Dead to Me

  ‘The nurse who is with her said she kept saying the name when she was delirious.’

  That made Verity a hundred times more worried. ‘But how is she now?’

  ‘All I can really tell you is that she is in a critical condition. I would suggest that you contact her mother, or this Wilby person, and get them to come here now.’

  ‘As bad as that?’ Verity croaked out, her eyes filling with tears. ‘But Wilby lives in Devon.’

  The sister shrugged. ‘If she is able to get here, it may well make all the difference to your friend. Now I must go, I’ll leave the contacting to you.’

  Verity went back into the waiting room and sat down, her head whirling with conflicting thoughts. If Ruby survived and found out she’d told Wilby about this, she was never going to forgive Verity. But if Ruby died, without Wilby knowing, Wilby was never going to forgive Verity.

  Whatever she did, Verity knew she was going to be cast out.

  ‘So what is the right thing to do?’ she asked herself.

  She knew it was to telephone Wilby. And after that she should go back to Rhyl Street and find Angie.

  ‘Just live, Ruby,’ she whispered softly. ‘I can bear it, if you never speak to me again. But I can’t bear the thought of you dying.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Verity opened the letter with a Torquay postmark in some excitement, as she had been waiting nervously to hear from Ruby. She felt her friend would only take the trouble to write if she’d decided to forgive her for what she had called her ‘betrayal’. If she had anything nasty to say, she’d use the telephone or speak face to face.

  But as Verity pulled a plain white postcard from the envelope she gasped. In large capital letters Ruby had simply written:

  YOU ARE DEAD TO ME.

  There was no explanation as to why Ruby felt compelled to be this brutal, and the starkness of the message was evidence that her heart had turned to stone and there was no way back now.

  Verity was too stunned to cry for a few moments. She could only stare at the words in absolute horror. But at the realization that their friendship, which Verity had valued above everything, was now dead and buried, the tears began to flow.

  She had of course known when she telephoned Wilby from the hospital that she was breaking her promise to Ruby. But she wasn’t telling tales out of spite or for attention, it was a desperate situation. No one – not her, not the doctors or nurses – believed Ruby would last the night. What sort of friend would she be if she didn’t try to contact Wilby, the woman who had done so much for Ruby, so that she could say goodbye?

  Or was Ruby so utterly selfish that she didn’t know how important such things were to caring people?

  If Ruby had died alone in the hospital, the police or Angie would have had to contact Wilby anyway and tell her what had happened. Did Ruby imagine that was a preferable way to hear of the death of someone you loved?

  But setting aside the obligation to inform Wilby, did Ruby have any idea what Verity had been through that night? She had stayed at her friend’s bedside all of those endless, dark hours when Ruby was barely conscious. She had knelt on the floor by the hospital bed and prayed for her to live. She had even believed God heard her and granted her wish, because around seven o’clock on Sunday morning Ruby finally began to rally.

  Wilby arrived at ten in the morning, having driven up from Devon in her old Austin, which didn’t even have a heater. She was icy cold, exhausted and stiff from the long drive, yet if she was disappointed in Ruby, or angry with her, she certainly didn’t show it. All Verity saw was love and deep concern for Ruby’s welfare.

  There was no doubt Ruby was glad to see Wilby. She was very poorly, yet she clung on to the older woman like she was a life raft, and she didn’t ask how she came to be there. Maybe it would have been better if Verity had stayed there for the rest of that day, so she could explain her actions. But Wilby said she should go home, because she was exhausted, and she said she would make everything right.

  As it was, Wilby telephoned Verity at her work the following day, telling her she was staying in a guest house for a few days until Ruby was able to travel.

  ‘She was so foolish not confiding in me,’ she said. ‘It is true I would never have condoned an abortion. But we could have made plans for adoption, if she felt unable to keep the baby. I don’t blame you for anything, Verity, I know how forceful Ruby can be when she wants to do something.’

  Verity cried then, telling the older woman how scared she’d been and that she was afraid Ruby would hate her for calling Wilby.

