A Bouquet of Barbed Wire (26 page)

Thus she reasoned. But reasoning could not go any further, could not accompany her into the dark places of her mind
where she pictured them together, touching, talking, laughing, making love. She had not known she could feel jealousy like this. Previously she had never known for sure if he was ever unfaithful so it was easy to gratify herself and imagine him faithful. Now she saw her husband for the first time positively contaminated by another woman. It was that which had made her ask him to leave, no matter how she disguised it in civilised words about talk and sleep and solitude. She did not want to look at him and see what she saw. To shut out the images she must shut out the object on whom they were projected.

She was shocked by the violence of her feelings and the strength of her sense of property. She felt ashamed. He was a person like any other with a choice of action—a life of his own to do as he pleased with. She could not own him, except by courtesy; it was reprehensible that she should even want to, and unfair.
My
home,
my
husband,
my
children—was she really so possessive? Had she completely sunk her own identity into theirs all those years ago and was this why she now felt so primitive? There were reasons for everything, or so she believed.

Irresolute, she stood in the middle of the room with a drink and a cigarette and said aloud, ‘I am being ridiculous.’ She dimly caught sight of herself in the mirror where she had examined her face and thought she looked older than she remembered as if she were a past acquaintance not met for some time. She had aged. And she looked foolish. Drama and suffering did not sit kindly on the middle-aged, did not flatter their features. Whereas Prue, going off with Gavin under sufferance, sobbing, struggling, had through all her blotched make-up and swollen eyes the beauty of youth, of even the plainest young creature (which she was far from being), the beauty of skin and hair.

The telephone rang and she answered it, but so automatically that at first the words meant nothing, might have been
scrambled for security reasons or spoken in a foreign language. She had to get the voice at the other end to repeat everything, and she thought how odd that it managed to sound calm and urgent both at once. Then she made out that it was saying something about an accident and she must hurry.

‘I
DON’T
understand,’ she said. The doctor was patient. He began telling her all over again. A nurse brought them both cups of tea, very hot and sweet and strong. Cassie tried to drink hers but it burned her lips and she put it down.

‘Your daughter is going to be all right, Mrs. Manson,’ the doctor said with frightening compassion. ‘And probably the baby, too; we can’t be sure yet. But we’re doing everything we can and you must try not to worry. It’s very important for you to be calm when you see your daughter. At the moment she’s asleep, of course.’

The room was white and dark hospital green, with a funny smell. There were papers on the doctor’s desk and filing cabinets around the walls. People passed continually in the corridor, quiet brisk footsteps. Cassie shut her eyes to stop everything spinning round but immediately opened them again, afraid she was going to faint.

‘Are you all right?’ the doctor asked with concern.

‘Yes.’ She took a deep breath and forced herself to gulp some of the hot tea, hoping it would shock her back to normal. ‘Yes. I’m all right. Really.’

‘Good.’ He looked pleased with her, as if she had passed some kind of test. ‘You’re being very brave.’

She shook her head. ‘But I don’t understand. Where’s Gavin—my son-in-law? Wasn’t he with her? They left the house together. What happened?’

The doctor said, ‘That’s what I was trying to tell you
before. It’s … very difficult, but apparently there was some kind of argument and your daughter was, um, rather badly assaulted by, er, her husband.’

The room spun like a roundabout. Cassie put her hands on the desk as if that would steady it. The doctor leaned forward and offered her a cigarette. He seemed embarrassed, she thought. Details like this were terribly clear while words made no impression, like balls bouncing off a wall.

‘Could you light it for me?’ she said, unable to leave go of the desk. She was very conscious of the feel of the wood beneath her fingers; abnormally conscious, the way she imagined she might feel if drugged. The wood seemed the only real thing in the room.

The doctor lit two cigarettes and put one in her mouth. He began to speak rather rapidly. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs. Manson, I know how difficult this must be for you, but it seems your daughter and her husband had some kind of argument on their way home and he hit her and went on hitting her. Then he carried her in here unconscious, with a threatened miscarriage. But as I’ve told you we think we can avert that and your daughter is certainly going to be all right. It’s only fair to add that your son-in-law is extremely upset—in fact he arrived here in a state of shock. On the other hand we only have his account of what happened, as your daughter hasn’t been able to talk yet.’

