The Beloveds

  With the clearing up done, I help myself to a gin and tonic from their booze store in the cupboard above the sink and settle down with Pipits.

  * * *

  THEY HAVE WORKED OUT what the problem is. Once Gloria told them what he had eaten for lunch it didn’t take them long.

  One of the paramedics has come back to the house, to gather up any bits of the mushrooms he can find in the waste bin.

  “It will help to identify them,” he tells me. “Although the treatment is pretty much the same whatever they are.”

  He has that sympathetic look on his face that Gloria does so well: head to one side, a soft expression in the eyes. I guess he is used to comforting anxious relatives, because he puts his hand on my shoulder and gives an encouraging squeeze.

  “It is serious, but don’t give up hope,” he says.

  “I won’t,” I assure him. “One should never give up hope.”

  Gloria phones. She isn’t crying now. Her voice is low, breathless, as though she is in shock. I guess she is. Poor Gloria.

  “It couldn’t be worse,” she says. “They say his liver is failing and most likely his kidneys are damaged, too. If he is to survive, he will need a liver transplant. He has to be on dialysis until a liver turns up. Someone will have to die if Henry is to live. Oh, Betty!”

  “If he survives?” I ask. It isn’t hard to make my voice soft and full of concern. Over the years I have made the part of false sister my own.

  “He may not,” she says, and her voice quivers. “I have to prepare myself, they say. He could die. Oh, Betty, Henry could die.”

  She asks about Noah, tells me what he needs, which includes regular changes to keep his rash at bay, and if she isn’t back in time for his next feed, I will need to make up fresh bottles from what’s stored in the fridge.

  “The jug marked breast milk,” she reminds me. “Although there isn’t much left in it. And lots of cuddles,” she says. “Give him lots of cuddles.”

  “Of course I will,” I say. For the first time in a long time, I don’t mind comforting her.

  Things don’t seem to be going the right way for Henry, although it is too soon to claim success. What is the likelihood of a liver turning up in time? People wait for years, don’t they? It is too much to contemplate losing at this stage of the game, so I stop myself from thinking about it and set about seeing to Noah’s needs. I give him his milk, and his eyelids flutter with the comfort of it.

  Why Gloria makes caring for Noah so complicated is a mystery: milk must be at blood temperature, his bathwater the same; the house must be quiet for his sleep, he won’t settle otherwise. I take no notice of Gloria’s rules. Apart from the Pampers changes, which are unpleasant, I find Noah a calm baby, asleep within minutes of his feed. I switch off the baby monitor and close the door. He must learn that if he wakes and cries, I will not come running.

  In the kitchen I am suddenly overcome with the creepiest feeling, as though some slithering creature is working its way through my guts. It could be fear, I suppose: the fear of being caught out, the fear of Henry surviving. And what if my plans for Pipits elude me? After all I have been through to get to this point.

  This slithering sensation is not entirely unfamiliar. I experienced it once before, long ago, when Gloria and I were riding our bicycles around the village.

  Hers had training wheels on the back, and it was prettied up with ribbon streamers on its handlebars. Mother had put me in charge of keeping an eye on her: I was to ride beside her and see that she stayed on the pavement.

  “Don’t let her out of your sight,” Mother warned. “And don’t let her ride on the road. You know how cars speed through the village.”

  I couldn’t wait to get away from little sister’s chatter and from her joy at being out with me that was signaled by her smiling face. I ordered her to stay where she was and geared myself up to freewheel down Cold-Upton’s hill.

  The village girls were scared of the ride down the steep incline, at least I had never seen one of them attempt it, but I’d been thinking about doing it for a while. It probably looked a mile long to Gloria; no way would she follow me. She would blab to Mother later, of course, but I was so used to Mother’s disapproval, it hardly mattered.

  With the fear creeping through me at the thought of winding up in a bruised and bloody heap at the bottom of the hill, I had second thoughts, but a group of the village boys had gathered to watch, and, having positioned myself for the attempt, I knew that I couldn’t chicken out. It was their territory, their show-off ground. I guess they hoped that I would be taught a lesson, fall badly, split my head open or worse.

