A Family Affair Page 30

  Jenny called to see her one evening on her way home from college.

  Steve, who now worked at the RN depot at Copenacre with Joe, travelling to and fro on the same coach, was not home yet, and Glad had taken to her bed with a fluey cold, which meant extra work for Heather. But at least the sisters were on their own, except for Vanessa, who was playing with the doll’s house Steve had made her.

  ‘You look full of the joys of spring,’ Heather said as Jenny followed her into the kitchen where she was buttering bread for tea. ‘You’re really enjoying this course, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but …’ Jenny hesitated, torn, now that the moment had come, between wanting to share it and wanting to hug it to herself. Eventually her need to talk about Bryn won. ‘It’s not just that. I’ve met this boy, Heather. He’s absolutely … oh, I can’t tell you … just super!’

  Heather smiled indulgently. ‘Oh yes! Who is he? Someone at college?’

  ‘No, he’s …’ Jenny explained, and to her dismay saw Heather’s face change.

  Inexplicably, her own reaction was anger. ‘Oh, not you too!’ she exploded. ‘Can’t anybody be pleased for me?’

  ‘Oh, Jenny, if you’re happy of course I’m pleased! Tell me all about him …’

  Jenny did, but she felt defensive suddenly, so that she could hear herself sounding over-eager, anticipating the objections and over-compensating for them. It wasn’t what she’d planned, and Heather’s reaction wasn’t what she’d expected either.

  ‘You will be careful, won’t you, Jenny?’ Heather said, cutting another slice from the loaf.

  Jenny frowned. ‘You sound just like Mum!’

  ‘Well, she has a point. I know she goes too far – tries to wrap you up in cotton wool – but it’s only because she’s thinking of your good. It’s all too easy to get carried away when your feelings are this strong, and do something you’ll regret. And it isn’t like it’s a local boy. You don’t really know anything about him, do you? All you know is what he’s told you. And he’s a lot older than you. I mean … he could be married or anything. You wouldn’t know.’

  Jenny was staggered. ‘Of course he’s not married!’

  ‘He could be. It’s not impossible. He could be taking advantage of the fact that he’s away from home to have a fling.’

  ‘I don’t believe this!’ Jenny said. ‘I wanted to tell you because I’m so happy and all you’re doing is trying to spoil everything!’

  ‘No, I’m not. Honestly, darling, I want you to be happy more than anything in the world. I just don’t want to see you hurt. And I certainly don’t want to see you throw away the chance of really doing well, having the sort of career you really want.’ She turned the gas on under the kettle and poured milk into a saucepan to warm for Vanessa. ‘It’s very important, Jenny, to give yourself the best chance in life.’

  ‘I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything,’ Jenny retorted.

  ‘Well, it has. Look at me …’

  ‘What’s wrong with you? You’ve got a really nice life!’

  For a brief moment there was an expression on Heather’s face Jenny did not understand.

  ‘I’ve been lucky, yes,’ she said after a moment. The gas flared beneath the milk pan as she touched it with the ignition torch. ‘Luckier than I deserve, perhaps. But you don’t know the half of it. There are things I live with …’ Her voice tailed away, then she seemed to gather herself together. ‘Look – you’ve had a good education, you’ve got the chance to really make something of yourself. I never had that chance. I worked in a glove factory, on a machine, for a pittance, and now I do gloving here, when I’m dog tired, for even less. I don’t even own my own home. But you … the world’s your oyster. You can be anything you want.’

  ‘What I want right now is to go out with Bryn. And everybody seems determined to spoil it!’

  ‘That’s not what we want at all, Jenny. We can see a bit further into the future, that’s all. You’ve got a really good opportunity to really make something of yourself. But you’ve got to pass your exams and then put your whole heart and soul into getting where you want to be.’

  ‘I can’t see why going out with Bryn need make any difference.’

  ‘It needn’t, of course. All I’m saying is – be careful. Don’t do anything you might regret.’

  ‘You mean getting pregnant,’ Jenny said. ‘That’s what you mean, isn’t it? Why is everyone so sure I’m going to get myself pregnant? Because you did, I suppose.’