He paused. Cassie, nearly blinded by smoke, forced herself to take the half-smoked cigarette from her mouth. She said, ‘Gavin beat her up?’

‘So he says.’ The doctor cleared his throat. ‘But he’s completely overwrought. Quite frankly I don’t know what to make of it. If his story is true then of course you could inform the police, but as it’s a family matter you may not wish …’ He paused again, adding hesitantly, ‘May I ask if there is any, er, history of violence?’

‘What?’

‘Do you know if he has ever struck your daughter before?’

‘No. I mean I don’t know.’ Gavin hit Prue. It was unbelievable. They might as well have told her that the world had come to an end and she was in hell.

‘Never mind. Drink your tea,’ the doctor said soothingly. She drank. How quickly it cooled. He pushed the phone towards her. ‘I expect you’d like to contact your husband.’

She looked at the phone and shook her head, noticing that her cheeks were wet. Without being aware of starting to cry she found everything in the room had blurred and tears were falling on her coat. She searched in her bag for a handkerchief and blew her nose.

‘I’m sorry.’ The doctor shook his head, exonerating her. ‘I don’t know where my husband is. He … had to go out.’ She wiped her eyes: this was not a time to break down. She could not afford such a luxury when she had to go through this whole thing alone. But it was getting worse because she was beginning to believe it. ‘Can I see my daughter?’

The doctor hesitated. ‘Well, you won’t be able to talk to her; she’s asleep. Of course you can see her if you wish but you must be prepared for rather a shock. Now don’t be alarmed; I assure you that her injuries are largely superficial. It’s just that her face … well, she looks much worse than she really is.’

Cassie began to tremble. Terror and shame swept over her. My child. I’m afraid to look at my own child. ‘Yes, I understand,’ she said calmly. ‘I’d still like to see her.’

* * *

She was sick, and a nurse even younger than Prue held her head. She felt she had disorganised the whole hospital, that everyone’s valuable time was being expended on her family. And it was humiliating being sick. The tea and the drinks back home and the lovely meal she had cooked and half-eaten
before Prue really began to talk. She felt she was regurgitating the whole hideous evening.

‘That’s better,’ said the nurse, pleased with her, producing a glass of water. ‘Now drink this. You’ll soon feel better.’

Cassie drank the lovely cold water. She couldn’t even say thank you. She couldn’t speak at all. She had never seen anyone’s face in such a condition, except perhaps boxers on television being helped out of the ring. But it was Prue. Prue’s face smashed and discoloured and bandaged. She felt herself beginning to heave again and quickly drank more water and tried to breathe deeply. The nurse disposed of the bowl and returned.

‘She really is going to be all right, you know,’ she said. ‘She looks a lot worse than she is, honestly.’

Cassie stared at her. A pale freckled face of a child with incongruous dark shadows under the eyes. They were all understaffed and overworked, so people said. She found her voice. ‘Are you going to look after her?’

‘Part of the time, yes. I’m on night duty in this ward.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Jones.’

‘Nurse Jones. I’ll remember.’

The girl smiled. She didn’t know what to say.

‘And the doctor I was talking to just now?’

‘Doctor Carter.’

Cassie repeated the name. She had no idea why she wanted this information, but it seemed something to hang on to. If these two people had names they must be real and they were taking care of Prue. She couldn’t take care of Prue. Her own child and she couldn’t even look at her without being sick. What kind of a mother was she? And without Peter there was no one she could call on to help her. Unthinkable to inform her parents; they had troubles enough. The shock might kill her mother, even. But it meant in effect they were as useless to her as she was to Prue. And she had no friends.
What had she done with her life that she had no friends, now, when she needed them? She began to cry again, pure tears of self-pity and helplessness, not tears for Prue. She was ashamed. But she had never felt more alone in her life.

‘Oh, please,’ said Nurse Jones, patting her shoulder in a motherly way. ‘Please, Mrs. Manson. She
is
going to be all right, honestly. You’ve had a bad shock; would you like to lie down for a bit?’

