Authors: Elizabeth Audrey Mills
Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Historical, #Romance
"
I haven't died yet,
" I noted.
"
No, that's the cord keeping you close.
"
"
Are you with me all the time?
" I suddenly asked him.
"
Only when you need me, and that's much less often than you think. Most times you do
pretty damn good by yourself. In fact, for the last couple of years, all I have done is stand
by and enjoy the show.
" That cheeky grin split his face.
"
Am I going to die? Is that why you're here now, to take me away?
"
"
I don't know. The future is not like the script of a film, it can go in any direction. But it
doesn't look good for you right now, I must say
."
The ambulance arrived at the Norfolk and Norwich hospital and the back doors were
thrown open. Men and women in uniforms of pale blue and white fussed over me as I was
trundled along corridors to an operating theatre.
In a sudden flash, as my body was transferred to a steel table, I was reminded of the
scene of my birth - the blood, the green gowns, the gleaming metal tools. How like my
mother I looked as I lay still and white on the table.
"
Is my mother with you?
" I asked Joey.
"
No, she moved on long ago
," he grinned.
"
To what?
"
"
She was with you until your Gran came over, then she went to look after a little boy in
Africa and your Gran took over with you.
"
"
So that's how it works,
" I pondered. "
I always felt a strength from somewhere when I
needed it.
"
Sudden activity below brought our exchange to an end. Doctors and technicians were
hastily hooking up a machine and attaching it to my body. At the same time, I felt the
tenuous cord between the two parts of me loosening.
"
I'm dying!
" I cried.
A voice emerges from afar, reciting poetry. It passes me slowly, like a monk gliding
across a courtyard. A light blossoms above me, piercing, hurting my eyes. I shut it out,
returning to the comforting darkness.
My eyes open again. There is a room, but now it is dark, soothing. I hear gentle
breathing as someone sleeps in a chair beside me. I smile; it is Oliver. Comforted, I drift
off, back to my dreams.
Oliver! I open my eyes and see his worried face. I try to speak, but the words formed in
my head are lost.
His expression changes; he smiles. "Hello," he says, hoarsely. "Welcome back, beautiful
one."
I think I smile back, but my mouth feels odd. He leans toward me and removes a mask
that covers my face, then gently kisses my lips.
Later, a day later, when I could speak, I asked Oliver how long I had been there.
"Three months," he said through tight lips. "We thought we had lost you."
Three months? "What happened to me?" I asked, confused.
"Don't you recall anything?"
Try as I may, I could not think why I would be unconscious for three months. Slowly I
shook my head.
"It's just as well," he murmured grimly. "I hope you never remember."
"But what happened? Was I hit by a bus?"
Again, his lips tightened. "No, my love, you were attacked."
I tried to ask him more, but he stopped me with a finger on my lips. "Don't think about it
He returned a moment later with Connor. "You came all this way to see me?" I said as
he carefully leaned over me and rested his cheek against mine, leaving a tender kiss as he
withdrew.
"I took a sabbatical from the
Imperial
, with their blessing I'm glad to say, and found a
job in Norwich until you're better. Everyone back in London wants a regular report on
your progress; I have to phone them every day."
"Leroy drove back to tell me, then brought me here when the hotel allowed me to leave;
they were really good, releasing me at short notice."
I looked from Connor to Oliver and back again, feeling a great sense of peace. Here
were the two men I loved most in this world. I grabbed Connor's hand, squeezing it tightly
and holding it to my breast; then I waved Oliver over, and the three of us clung together
like drowning sailors to a lifeboat. Tears of happiness were running down my face.
Days passed, and I grew stronger. One by one the drips and ventilators and drains were
removed, as my body took over from the machines that had kept me alive for the past
three months.
As the doctors worked, I became aware of the scars - three of them; a long jagged mark
on my right side, just below my ribs, and two smaller ones on my belly. The wounds had
healed while I was in a coma, now all that could be seen were raised brown blemishes on
my pale skin. With the sight of them came a recollection of pain, or was I just imagining?
Again I asked Oliver what had happened to me. At first he shook his head, but I
persisted. Eventually, he relented.
"Do you remember going to stay with Dolly, after the tour?" he asked.
Did I? Could I trust my mind not to use old memories? I shook my head. "I'm not sure;
perhaps."
"All right, let's go back a step further. What can you tell me about your flat in London?"
He was deliberately avoiding giving me any leads.
I remembered my pad. I recalled viewing it the first time, with Jenny. "It's in a yard, a
cobbled yard. Up a flight of cast iron steps ....." I stopped, a vision intruding my reverie, a
black-and-white photograph of charred bricks, a smell of smoke, Oliver climbing those
steps.
He squeezed my hand, but didn't speak, just gazed into my eyes, a concerned, seeking
expression on his face.
"There was a fire, I remember. It's gone, isn't it?"
He nodded.
"But what happened to me? These scars, how did I get them?"
"I'm not going to tell you, my love. I will protect you from that memory, even though I
failed to protect you from what happened." His face became a mask, hiding whatever
feelings were behind it, but his voice betrayed angry self-recrimination.
A procession of doctors came to my room, checking my readings, asking questions,
poking, listening with stethoscopes. Nurses bathed me, changed my urine bag, dispensed
my pills. Oliver was away in London for a few days, dealing with business matters,
worried about leaving me, but happy that I was making good progress.
I plagued the doctors to allow me out of bed, and eventually they relented. With a nurse
on each side to steady me, I swung my legs over the side; it felt good. But I had hardly put
my weight on my feet when the room began to swirl around me and I felt enormous
pressure behind my eyes; I resisted it, but consciousness was escaping and my legs gave
way. The nurses supported me and eased me back into bed. I laid my head on my pillow,
cursing as I fought the nausea that swept through me.