  Heather whitened. Her whole face went into a mask of frozen shock.

  ‘But you were years older than I am now!’ Jenny rushed on. ‘And you and Steve were in love. He was the right one for you. So what did it matter? Anyway, I’m certainly not going to get pregnant. And I don’t need you or anyone to remind me I need to get my qualifications. Going out with Bryn doesn’t mean I won’t still work hard. That matters to me too.’

  But she knew, even as she said it, she wasn’t being entirely truthful. Since she had met him nothing else seemed as real or important. Her homework had been taking a back seat.

  ‘That’s all right then,’ Heather said. ‘And truly, Jenny, the only thing I care about is you being happy. It’s just that I’m scared for you. I know how easy it is to get carried away when you feel like that about someone.’

  ‘I’m not stupid,’ Jenny said. But again she admitted the truth to herself; it would be all too easy to give in to that overwhelming need she felt when she was with Bryn, to forget the possible consequences, forget everything, simply not care. Even now, away from him, a part of her was yearning to know what it would feel like to make love to him properly, go the whole way.

  Heather turned to her, smiling now, and unexpectedly hugged her.

  ‘Of course you’re not stupid, Jenny! You’re very bright – much brighter than me. You’ll go far. And I’m really glad you’re so happy.’

  Jenny hugged her back, her annoyance forgotten. She hated quarrelling with Heather; could never stay angry with her for long.

  ‘I am happy. Really, really happy.’

  ‘Well, that’s all that matters.’ Suddenly there was a fizzing sound from behind them; Heather had forgotten all about the milk warming on the stove; now it was boiling over. A smell of burned milk filled the kitchen. She broke away from Jenny, wheeling round and turning the gas tap to the off position.

  ‘Damn!’

  A pool of milk was swamping the white enamel between the burners, the rivulets already beginning to crust over.

  And suddenly Vanessa began to scream. Her cries were cries of pure terror, breathless, hysterical. Heather dived through the doorway into the dining room and Jenny followed. Vanessa was cowering against the wall, small knuckles pressed into plump cheeks, body rigid, eyes wide and staring. Minute items of doll’s-house furniture lay scattered around her, knocked over or dropped when the panic attack had struck. Heather ran to her, trying to take her in her arms, but Vanessa beat her off in a frenzy of flailing arms and legs.

  ‘No – no – no!’

  ‘Darling – hush, it’s all right …’

  ‘No – no – no!’

  ‘It’s all right, darling – Mummy’s here! Hush, darling …’

  For seemingly endless moments the awful screaming went on, the panic-stricken flailing continued. Then gradually the screams became sobs and the tense body relaxed a little, though it still quivered in spasms of terror.

  Jenny watched, shocked and horrified and uncomprehending. What had happened? Had Vanessa hurt herself somehow? But there was no blood, she certainly didn’t appear incapacitated in any way, and nothing in the room was different, apart from the small items of furniture scattered across the floor. Nothing to account for this horrendous outburst.

  Heather was holding Vanessa now, crooning softly to her; Vanessa’s small arms wrapped tightly round her neck. But her eyes, visible over Heather’s shoulder, were still wide and staring and her legs, knees locked around Heather’s waist, shook with
violent trembling.

  ‘What’s the matter with her?’ Jenny asked, frightened.

  ‘It’s all right. She’ll be all right in a minute. Jenny – could you clean away that burned milk for me, please? The cloth’s on the draining board. Wash the cooker down – there should be hot water in the Sadia, and some soapflakes in the cupboard.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Just do it, Jenny, please. Just get rid of that smell.’

  Puzzled, worried, Jenny did as she was told. She stacked the metal guards in the sink and mopped up the top of the stove, rinsing it with hot soapy water. Then she scrubbed the metal guards with the pan scourer, flaking off the black bubbles of burned milk. When she had finished she went back into the dining room. Heather was sitting at one of the dining chairs, Vanessa on her lap.

  ‘What happened to her?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘The milk,’ Heather said over Vanessa’s head. She spoke quietly, almost as if she didn’t want the child to hear.

