Emma (18 page)

Leaving Mother listening to music on the wireless, I went out into the hall. I was in time to see my Father standing halfway up the stairs, bent almost double with what was obviously severe pain.

‘Father!’ I cried. ‘You’re ill. Let me help you.’

‘No, no,’ he muttered, lifting his head to glare at me. ‘I can manage. Get on down to the shop, Emma – and don’t fuss.’

‘Will you let me send Ben for the doctor?’

He hesitated, then shook his head. ‘Not yet. If I’m no better by the time you close up, I’ll think about it.’

I was shocked by the look of his complexion. His skin was an odd colour, sort of yellowish-grey, and I thought he must be feeling very ill. What was wrong with him? I hadn’t seen him in this much pain before.

The shop was busy when I got there. Both Ben and I were serving customers almost non-stop until well past seven-thirty. Father had not returned by the time I sent Ben home and locked up for the night.

I made sure all the lights were off, then went upstairs to be met by my mother, who looked worried.

‘He’s been sick three times,’ she said, ‘and he didn’t touch his supper.’

‘I think we should have the doctor, Mum.’

‘So do I,’ she agreed, ‘but he won’t hear of it. Every time I speak to him, he shouts at me.’

‘I know,’ I said, feeling sad that she had had such a rotten life. It wasn’t her fault and yet it wasn’t all my father’s. I suspected that they had both hurt each other, the little slights and grievances building up over the years until they had reached a state where there was only harsh feeling between them. ‘Is he in bed?’

‘Lying on top of it, I think.’

‘I’ll talk to him. See if I can persuade him to see sense.’

‘Would you? I’m really very worried, Emma.’

I thought she looked frightened.

I knocked on the bedroom door, then entered. Father was lying with his eyes closed, but even as I hesitated, he rolled over and grabbed at a bowl. He made a fearful retching sound and brought up a brownish bile, which smelt awful.

‘I’ll empty that and bring it back.’ I took the bowl from him, went across the hall and rinsed it down the toilet, then returned with it and a damp flannel. ‘Wipe your mouth,’ I said. ‘I’ll get you a little cold water to rinse your mouth, but I shouldn’t swallow if I were you.’

He accepted the flannel and the water, but in another minute he was vomiting again.

‘I’m getting the doctor,’ I said decisively, leaving before he could argue.

I stopped only to put on my jacket, before running down the stairs and letting myself out of the back door. It was chilly out, but I ran so fast I didn’t feel it.

Fortunately, the doctor’s house was only two streets away. Having come from attending a difficult childbirth, Doctor Barton had just finished his own dinner. He listened attentively to my story, gave it as his opinion that something Father had eaten had disagreed with him, and told me not to worry.

‘He has hardly eaten anything for days,’ I said. ‘Please, you must come. I think he might be dying.’

‘Very well.’ The doctor was reluctant to leave the comfort of his own parlour, but my very real fear decided him that it was his duty. ‘I’m sure you are worrying for nothing, my dear – but I shall come.’

Ten minutes later, he was standing by Father’s bedside, shaking his head and looking serious.

‘You should have sent for me before this,’ he said. He took Father’s pulse, then examined his tongue. ‘This is either an ulcer or your liver, sir. Tell me, how long have you been having the pain?’

‘Months – years,’ Father said, grimacing. ‘But not like this. I thought it was indigestion.’

‘More likely an ulcer then,’ Doctor Barton said. ‘You should be very careful what you eat from now on, Mr Robinson. No spicy foods for you, I’m afraid. Milk and bread – perhaps a raw egg beaten into some milk at night to settle your stomach. Nothing cooked in the frying pan. I’ll give Emma a prescription.’ He wrote something on his pad and tore it off. ‘This should help ease the pain for now – but I should like you to go into hospital as soon as possible. Tests would help establish the cause of your pain.’

‘No hospitals,’ Father said and bit back a groan. ‘It’s my own fault for overeating. I’ll take that stuff of yours and stick to a diet in future.’

‘Harold has always been a martyr to his stomach,’ Mother said from the doorway. She looked at him doubtfully. ‘Perhaps you should go to hospital – just for some tests, dear.’

‘Damn you, no!’ he muttered. ‘It’s already easing. I shall be better soon. Thank you for coming, doctor – but there was really no need.’

‘I believe you have an ulcer,’ the doctor said. ‘If you are wise, sir, you will rest as much as possible – and stick to a diet for several weeks. Then come and see me.’