  ‘I’m afraid Ruby does think you betrayed her at the moment, Verity,’ Wilby said gently, her voice cracking with emotion. ‘But that will pass once she’s a hundred per cent again. I have told her that I thank you from the bottom of my heart for calling me, I can’t bear to think how I would have felt if I hadn’t got to see her one last time. I stressed that you did the right thing, the only thing. If there is anyone to blame, it’s her own mother, who hasn’t even been to see her. It’s difficult to believe anyone can be that callous.’

  Verity had believed then that Wilby was right and that once Ruby was on the mend she would be ashamed she’d ever spoken of disloyalty.

  How wrong she was! Two months had passed, Ruby was completely well again and back at work. This ought to have been an apology, and a plea for her to come to Devon as usual at Easter, but instead it seemed their close friendship was over, and Ruby hated her.

  The only reason she had come up with for her friend’s nastiness was that Ruby believed Verity was jealous of her relationship with Wilby. Maybe she imagined Verity had implored Wilby to come to London in the hope that she would look saintly while Ruby looked wayward and bad. It didn’t seem possible that Ruby could be crazy enough to believe Verity would try to turn Wilby against her, or that she was spiteful enough to send such a horrible message, but it was the only thing that made some sense.

  Verity wished she could confide in Aunt Hazel and get her opinion, but she knew that wasn’t an option. Hazel had been very suspicious after that weekend, because Verity was so withdrawn, and her endless probing questions almost drove Verity mad. But she couldn’t, and wouldn’t, tell her aunt or anyone else, as it had been a hideous, pain-filled experience.

  No one had come out of it well: not Verity for agreeing to ask Angie to arrange the abortion, not Angie for putting her own child in such danger, and not Ruby, either, if she could turn on the one person who had tried to do the right thing.

  Verity felt much the same as she had when her mother committed suicide – a similar burden of guilt, anger too, and a terrible loneliness.

  The months passed, Easter came and went, reminding her of Easter egg hunts in Wilby’s garden, going down to Oddicombe Beach and daring each other to paddle in the icy spring water.

  Whitsun came, and then the summer holidays, recalling all those things they did on sunny days: water fights in the sea, the competitions to see who could eat an ice cream cone the fastest, or running full tilt through Brixham to catch the last ferry of the day back to Torquay. There had been the boys they’d flirted with, rides on the bumper cars, eating winkles, drinking a bottle of cider between them and then walking home, because they were too drunk to get on a bus. Happy, golden days. It had never mattered if it rained, or if they had no money. They could have a good time together just sitting chatting and giggling in a bus shelter.

  Verity ached to be back there with her friend, she wanted to smell the sea air, hear waves crashing on the shore, and feel the wind in her hair. Her life was so dull and empty now. She didn’t think she would ever laugh again, or ever be as close to another human being as she’d been to Ruby. With nothing to look forward to, no one to share her hopes and dreams with, she even thought of doing as her mother had done, ending it all in the gas oven.

  The only reason she didn’t do it was because of Aunt Hazel. Even if her sister had been a trial to her, Hazel had been devastated by her death. Verity knew her aunt
really loved her, and she couldn’t put her through more tragedy.

  So she did her best to hide her sadness, she went to work as normal, talked to her aunt over their tea as she’d always done, and went to bed early so she could read. Reading was always a way of shutting out unwanted thoughts, of escaping to a better, kinder world.

  All through the spring, summer and autumn, every Saturday morning when her aunt was at work she cleaned the house from top to bottom and then took herself off to the library. She would choose a couple of new books, but then she’d go into the reading room and read newspapers and magazines until the library closed.

  She liked the reading room, the sloping wooden desks, high stools, the peace and quiet, and the huge trees which surrounded the building. Even in bad weather, when old people came in from the rain to get warm and the air became thick with the smell of wet clothes and body odour, it was still her place of safety and tranquillity.

  The rumbling threat of war and what was happening in Germany fascinated her, and she wanted to know everything. Even if she’d bought a newspaper every day, she still wouldn’t get a broad picture of what was happening elsewhere in Europe and around the world – for that she had to read a cross section of newspapers and specialist magazines, and the library had them all.

