that.
It was at this moment that Laura thought how much better she was looking and the words of a song from the past surged into her mind, “My Word, you do look Queer!”
How did the next part go? “You look like a corpse with an overcoat on!” She recalled the ridiculous song, last heard on ‘Uncle Mac’s Children's Favourites’ about fifty years ago, on the Saturday morning radio programme. It had been sung by Stanley Holloway, in a broad Lancashire accent. The singer growing more and more depressed as he encountered multitudes of people who informed him that he looked worse and worse. But it was the end of the song which changed everything. He had at last met someone who simply said, “My word you do look well!” at which point, he had started dancing with happy relief down the road. You could almost see his broad smile down the radio airways.
Laura smiled. Of course you could always focus on the awful, the inevitable gloom that might be always with you. But it was still possible to find the good and thankfulness on a deeper level. She was glad that she had gone swimming that morning and she sat down to drink another cup of tea in the afternoon sunlight. "My Word, You Do Look Queer!"
The first time I heard about Mary was from the ward midwife who was working with us in the temporary hospital in Kigali.
My telephone rang at home one rainy, cold morning. It was the agency, asking if I would be willing to go to Rwanda to replace the existing operating nurse, who was coming to the end of her mission.
I did not have a permanent job, which left me free to leave at a moments notice. I had seen some of the devastation wrought by the civil war in Rwanda on the TV, giving me some idea of the dreadful hardship the people had suffered and were still suffering. It would be a challenging undertaking.
Having agreed to go. I rummaged through my papers to find my list of ‘must take’ items? With experience I travelled light as it is often necessary to carry ones own luggage, which encourages the packing of minimal possessions.
After being given the statutory briefing regarding the political situation in this war torn country and being told of the somewhat difficult travel arrangements, our team of three set off. We had not met each other before, coming as we did, from three different countries. This is an interesting situation having to understand people whose language and culture is unfamiliar and who it is vital to get along with in harmony for a number of months.
The first member of the team I met was a nurse from Germany who looked as though she was well versed in the nursing business; she was well endowed, attractive and, at our first meeting, seemed to have the very essential sense of humour. We exchanged the perfunctory greetings, “My name is Heidi,” she said, “have you been on a mission before?” “Yes, one or two but never to Rwanda"
“Nor I. It has all been rather a rush, still, no time to consider the implications!” “In spite of our briefing we will not get the true picture until we get there” I replied.
The surgeon was English on his first mission and somewhat younger than us two girls. It did make communications easier both speaking the same language. “Where are you based in the UK?” I asked him. On these occasions I have found it easier to ask a man a question, then he can reply at length leaving me to ponder if he is going to fit in with the team ethic and if he realises the work and circumstances will be far away from his everyday work in the UK. He told me he was a junior consultant in a London teaching hospital. “Oh boy I hope he can cope with experienced nurses giving him advice” I thought to myself. During this first encounter I had a gut feeling he would adapt quite well.
Thus we set off on our somewhat hazardous journey, carrying well travelled suitcases and clutching identification documents. A scheduled flight to Kenya was a pleasant beginning to our journey before the fun started. At that time the airport at Kigali was out of commission due to the war so the next leg of the journey was in a Hercules aircraft, not the most comfortable and very cold. This giant of a transport plane, looking rather like a huge moth, I always think, took us to Entebbe in Uganda where we spent long hours waiting while the powers that be tried to organise the next stage of our journey.
Fortunately Heidi had had the foresight to pack us some sandwiches and bring along bottled water, she was living up to her German efficiency. Entebbe passenger lounge left a lot to be desired in the comfort stakes, hard seats and no food; we would have been mighty hungry by the end of the day without these meagre provisions. This respite gave us valuable time to asses each other wondering if our respective capabilities would match up to the requirements of the mission. Even at this early stage I felt we would work well together.
Eventually a helicopter arrived and we were bundled onboard trusting it was going in the right direction. The solders did not enter into unnecessary dialogue so we did have to rely on them to deliver us to the right country.
In fact it was a beautiful flight over Lake Victoria on the way to the border between Uganda and Rwanda. We realised the mountains we could see through the small windows were where the famous gorillas were to be found. It felt so near yet so far, we would not be able to visit this famed part of the world at least not on this trip. Apart from the lack of security in the whole of the area we would be working six or seven days a week. On reaching the border we landed in a field where a truck awaited to take us on the final leg of the journey.
At the check point we were stopped by a very young and very short soldier wanting to look into the open back of the truck but due to his lack of height he was unable to do so. A solution was found when one of the officers travelling with the convoy picked him up plus his rifle so he could see over the side. When this little man was satisfied that we presented no threat we proceeded on our way. This journey would not rate highly in the comfort stakes! I think we were all too tired and thinking of what lay ahead to enjoy the scenery.