‘I’ll see you out,’ I said, following him quickly from the room. I could hear my father’s voice complaining loudly as we went downstairs.

‘How is he really?’ I asked before unlocking the shop door to let Doctor Barton out the front way. ‘Is it serious?’

‘It might be,’ he said. ‘There’s something about his colour I don’t like. I can’t place it – but it’s not right.’

‘Is he going to die?’

‘I shouldn’t think so – not if he’s sensible. Unless there’s internal bleeding. Did you notice blood in his vomit?’

‘No.’ I was decisive. ‘I’m sure I would have noticed. It was just foul-smelling brown stuff.’

‘Then it may not be too serious. Try not to worry, my dear. Send for me if you need me.’

‘Thank you.’

I locked the door after him. I was thoughtful as I went out of the back way, walking through the dimly lit streets to the chemist shop in the next road. I had to pass the Cock Inn to reach it, and a burst of noisy laughter from inside made me scurry by.

What had caused Father’s sickness? He certainly hadn’t been eating too much recently, despite his claims to have done so. Could it possibly be the tablets he dosed himself with regularly? I was sure he hadn’t mentioned them to the doctor. He wouldn’t have wanted him to know about those, of course. Nor was he likely to visit the hospital. He would probably be annoyed with me for fetching the doctor at all.

I was relieved to find the chemist still open. I handed over the doctor’s prescription, waited while it was prepared, and paid for it. Going back outside, I stood for a moment looking about me.

Across the street, a man had caught hold of a woman’s arm and was swinging her round to face him. They appeared to be having an argument. As they moved into the light of an inadequate street lamp, I felt a shock of surprise. The man was my husband – and the woman was Sheila.

Before I’d time to digest this, Sheila struck him a sharp blow on the face and ran off. I thought he was about to follow until some instinct made him glance across the street. He looked thunderstruck as he saw me standing there.

‘Emma?’ He came towards me, his manner half angry, half wary. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Father was taken ill,’ I said. ‘I had to fetch the doctor – and this.’ I showed him the medicine. ‘Were you having an argument with Sheila?’

‘She’s a fool!’ Richard said, and now he looked scornful. ‘Eric is ready to marry her, yet she still can’t leave the men alone. She was with some gypsy in the pub just now. Can you imagine that? I told her she was asking for trouble. If Eric heard he would drop her faster than she can drop her knickers!’

‘Richard!’ I cried, disliking his coarseness. ‘That isn’t a very nice thing to say.’

‘It’s the truth,’ he said, falling into step beside me as I began to walk home. ‘Oh, I know you like her, Emma – but she’s a whore. There’s no getting away from it.’ He glanced at me sideways, as if to reassure himself that I had believed him. ‘What’s wrong with Harold then?’

‘He was being sick and in a lot of pain. The doctor says he may have an ulcer. He ought to go into hospital for tests, but you know my father.’

‘He won’t go,’ Richard said. ‘I don’t know as I blame him. Those places kill as many as they cure.’

‘Of course they don’t!’

‘What would you know? Ever been to one?’

‘No, but—’ I was silenced as I saw the expression on his face. ‘But they’re supposed to help people, aren’t they?’

‘My grandfather went in for tests, caught some disease or other and died,’ Richard said. ‘And he isn’t the only one. No, it’s best Harold stays home with you and your mother to look after him.’

‘I suppose so,’ I agreed reluctantly, wondering why he seemed so set on persuading me. ‘He wouldn’t go anyway.’

‘There you are then,’ Richard said, and looked at me. ‘Fancy a drink before we go home?’

‘I’d better take this back,’ I replied, ‘but you go if you want, Richard.’

‘Perhaps I will,’ he said. ‘Don’t wait up for me. I might be late. It’s my mate’s birthday. I promised I’d help him celebrate.’

‘Oh … all right.’

I hurried on as Richard turned towards the pub. I didn’t mind him going – as long as he wasn’t drunk when he came in.

Richard had drunk more than usual, but not enough to fall asleep as soon as he got into bed. I was sleeping, but that didn’t prevent him from reaching for me.

‘Wake up,’ he muttered against my ear. ‘I want you. Damn you, Emma! I know you’re only pretending.’

I came back from the depths to discover Richard was already on top of me. I protested tiredly, but he ignored me, taking me without bothering to kiss or arouse me. It was painful and made me weep bitter tears after he had finished.