I will beat this
, I vowed.
An hour later I called the nurses back and asked to try again. It had become a mission, a
way to prove that I was strong enough to go home. I made it to the chair, and sat for half
an hour before they escorted me back to bed. Three paces each way, but it felt like a
victory.
The next day, they removed the catheter; I could go to the toilet - what a treat! The day
after that I was sitting in an armchair in the patients' lounge, reading a magazine, yet not
really reading. You know how it is, when your mind is elsewhere, and you turn the pages
without seeing what is written? It was nearly four weeks since I had regained
consciousness, and all I was allowed to do was to walk from my private bed to the lounge.
Outside, drops of autumn rain slithered down the glass, distorting the view of the car
park beyond. I was licking an envelope containing ten pounds for Joey's grave, when, out
of the corner of my eye I saw the door slowly open a little, and the top of Connor's head,
as far as the bridge of his nose, peered around it. It disappeared again, quickly, and I heard
him say "She's in here." The three of them, Oliver, Connor and Leroy, came in, bustling
and grinning like schoolboys.
I folded my arms across my chest, trying to look stern. "Right! What are you up to?" I
demanded. "I'm pretty sure you two are not supposed to be here for a couple of days."
"Nothing miss, honest, miss," Connor giggled. He and Leroy sat on the sofa, beaming
like a couple of Buddhas, Oliver sat on the arm of my chair, bent down and kissed me,
then announced:
"The doctors have agreed to let us take you home, tomorrow."
"That's fantastic!" I said.
"Yes, but," he added seriously, "they say you must have someone with you at all times,
and you aren't allowed to do anything strenuous. I have got to bully you on that point, no
lifting, pushing, pulling, twisting, jumping, running or dancing. Got it, madame?"
"Yes, boss. I can live with that; being waited on hand, foot and mouth. Will you book us
in at the
Imperial
?"
"Ok, consider it done. But, remembering how much you liked Hunstanton, we
wondered if you may like to go there for a week first."
I nodded, smiling in recollection of the two delightful days we had spent beside the sea.
"But not now," I said. "It would be lovely for a break, but I already miss the bustle and
anonymity of London. Besides, I want to start searching for somewhere permanent to
live."
It was a grey October day when we arrived back in The Smoke. A steady drizzle
smeared the windows of the Caddy, and dripped from a sea of umbrellas onto the
pavements beyond, as Leroy drove slowly through the streets of London. But I was
smiling, happy to be out of hospital, pleased to be alive and part of the bustle of the best
city in the world.
We arrived at the
Imperial
, and Leroy lifted my wheelchair from the trunk of the Caddy,
unfolding it on the pavement beside my door. It was one of the conditions of my release
that I should not try to walk until my abdominal muscles had healed enough to allow me
to balance. I slid carefully to the edge of my seat in the back of the limo, and swung my
legs out onto the damp pavement. Oliver's hands steadied me as he eased me into the
wheelchair. So far, so good.
But the steps up to the hotel entrance presented an immediate obstacle. Oliver overcame
it easily by tilting the wheelchair backwards, with me in it, then lifting it effortlessly from
the side and carrying it up the steps, with Leroy trotting alongside, holding an umbrella
over us.
The boys wheeled me through the foyer, waving one hand regally as I passed the staff
on the desk, and into the elevator.
Connor was waiting in my suite; so were Jenny and the guys from the band. They had
decorated the lounge with streamers and a banner saying 'Welcome Home Belinda.' It was
a wonderful and emotional homecoming.
However, I was still weak, and soon tired. So, after a while, they made their excuses and
left, and Oliver carried me to bed, where I immediately fell asleep.
After a couple of hours, I awoke at the sound of a tap on the outer door, and heard quiet
voices in the lounge, fading as someone carefully closed my bedroom door. I floated off
again.
Drifting in and out of sleep, thoughts came and went; most were lost, but an idea for the
words of a song was forming. I tried them in my head, looking for a structure to bind
them together.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the door open slowly and silently, and Connor's head
peered around it. "Ah, you're awake," he said gently. "You have a visitor, if you're up to it.
Someone you haven't met before."
He pulled a face, and put his hands on his hips in a deliberately camp gesture. "Do you
really think I would let a reporter see you?"
I laughed and shook my head.
"Do you want to see him in here?"
"Yes, please."
Connor disappeared for a moment.
When he returned, he was with Oliver and a man I did not recognise. He was about
forty, greying, tanned and dressed in a smart, new jacket and jeans. Connor indicated the
chair beside my bed, and the man sat in it.
"Hello, Belinda," he said in a thick accent. "My name is Paolo Bellini."
Of course, I remembered the name Paolo - Gran had told me it was my father's name -
and I had lived with his surname for all my eighteen years.
I glared at him. "Are you my father?"
"I think so, yes," he answered shyly.
A surge of anger and bitterness rose up inside me. "Why did you leave me? Why did
He pursed his lips and looked at the floor. "I was very stupid. I listened to the bad things
people were telling me. They said the baby was not mine, that Rita had many men. When
the papers for my repatriation arrived, I ran away."
"Did you know she died giving birth to me?" I fixed him with my fiercest look, probably
not as fierce as I wanted because I was lying in bed, and still weak, but he was gracious
enough to acknowledge my feelings.
He hung his head in silence. When he spoke, it was in a hoarse whisper. "I swear to you,
cara mia, I did not know about it until I met your man, Oliver, a few days ago, when I
arrived in England."
"Why have you come here?"
"I read about you in the newspaper, some months before. You have my name, and you
are Belinda - the name your mother and I chose for you if you were born a girl. There was
a photograph - it amazed me to see how much like your mother you are. I knew that you
must be her daughter, and that I must be your father. I have not been a good father;
perhaps I can make up a little for that."