We reached Kigali late in the evening where we were housed overnight in makeshift quarters. Food and water was scarce but we had managed to bring a small bottle of whiskey, some of which we drank out of the bottle top, no glasses being available. It was not the most peaceful night trying to sleep on beds with no mattresses and one blanket each, the temperature drops appreciably at night so we stayed in our clothes to try to keep warm. The next day we were advised by our agency delegate that it could be some time before we could travel the few kilometres to the hospital due to the unstable situation in the town.
After a frustrating two days we were finally able to leave the confines of the camp. The vehicle transporting us to the hospital allowed us to see the devastation all around wrought by the war, houses with only walls still standing, personal possessions lying about sometimes blown by the warm wind, huge shell holes in the road, children wandering aimlessly about with no apparent place to go, what senseless destruction.
The temporary hospital had been a Nunnery built on the side of a hill which made the erection of tents as wards difficult. It did not make for comfortable resting for the patients either.
Fortunately the operating theatre and maternity ward were housed in brick buildings which, due to the lack of maintenance over the years, were not ideal but at least had level floors. Most of the patients, men, women and children, were victims of the savage war, recovering in body but recovery of their minds would take many months if not years. Some of the women had been admitted with obstetric complications due to being left many hours in obstructed labour.
One of the first tasks was to clean the operating theatre, not easy when I had to work through a translator and the staff were untrained, not understanding the concept of cleanliness let alone sterility. The way of disposing of rubbish was to drop it on the floor! However I set to work with a bucket and a mop and found that the staff were quick to understand what I was doing and joined in with a will. Water had to be transported by road so economy was the order of the day. No running water out of taps, that luxury would only be possible for us on our return to our own country.
At a surgical meeting I heard about Mary. She had been admitted to the hospital in labour with her first child. Her beautiful face managed to smile even though she was in pain, obviously eagerly awaiting the birth of her baby. Her family was gathered round anxious to see if we could succeed where the traditional midwife had failed.
Our midwife had been unable to hear the baby's heart beat for some considerable time and with the condition of the mother deteriorating by the hour she considered a caesarean section was the only answer to save the life of the Mother. Having discussed the problem with the surgeon, who was in full agreement, we prepared for the operation.
It was not an easy undertaking given the language barrier, to explain to Mary that her baby had died and to convince her relatives that an operation was the best treatment. There was a great deal of discussion among the family before permission was given to go ahead with the operation.
Heidi administered the anaesthetic and gave the surgeon the go ahead to start, at that precise moment there was a loud explosion outside the building which rocked the walls and left us shaken wondering what had happened. All went dark and the initial thought of the staff was that the war had started up again and a shell had landed near by.
Obviously the patient and staff had to stay where they were and a porter was sent to find out what was happening. On his return he was able to reassure everyone that the war had not started again but that the generator had blown up.
Here was a difficult situation, a patient asleep all prepared for an operation, a surgeon ready to start and no lights. Under these circumstances it was necessary to improvise. The battery run emergency lights were called for plus two torches and the operation commenced with lights waving about all over the place, in the hands of the staff, making the surgery doubly difficult.
After this interruption all went according to plan and the baby was delivered sadly dead as expected. The surgeon continued with the procedure by attempting to deliver the placenta but to his amazement and that of the staff he produced a live baby boy.
It had been impossible to know beforehand that Mary was carrying twins as there was no modern equipment to be able to monitor the babies before their birth and multiple births are not usual in Africa.
The local staff were very excited by the event of this lovely lady having a live baby after all.
When she was back on the ward and awake the midwife tried to present her with her beautiful baby boy but she said, in gestures and words in her own language, that the baby was not hers, her baby was dead. When it was explained to her that the baby really was hers the joy on her face was a picture to remember and treasure. Thus took place a miracle in the midst of so much mayhem..
Dulcie pushed open the creaking gate and walked into her mysterious garden. She wondered if it was still there.
The mist was rising from the grass. She was eight years of age and it was eight in the morning. She knew that she was eight since her birthday had been about three months ago. She knew she was a ‘Gemini’ but she had no real idea of the time of day, though she did sense that it would be sunny later, when the mist had lifted altogether.
Patch, the dog, leapt at her side, though Dulcie did not take him out every morning. That was usually her older brother Robert’s pleasant task. Robert had somehow made it so that it was his right to do this, though Patch was actually her mother’s dog.
Robert was twelve and the year was 1939. Dulcie had recently been told by her mother that her older brother, Harry, had had to go away for a short while to a foreign country. To fight in the war against the Germans, who were very bad. He would certainly be back by Christmas.