Why did he have to do this? Was he punishing me? Every time I made up my mind to try harder in this marriage, he did something that sent me sliding all the way down to the floor again. I wanted to feel tenderness for him. Sometimes, I persuaded myself that I did love him in a way, but then he did something like this and I wondered if it was worth the effort.

Richard was soon snoring. Or pretending to, I thought angrily. I got up and went into the bathroom, washing myself all over in an attempt to wash away my feelings of having been used.

He had never been this cruel before. I came close to hating my husband in that moment. If he had been kind to me, I might have learned to love him, or at least to be content with my lot – but now I was beginning to think it was impossible.

‘What’s the matter? You’ve been crying.’

I met my mother in the hall. My eyes were red from weeping, and there was no point in trying to hide it, though I didn’t answer at once.

‘Is Father worse?’

‘No. That medicine helped,’ she said. ‘He’s sleeping at the moment, but I couldn’t rest. I’m having a cup of tea – want one?’

‘Yes, please.’

Anything to delay the moment I had to go back in that room.

We went into the kitchen together. I watched as Mother put the kettle on the gas, leaving off the whistle. How often had she done that in the past? I had known nothing about her restless nights then, but now I had a reason to be restless myself.

We smiled at each other, moving softly so as not to make a noise. We were like two conspirators, I thought, not wanting to wake the men.

‘Was Richard drunk?’ Mother asked. ‘I heard him come in late and I wondered.’

‘He’d had more than usual – but not enough. When he’s drunk he falls asleep before—’ I blushed. ‘It isn’t always like that. He can be almost tender, if he wants …’

‘Oh, Emma,’ she sighed, reading between the lines. ‘Harold was just the same. I was hoping it would be different for you.’

‘It’s my own fault.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ she denied. ‘Your father made you marry him. Gran was right. He isn’t the one for you. I’m sorry, love. Sorry I went along with it.’

‘You couldn’t have known. Besides – what else could I do?’

‘You should have run away. Why don’t you go now, Emma?’

‘And leave you here? Have you forgotten what Father threatened?’

‘It’s different now. He’s too ill to follow you. You could be free to live as you wish.’

Her words made me feel wistful, made me long for something more than I had – than I would ever have. Yet I knew it was a forlorn hope.

‘I won’t go without you. Besides, I’m married. It’s too late, Mum. I have to make the best of things.’
However bad they are sometimes.

‘Maybe Richard would give you a divorce.’

‘I doubt it.’ I pulled a face. ‘He likes living here. It suits him. Sheila warned me he would get his feet under the table if he could. I think he and Father … I’m not sure, but I think there’s some arrangement between them.’

‘Richard doesn’t pay any rent,’ Mother said. ‘I know that much. That’s probably why he has more to spend on drink these days.’

‘Yes, perhaps.’ I thought there might be more to it, but wasn’t sure. ‘Anyway, we couldn’t go – not while Father is ill. Who would see to the shop? We couldn’t just desert him, despite what he said that night. You know we couldn’t, Mum.’

‘No.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘It might be best to stick it out a bit longer – if you can manage?’

‘I shall have to,’ I replied, a note of bitterness mixed with anger in my voice. ‘I married him. In any case, he’ll probably apologise tomorrow and buy me a present.’

‘Don’t be bitter, love.’ Mother gave me a quick hug. ‘Things will get better, I promise.’

‘Perhaps.’ I smiled suddenly. ‘Yes, of course they will, Mum. When I’ve had the baby. Richard is jealous. Sometimes I think … he hates the idea of it being Paul’s.’ I placed a protective hand on my stomach. ‘He promised it didn’t matter, but it does. I suppose it always will – just the same as you and Dad. You can’t really blame either of them. Richard does care about me, in his way.’

If I didn’t believe that I wouldn’t be able to bear my life!

‘Yes. Perhaps that’s all it is,’ she said. ‘Maybe he will get over it. If not …’

‘There’s not much I can do, is there?’

‘Let’s see what happens.’ She touched my cheek. ‘Just as long as he doesn’t hurt you.’

‘He won’t,’ I said. ‘Not while Father is alive. It’s the money, you see. I think that’s a part of the reason why he married me. He likes the idea of there being money in the family.’

‘What money?’ She looked disgusted. ‘If there is any I haven’t been able to find it. Harold has a few pounds in the bank, and the shop, but that’s all.’