  I started out well, handlebars steady, gathering speed in a straight line, but before the road had evened out enough I braked early and too hard, somersaulting over the handlebars and landing on the ground in a sitting position. One of the village boys shouted out, “Rubbish,” and his friends jeered and laughed.

  The humiliation hurt more than the bruises. It taught me, though, not to expose myself, not to rush into things. I should have practiced, taken the hill for the first time without an audience. I should have gotten the move right before attempting it in front of those boys.

  I tell myself now that I planned this thing with Henry well in advance. Nothing was left to chance, and no one could have done it better than me.

  The creature inside me stops its slithering.

  At around four fifteen in the morning, Gloria phones to say she is coming home for a little while. They are taking Henry for tests. He will be off the ward for an hour or two. She can’t stay long, but she needs to hold Noah and to express more milk.

  I hear her taxi crunch up the drive. Its headlights sweep a white light briefly through the kitchen, where I am sitting at the table in the dark, sipping from my flask. Gin is so soothing.

  I pop upstairs and put Noah’s monitor back on. He is sleeping peacefully, taking deep, even breaths, one hand clasping the satin hem of his new blanket. Good boy.

  On my way back down the stairs I hear Gloria’s key in the door, and I am there on the other side of it to greet her. She practically falls into my arms.

  Henry has had a seizure. He has ferocious back pain and jaundice. Even the whites of his eyes are yellow, apparently.

  “There’s nothing I can do,” she sobs. “I want to help him, but there is nothing I can do.”

  “He is in the best place,” I say. “The doctors at the hospital are the only ones who can help him now.” Platitudes are useful in these circumstances.

  “My little Noah,” she says, taking the stairs two at a time.

  She brings Noah to the kitchen, where I am heating her some of the soup she offered me earlier in the day. It’s been a long night, and the conversation we had then feels like it took place weeks rather than hours ago.

  “Oh, Noah,” she says, kissing his head. “Daddy’s lovely little boy.”

  Noah starts to whimper. Who can blame him? He has been woken from his sleep and brought into the bright lights of the kitchen. And besides, Gloria is hugging him far too tightly.

  “I can’t believe Henry could make such a mistake,” I say. “He is usually so careful.”

  She shakes her head in disbelief, hands Noah to me, and starts searching for the board and knife that Henry used to chop the mushrooms.

  “I thought the same, Betty. I can’t imagine how he got it so wrong. Oh, my poor darling boy.” Gloria’s eyes fill with tears which she wipes away with the back of her hand.

  I find her language irritating. Henry is hardly a boy, but I don’t say as much. I pat her on the back, say that I guess maybe he wasn’t concentrating, that we all have off days, and these things can happen to the best of us.

  She opens the dishwasher and takes out the knife Henry used to chop the mushrooms.

  “This has to go,” she says, brandishing it like a weapon. “Everything that Henry used has to go, we can’t take the chance of contamination, however slight.”

  “No, of course n
ot,” I agree. “I should have thought of that myself.”

  “We should burn that thing,” she says, indicating the board.

  “I’ll do it in Alice’s woodstove,” I say. “Don’t worry about that now.”

  She stands holding the knife, tears welling, her lower lip quivering as it did when she was a little girl and something had upset her. She is a study in pain.

  “Why Henry?” she cries.

  Why not Henry? I think. But I keep quiet.

  15

  I NEEDN’T HAVE WORRIED ABOUT the police getting involved. Apparently, the local authorities only have to be notified about food poisoning when public risk is at stake, as in the case of restaurants and food outlets, anywhere the chance of further victims is a possibility. Unless suspicious circumstances are suspected, it seems that only gun and knife crimes must be reported to the police.

  Gloria has confirmed that Henry picked the mushrooms himself. He had told her that it was a good crop this year, and that the risotto was delicious.

  “If he gets through this,” she sobs, “I’ll never let him near a mushroom again.”