Dulcie had also been told by her mother not to talk about this much to anyone and that, “Anyway, Christmas would soon arrive.”
But Dulcie had been a bit naughty and had told Robert the bit about Harry being back by Christmas. “I know when Harry's coming back,” she had said to him the previous day, in her most tantalising voice.
“Bet you don't do you, Robert? Mother tells me things, see, which she doesn't tell you…I’m a girl, like Mother is…was…”
“Well,” Robert had said mysteriously, “if the Germans are so very bad and Harry's gone to fight them…if they're so very bad, how can Mother possibly really know that he’ll be back by Christmas?”
Dulcie had noticed that there had been a sort of ‘yah-boo’ tone to his voice, and it had hurt her feelings, so she hadn't been able to say anything back to Robert. She could feel the hurt a little now, as she walked quickly through the misty garden, Patch at her side. Dulcie loved Harry very much and admired him too, so she tried not to be too bothered by Robert’s w ords. She was more concerned about the mist in the garden.
But Patch didn’t seem to be too bothered by it. He scampered on ahead. Patch was basically white but had a rather large black patch over his eye and this, ‘grown-ups’ said, set off his face very “fetchingly”. That was the word some of them used of Patch, she was sure that was the word.
As Dulcie walked down the long path, she found herself shivering a little. It was autumn, so few birds sang but an early blackbird flew across in front of her. She knew that she should have put on a cardigan or jumper and that her mother might be a little bit cross with her but it wouldn’t take her that long to find out if it was still there and Dulcie believed that she could be back in the house before her mother even knew she was gone.
Suddenly Patch seemed to start to scamper on even further ahead. Patch had been with her the previous evening when Dulcie had first heard it and now he seemed to be very sensitive to something.
Dulcie followed him as he left the path and disappeared into the wild bit at the bottom of the garden. And then Dulcie heard it again. It was like people speaking but not in words and with sounds that she knew. In fact it didn’t seem to be in a language she knew at all. And there was a sort of screaming in it. But the screaming did seem to be in a voice she knew. And there seemed to be the sound of somebody being hit and then the screaming again.
Dulcie turned and ran. She left Patch behind, abandoned in her panic, in her haste to get back to the house and to Mother, if only mummy were there, or Father.
As she neared the house, her heart pounding, Robert was just opening the gate into the garden. Robert stared right past Dulcie’s panic, his eyes searching the mist. “Where’s Patch ?” he screamed at her. “Where’s Patch, you silly little fool ?”
When Dulcie’s father heard the creak of the gate in the garden down below his room he immediately sprang out of bed. With a couple of strides, since he was a very large man, he was at the window. As much as he could, he hid his presence behind the dark green curtains but he was really desperate to know what she was up to. Bernard could see that the dog was with her too. He was concerned, very concerned.
Normally, these days Bernard did not do much first thing in the mornings. His wife Enid normally brought him his early morning tea. Being generally looked after like this, was, she had insisted, for his own good, after all that Bernard had been through, what with his increased workload in the months leading up to the outbreak of war.
Bernard had felt particularly unwell since Harry had had to go into the army. Twice in a matter of weeks, he had been persuaded to see Dr Ewing. Each time the doctor had insisted that there was nothing physically wrong with Bernard. He was, rather, suffering from exhaustion brought on by overwork and from a degree of anxiety; this was contributing to his sleeplessness and poor appetite. The best remedy, said the doctor, was rest, lots of fresh air from walks and good home cooking.
“And the end of this bloody war,” Bernard had muttered under his breath as he had left the doctor’s wood-panelled surgery on the last occasion. “And for Harry to be home, safe and sound…”
“Oh you are such a worrier, Bernard,” his wife Enid had said. She had insisted on going in with him when he saw the doctor and Dr Ewing had allowed this. “Things will be all right, we’ll try what the doctor says for a while and make sure that you rest as much as possible and maybe you’ll be able to go back to work in the New Year.”
“But I don’t want to rest, I just want to know that Harry’s safe.” Bernard had reluctantly agreed to try the new regime. He would spend most of the day in his room, resting and reading the occasional light novel if he wished to . Few newspapers or radio programmes were to be allowed since these were held by the doctor and Enid to contribute to Bernard’s ‘disturbance’.
But he would be encouraged, when the autumn weather was suitable, to take long walks through the fields which surrounded the house. And, since Bernard was not well, he would be allowed to take Patch on some of the walks. This would be ‘good company’ for him. This was always providing that Robert agreed to this. It would be up to Robert and Enid to arrange this between them, since Robert normally ‘walked’ Patch and besides, Bernard had never felt that confident in persuading Robert to do things against his son’s own inclinations, even at the best of times. Enid had said that she would ‘sort things out’ regarding Patch, after all, Patch was really her dog.