  ‘The milk?’ Jenny said. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘The smell,’ Heather said, ‘when it boiled over.’

  ‘But why …’

  ‘Grampy,’ Heather said, almost silently, mouthing the words. ‘The milk. When Grampy …’ Her lips squeezed shut, not speaking the word and Jenny added it in her head.

  When Grampy died. The milk had boiled over when Grampy died. She understood then. Vanessa had experienced terrible trauma that night and the smell of burning milk had triggered a replay of the terror she had experienced then. Worse, perhaps, magnified by a thousand nightmares.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘The milk.’

  ‘Don’t talk about it,’ Heather said fiercely. ‘I want her to forget. She’ll be all right once she’s forgotten about it.’

  ‘Right,’ Jenny said, but she had an uncomfortable feeling that it wasn’t going to be that easy. ‘Heather – I’m going to have to go. Mum will wonder what’s happened to me.’

  ‘That’s OK. You go,’ Heather said. ‘Vanessa will be all right now, won’t you, sweetheart?’

  ‘I’ll just look in and say hello to Gran.’

  Glad was sitting up in bed on a bank of pillows. Her nose looked red and sore and there was a resigned sort of expression on her face.

  ‘Was that Vanessa having another of her turns?’

  ‘Has she had them before then?’

  ‘Yes. She has.’ Glad was mashing one of Walt’s big white handkerchiefs into a ball in her fist. ‘Worries me to death.’

  ‘Heather says she’ll be all right.’

  ‘Heather says … Oh, I expect she’s right. But I don’t like it. It’s not natural.’

  ‘Heather says it’s because …’ She broke off. She didn’t want to upset Gran by talking about Grampy dying like that. ‘I’ve got to go, Gran. I hope you’ll be feeling better soon.’

  ‘I expect so. I won’t ask you to kiss me – not with this cold. You don’t want to catch it.’

  Jenny got her coat. But as she climbed the hill home, for the first time for weeks she had other things than Bryn on her mind.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Helen’s day had been long and tiring. The sudden onset of cold winter weather had laid a lot of people low and the surgery had been overflowing with those seeking relief from coughs, colds, earaches and sore throats. In addition, the list of home visits requested had been so long as to be almost insurmountable, but somehow she had managed to get to every one of the addresses, where she had dealt with the influenza victims and even a case of pneumonia.

  However late morning surgery finished, there was no way of cutting back on the home visits. In the main they were the most vulnerable of her patients, the very old, the chronically sick and the very young, those most likely to lose their battle with bugs and viruses and swell the ever-growing number of fatalities. The undertakers were being rushed off their feet too she knew and she had no intention of allowing any of her patients to require their services if there was anything she could do to prevent it. As it was, she was very concerned about the pneumonia victim – a middle-aged woman with a history of chest and heart problems, who had steadfastly refused to go into hospital in spite of the fact that she could scarcely draw breath. Even now, an hour or more after she had visited her, Helen couldn’t forget the terrible rasping that had echoed through the house.

  ‘I think I should go back and see her later,’ she said to Paul.

  They were sharing an evening meal, something which had become an almost daily habit, though today, because of the pressures of work, it was more scratch than usual – bacon, baked beans and some ‘flat’chips made from potato slices browned almost to crisps in the frying pan.

  ‘You look dead on your feet,’ Paul said. ‘There’s nothing more you can do if she’s refusing to go into hospital.’

  ‘I know. I just want to check on her – make sure she’s getting the right nursing care. I don’t think she’s going to make it, Paul. If the crisis doesn’t come to a head soon her heart won’t take the strain much longer and I don’t want to give anyone the chance to accuse me of neglect. She should be in hospital!’

  ‘If she’s that bad there’s no guarantee she’d make it even if she was,’ Paul said reasonably.

  ‘But at least she wouldn’t be my responsibility. Honestly …’ she ran her fingers through her hair, which was overdue for a trim, ‘it’s really weird. You get some like that, so stubborn they just won’t admit they’re at death’s door, and others who bang on about every little thing.’