* * *

There were new arrivals as she walked through Casualty, more people who had injured themselves or been injured. It was a busy road. She had to wait to see Dr. Carter and while she waited she phoned home in case Peter had changed his mind and returned. But he had not, and indeed she had not thought it likely. She let the phone ring for a bit—there was always a chance he was there and asleep—and listened to the strangely disquieting sound of her own telephone ringing in her own house. Then she put it down, suddenly chilled. There was no one to help her through this. She was on her own. Then she wondered if perhaps Peter was with Rupert, not with Sarah, or in an hotel, but she saw it was nearly midnight so she did not like to ring Rupert, and in any case, if Peter was not there, what could she say?

Dr. Carter said briskly, ‘How are you feeling now, Mrs. Manson? I thought you were lying down for a bit.’

‘I was.’ She had dozed for ten minutes in a chair. ‘I feel much better now.’ After all, what was the point in saying she did not think she would feel better ever, in her life? ‘I’d like to see my son-in-law. Gavin. Could I?’

The doctor looked at her doubtfully.

‘I’m quite calm now,’ she said, trying to sound convincing.

Dr. Carter said, ‘Well, from our point of view he’s a patient too, although we expect to discharge him in the morning. Could it wait till then? We had to give him a
sedative so he’s probably asleep in any case. I’d really rather you didn’t disturb him.’

‘You don’t trust me,’ she said, smiling.

‘Well.’ He paused, selecting tactful words, or so she felt. ‘It’s not that, of course. But I do feel that a confrontation at this stage might be rather too much. For both of you, I mean.’

They were protecting Gavin from her maternal wrath. They were afraid of what she might do. ‘You’re quite right,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘I have to admit I’d rather like to kill him. It must be what they say about violence breeding violence, do you think?’

‘Something like that.’ Dr. Carter was beginning to look anxious, as though she might actually be dangerous. ‘You don’t mean it, of course, but I quite understand your feelings. If it was my daughter I’d feel exactly the same, I’m sure.’

He was trying to reassure her. Trying to make her feel better by telling her that they were all barbarians under the skin. She thought how abruptly her whole world had turned over. Nothing was as it had seemed: Prue’s marriage, even her own character. It was all quite hideous. And somehow it suspended all moral judgments. If she could feel so savagely she was just like the others and not entitled to blame any of them. She said aloud, ‘It’s a very ugly world, isn’t it? I didn’t realise before.’

S
ARAH SLEPT
badly. Manson, exhausted with drink and emotion, fell asleep immediately while she still had her arms round him, and she lay awake, listening to him breathing rather heavily and feeling the arm that was under him grow gradually numb. The scene he had described revolved in her mind until it became so vivid she could hardly bear it and switched her attention to the morning and how tired they would both feel, and how unfit for work. The thought of work then instantly reminded her that he had come as he was, with nothing, and while he was welcome to use her toothbrush and tiny razor, she could hardly provide him with a shirt. She was quite appalled at the idea of him going to the office in a dirty shirt and spent about five minutes gingerly extricating her arm, now painful with pins and needles, so that she could get up and go to the bathroom to wash the shirt. It seemed vital to do this, quite disproportionately vital (since he could have bought one and in any case did not have superiors to impress with a smart appearance), probably because it was something practical that she could do to help.

It was the first shirt she had ever washed and while she was doing it she thought, Would I like to do this for ever? and looked at her pale, smudgy-eyed reflection in the bathroom mirror with a sense of isolation, as if she were the only person in the world awake. It was half past two. She wrung out the shirt in a towel and hung it up, leaving the bathroom heater on all night to ensure that it would be dry by morning.
By the time she went back to bed she felt so alone that she was quite startled to see him lying there in her bed (or was it his?), and he had moved so that he was lying almost diagonally and there was hardly room for her to get in. She squeezed herself into a tiny space beside him and he flung his arm across her body without waking and began to snore.

C
ASSIE SAW
him coming up the drive. Although he was alone, it made her feel the drama of the previous day was being replayed: time had turned back. She had slept heavily and absolutely, to her own amazement, for about three hours, then wakened at six, far from her usual time. She was in the kitchen by half-past, boiling a kettle and looking blearily out of the window, when she saw the familiar figure in flowered jeans and sweater, with tousled black hair, and a scarf floating around his neck. She thought quite calmly, Well, that takes guts, and waited for the bell to ring.