And now, as Bernard looked down from his bedroom window, he could see not only Dulcie, but Patch as well. And yet, asked Bernard of himself as he furrowed his brow and sighed despondently, hadn’t it been arranged that he would be taking Patch out this morning after he had his breakfast, and for a long walk too? Bernard could now see Dulcie, and Patch and the prospect of his long morning walk receding together down the path into the morning mist with every step his daughter took.
Bernard knew that he was breaking his normal routine but he was so worried about and jealous of Dulcie, that he ignored some of the advice he had been given.
Quickly he threw on some of the clothes he had been wearing the previous evening and opened his bedroom door. He hurried down the stairs, heavy and a little unsteady in his early morning slippered feet. As he reached the bottom and his feet touched the wooden floor, he slipped a little, then recovered to reach the handle of the front door and pull it open.
In front of him stood Robert, his back to him, looking at the mist. Robert turned in surprise at the disturbance but father and son said nothing to each other. Partly but only partly, this was because at that very moment Dulcie appeared from around the bend in the path, running and desperate.
“Where’s Patch?” screamed Robert. “Where’s Patch, you silly little fool?”
“What’s the matter Dulcie?” boomed Bernard, agitated. “What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know,” sobbed Dulcie. “Where’s mummy? Where’s mummy? there's a funny noise down there…”
“Where’s Patch ?” screamed Robert again. “You silly little fool, Dulcie – you’ve lost him!”
“What on earth’s going on?” shouted Enid at the three of them as she arrived at the front of the house, disturbed by the early morning noise.
“Dulcie, what are you doing here without a cardigan before breakfast?”
“It’s the garden”, said Dulcie, trembling in her skirt.
“It’s in the garden…Patch heard it too!”
“Bernard, what are you doing down here before breakfast? It’s chilly and I was just about to bring you your cup of tea. And in your slippers?” Enid glanced down at his feet.
Bernard looked down a little. “I was worried about Dulcie”, he said, rather contritely.
“It’s in the garden”, Dulcie said again. “Funny voices, horrible screaming…Harry, I think, oh, mummy, oh, daddy.”
“What do you mean?” said Robert and Bernard together, “Harry ?”
“Don’t be ridiculous” said Enid. “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, Dulcie. Where?”
“Down there in the brambly bit” said Dulcie.
“And where’s Patch ?” said Robert.
“Come with me, all of you, let’s have a good look, let’s see, I’ll show you,” said Enid and she marched off down the path. “I’ll show you there’s nothing to worry about…” and she walked quickly ahead. A few paces on she glanced back to make sure they were with h er. “Come on Dulcie! Come on all of you!”
As Bernard, Robert and Dulcie set off behind her, Patch suddenly appeared from the side of the house and joined the procession, though at a careful distance.
“Where?…Where ?” Enid asked at the lifting mist as she marched ahead in her sensible brogues, her floral housecoat flapping. As Enid neared the overgrown bit Dulcie held back even further and simply pointed.
“Over there,” she said. “In there…that’s where it is, was.”
Patch still kept well back though he did seem less bothered. Enid poked about in the bushes for a good while. Bernard and Robert stood back and simply wondered. Patch seemed much less interested in it all.
“Well I can’t see what you’re talking about Dulcie, there’s nothing here at all, nothing to worry about. Nothing at all, nothing at all. And anyway Harry’s a long way away in France, a long way away, in France”.
And with that her mother turned, and gathering Dulcie in her arms started off back to the house. She glanced sympathetically at Bernard and Robert as she swept past them, as if she were apologising for the existence of Dulcie’s anxieties and then said to them both in her kindest tone, “Come on you two.... Bernard… Robert…come on. Patch must have been disturbed, he’s getting on now…one of his funny turns. Come on, let’s all have some nice breakfast together in the house. I’ll cook a nice hot breakfast for all of us. How about that? Let’s forget all this other stuff, all this stuff and bother.”
And as she walked back towards the house, a mostly relieved Dulcie in her arms, Patch bounded and leapt alongside them. He seemed to have quite forgotten what had disturbed him. And he also perhaps sensed that there might be some extra food in his bowl. There sometimes seemed to be when there had been an exciting incident in the family.
“Oh well,” said Bernard to Robert, quite effortlessly, “I suppose your mother’s right. Dulcie is still very young and we do sometimes forget that, what with everything going on...” Strangely Bernard felt quite a lot better for being able to say this.
“I think I see what you mean Dad”, said Robert as they neared the house and went back through to the garden, the gate. creaking shut behind them.