  In March she read how German troops crossed the border into Austria, defying the Treaty of Versailles which had forbidden the union. In May she read about how Hitler and Mussolini met in Rome, in June how all Austrian Jews were given a fortnight’s notice to leave by their employers, and in August that Germany had mobilized its armed forces. The civil war in Spain was still continuing. Meanwhile, the leaders of Britain, France and Italy met up with Hitler in Munich for talks which lasted until the early hours. They emerged with a settlement which allowed Hitler to take control of portions of Czechoslovakia. On the 30th of September, Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain arrived back in England waving a piece of paper which he said would guarantee ‘peace for our time’. On the 1st of October, Hitler led his troops into Sudetenland. The Czech Prime Minister described it as ‘the most tragic moment of my life’.

  Many people, including Aunt Hazel, still believed war could be averted, but Verity didn’t. In November, when she read about Kristallnacht, the ‘night of broken glass’, when synagogues were bombed or burned out, and the shops and homes of Jewish families were ransacked, she found herself weeping openly about man’s inhumanity to man.

  But while Verity was thinking about what war would mean for her and Hazel, and encouraging her aunt to lay in stocks of tinned food, Hazel was more interested in finding her niece a young man. ‘It isn’t right that such a young and pretty girl spends every evening at home listening to the wireless,’ she said plaintively on a weekly basis. ‘Why haven’t you got any friends? What is wrong with you?’

  Verity had no ready explanation. All through the year Aunt Hazel had regularly asked if she was going to have a holiday in Babbacombe. And why didn’t Ruby write to her any more? Verity’s response that it was because Ruby was courting now, and she had no time for anyone else, seemed to appease Hazel. But she did say waspishly that girls who forgot their old friends the minute a boy came into their lives were not real friends at all.

  Verity wished so much that she could forget Ruby, but it just wasn’t possible. So many things reminded her of her friend: books they’d read together, magazines they both liked, the sight of another girl with curly red hair in the distance, a raucous laugh like hers on the train going to work. The song ‘September in the Rain’ was always on the wireless, and Ruby had loved it. Meat pies, fish and chips, chocolate eclairs; sometimes Verity thought that there wasn’t anything in the world which wasn’t connected in some way to her friend.

  She wanted to telephone Wilby and beg her to tell Ruby just how sad and alone she felt, but she was too proud to go that far. It would only make her look pathetic.

  On the 23rd of December, Verity arrived home from work to find a policeman ringing the doorbell. She knew even without being told that something had happened to her aunt.

  ‘I’m so very sorry,’ the policeman said once they were inside. ‘Your aunt, Miss Ferris, was taken ill suddenly this afternoon at her work. They called an ambulance but I’m afraid she died on the way to the hospital. It was a heart attack.’

  Verity felt as if she’d gone into free fall down a deep pit. It couldn’t be true, surely. Hazel wasn’t that old, she always seemed fit and healthy. And why should it happen at Christmas? The very worst time in the whole year to lose someone you loved.

  The policeman put the kettle on, he even offered to light the fire, and he hugged Verity when she cried. He was a kind man, probably in his fifties, with a lined face and tired-looking eyes. He said he was Sergeant Michaels and that he lived by Hither Green Station. He suggested that he get a neighbour to stay with her, but Verity said she’d rather he didn’t.

  ‘I’m best on my own,’ she said. ‘It gives me time to sort out my thoughts.’

  ‘But you’re too young to be alone, and it’s Christmas Eve tomorrow,’ he pointed out.

  Verity just shrugged. She had helped her aunt decorate a small tree for the parlour and put up some decorations last Sunday. Verity had pretended excitement to please Hazel, she’d even bought some new red and gold baubles for the tree to convince her. She’d bought her aunt a red wool dressing gown with satin reveres. If she’d bought it in a shop, it would have been very expensive, but as she’d got it from Cooks – at wholesale price, less staff discount – it had been a real bargain. She had gone to great pains to wrap it beautifully, and tied it with red satin ribbon, before putting it under the tree. Aunt Hazel had joked that she’d be creeping down in the night to shake and prod it.