  Paul speared a last chip and used it to mop up the remaining tomato sauce.

  ‘The heart sinks, you mean.’

  ‘The heart sinks. The ones determined to waste my time. I had Ida Lockyear in again today.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘Don’t say it like that! It’s not funny.’

  ‘No, of course it’s not.’

  They had discussed Ida before. She turned up at the surgery with monotonous regularity, always complaining of the same things – headaches, tiredness, dizzy spells, flu-like symptoms which never actually came to anything. Helen had run a whole series of tests to try to determine what was wrong with her but when they had all come back with negative results she had come to the conclusion that Ida’s biggest problem was loneliness. Living alone in an isolated farm cottage she had too much time to exaggerate all the normal aches and pains that went with growing old. And when she wanted someone to talk to there was one person she could rely on to sit and listen to her – her GP.

  Helen felt sorry for Ida – her husband had died suddenly a couple of years ago and her only son lived in London and didn’t visit often, but when she was rushed off her feet with patients who were genuinely ill she found the constant demand on her time for what amounted to no more than a desire for company irritating, to say the least.

  Helen had tried, without success, to persuade Ida to join in with some activity in the local community – the WI, the Mother’s Union, a knitting circle, a choir. But Ida maintained she wasn’t up to it, couldn’t get there with her bad legs, was so tired that she was ready for bed by nine, and Helen had given up. There was no way to help someone who wouldn’t help herself.

  ‘She was at the head of the queue again this morning,’ she said now. ‘There she sat with everybody sneezing and coughing germs all over her – she’ll be going down with it next and wonder where she got it – complaining about the children and the hard seats in the waiting room and just about everything else. In the end I had to prise her out of my surgery like a sardine out of a can. It’s sad really, but what can I do? I’m a doctor, not a social worker.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Paul said, ‘you have to be both.’

  ‘You don’t need to tell me that.’ She was thinking now of little Vanessa. She had seen the child quite a few times recently, always with comparatively minor ailments, but considering what a healthy baby she had been, Helen couldn’t help feeling they were stress related and a result of the trauma she had suffered the night Wal
t Simmons had died. She had suggested as much to Heather, citing the fact that Heather had mentioned that Vanessa sometimes woke in the small hours, screaming from what could only be nightmares, but Heather wouldn’t have it.

  ‘She’s forgotten all that now. She never mentions it.’

  ‘Just because she doesn’t mention it doesn’t mean she’s forgotten,’ Helen had persisted. ‘It could well be that she’s put it out of her conscious mind but I think it’s probably still bubbling away in her subconscious, causing all sorts of problems.’

  ‘She was too young to know what happened,’ Heather said.

  ‘Old enough to be terrified. There’s evidence to suggest that even a bad birth experience can traumatise a child, and Vanessa was far beyond that stage. I’d like to arrange for her to see a child psychiatrist, see if we can’t get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘A child psychiatrist!’ Heather was horrified. The words conjured up visions of mental illness and the poor people down at Wells who had gone funny.

  ‘There’s nothing to be alarmed about,’ Helen reassured her. ‘If there is a problem, a psychiatrist would be able to bring it to the surface and help her deal with it.’

  ‘Remind her all over again, you mean,’ Heather said. ‘Drag it all up when she ought to be forgetting it. I’m sorry, Doctor, but I wouldn’t be agreeable to that. And whatever would people say?’

  ‘There’s no stigma attached to emotional illness any more. We’re moving into a much more enlightened age, thank goodness. I’m quite certain that in the next twenty years or so we shall see counselling become commonplace for adults and children alike, and the stiff-upper-lip attitude that has caused so many problems will become a thing of the past. The time is coming when people won’t be ashamed to seek help. It has to.’

  ‘Well, there you and I must agree to differ, doctor,’ Heather said stubbornly. ‘If we all went running to psychiatrists every time some little thing went wrong we’d never get anywhere. No, I’m sorry, but in my opinion if you’ve got a loving family to support you, you’re better off just pulling yourself together and putting whatever it is behind you.’