  ‘I have to go to work tomorrow. It’s the Christmas party too,’ Verity told the policeman. ‘I won’t want to be at that, of course, but it will give me a chance to tell my boss I might need some time off after Christmas.’

  ‘I will knock on your neighbours’ door and tell them what has happened,’ Sergeant Michaels said, his tone firm like a school teacher. ‘You’ll need someone to tell you all the things you must do when arranging the funeral and your aunt’s affairs. And they will keep an eye on you too.’

  Verity nodded. ‘Fair enough, but please tell them to leave me tonight, I really couldn’t cope with anyone fussing round me.’

  He insisted on lighting the fire before he left, and urged her to put a hot-water bottle in her bed for later. ‘Now make sure you eat something,’ he said, patting her shoulder as he prepared to leave. ‘This couldn’t have come at a worse time, you won’t even be able to busy yourself with arranging the funeral until after Boxing Day. But you make sure you keep warm, and if you need some help or advice you can always come to the police station. We’ll be open all over Christmas.’

  After he’d gone, Verity sat by the fire with another cup of tea and stared into the flames. She felt curiously numb, as if she was looking through a window and watching someone else’s problem. She thought how she would never again hear her aunt’s bedtime ritual of lighting her lantern before going out to the lavatory. Neither would she wake tomorrow to hear her riddling the ashes in the kitchen fire, and coaxing it back into life with some kindling and paper. She wanted such thoughts to make her cry again – that would be normal, and to be expected – but no tears came.

  Verity didn’t go to work on Christmas Eve. She wanted to, because being in the house now Aunt Hazel was gone was unbearable. But she knew if she did go to work, everyone would think she hadn’t cared about her aunt.

  So she telephoned Cooks from the phone box and said she’d ring them again after Christmas, as soon as she knew when the funeral was. Then she went to register Hazel’s death in Lewisham.

  Christmas fever was in full swing in the high street, with so many people shopping it was hard to get through the crowds. The market was always busy at any time of year, but today it needed sharp elbows and determination to get from one end to the
other. Verity had always loved the market. Last Christmas Eve she and Aunt Hazel had come down here just before it closed. All the stalls were lit with hurricane lamps and the heaps of tangerines and apples on the greengrocers’ stalls looked like treasure troves. They had bought a Christmas tree, a big chicken and a whole bag of fruit, and walked home carrying the tree, Aunt Hazel holding the top end and Verity the bottom. They’d laughed every step of the way.

  They had said at the time they’d get the tree earlier the following year, because it was too hard doing all the decorating on Christmas Eve. They had done that; the tree was in its pot right now, sitting in the parlour window all decorated. Hazel’s present was beneath it. But she wouldn’t open that present, or see her niece light the candles on the tree. Tomorrow Verity would open the present her aunt had bought her, alone. There would be no chicken, as they’d planned to come down here again today, at the close of the market, to buy it. Verity had no intention of buying a chicken to cook and eat alone.

  Verity didn’t get out of bed the next morning. She heard church bells ringing, but she pulled the covers over her head and tried to get back to sleep. Later she heard someone knocking on the front door, but she ignored that too as she knew it would be Mrs Purcell from next door inviting her in to share Christmas with her family. She knew they didn’t really want her there, they barely knew her. And who would want someone so recently bereaved spending Christmas with them? They were kind people, but not thinking straight. With luck, they would think she’d gone out already and would forget about her as they enjoyed their day.

  She stayed in bed until twelve, and only got up because she knew she’d never sleep at night unless she had some exercise. So she dressed, pulled on her coat, a woolly hat and gloves, and left the house. She walked briskly up to Blackheath, right across the heath to Greenwich Park, down through the park to Greenwich and the river. It was a grey, slightly foggy afternoon, and there were not many people about. She guessed most were still sitting around the table eating, drinking, pulling crackers and laughing. Her mind slipped back to the last Christmas at Daleham Gardens. She’d had amongst other presents a beautiful sewing box which opened to reveal four drawers on either side, and in them were many reels of cotton, pins, needles, scissors and embroidery silks. It must have been left in the house when they moved away, as she didn’t have it now. But then the pleasure she’d got from the gift was spoiled by her father later that same day, when he came to her room.