  As Henry poisoned himself, it seems that his story stops there. I couldn’t have hoped for better.

  I tell Gloria I will move into Pipits so that I can look after Noah.

  “Bless you,” she says.

  I will inhabit my own dear bedroom, have the run of the house. Things are already looking up.

  Don’t come back, Henry, don’t ever come back, drown in the dark waters of a coma.

  “He loves you, doesn’t he,” Gloria says now, gazing wistfully at Noah. “You can’t beat blood.”

  The truth is, Noah would love anyone who looks after him. Whatever Gloria thinks, it has nothing to do with blood. Helpless creatures are wired to love those they depend on to exist. It is simply a case of survival.

  * * *

  ONLY FOUR DAYS AFTER Henry was put on dialysis, and in a stroke of unbelievable luck, a liver has turned up. Because Henry has a blood type that matches the donated liver’s antigens, and the liver has only a few miles to travel to the hospital, it is to be his. It came from a man of similar age, killed on a motorbike as he overtook a school bus going down Lansdowne Hill, and met head-on with a four-by-four. What are the odds against that happening at just the right time, and place?

  “It couldn’t be a better match,” Gloria says. She shakes her head in wonderment, her eyes moist at the thought of the kindness of the dead man, who had thoughtfully signed away his organs while he still lived, while he could hardly have imagined his own death at so young an age.

  “I’m going to do the same,” she says. “Donate my organs. I can’t think of a better way to repay this wonderful gift.” She is faint with relief; a touch of color has returned to her cheeks. Don’t tell me there’s no such thing as a Beloved.

  Even though Henry has a long way to go to recover fully, I am not optimistic. If he survives this transplant, as now seems likely, my plan will have come to nothing. It will all have been for nothing.

  For now, though, there is little I can do but wait. Wait and hope that things will go my way in this duel between Henry and me. At this moment, if I believed in the soul, I would be summoning the devil. Make me an offer, I would tell him. Take my soul for Henry’s life.

  More people are in the house these days. They come to console, to offer help, to express their shock at what has happened. Neighbors and friends phone, send flowers, forget their manners and ring the bell at all hours. St. Agneta, Miss Goody Two–shoes from the village store, calls at the house, offering to deliver Gloria’s weekly groceries.

  “Please tell Mrs. Bygone that it will be no trouble. I would like to help.”

  The him and him couple, potters of little distinction, have set to work in Henry’s studio. They will fulfill his orders, keep things running smoothly while he is out of action. What are friends for, after all? They have copied to perfection the mugs and the HB signature that Henry uses to mark his work. Surely that is fraud.

  I can’t walk in the village without being stopped every few minutes.

  “How is the dear man doing?”

  “That such a thing should have happened.”

  “If I can help in any way, just ask.”

  I cluck along with them, smile and thank them as if I am grateful for their concern.

  I am tired, so very tired. Looking after Noah doesn’t help; the juggernaut of his demands just keeps coming. I’m tailoring his needs to meet my own, though. I refuse to go to him after I have put him down for the night, no matter how much he cries; and whatever the weather, I wrap him up and put him outside in his buggy for his morning sleep at the same time every day. He is stubborn, not always ready for sleep, but given time, he would learn—if it weren’t for Gloria’s flying visits home, turning my routines upside down. She responds to his smallest whimper.

  Spending my days with my lovely Pipits has been wonderful, but the glory of it is tinged now with the likelihood of loss. And it’s disturbing that House remains mute, shocked into a hopeless silence. If Henry survives, how totally I will have failed.

  I join Gloria in the hospital. Now that a liver has been found for the transplant, things are moving fast, and she cannot be left alone to wait while Henry undergoes the onslaught of the knife.

  Noah has been left with Mrs. Lemmon. She will spoil him, of course, feed him sugar from her finger, coddle him with baby talk.

  If the transplant works, Henry will have to be on drugs for the rest of his life, but he will be up and about after the operation in four to six weeks. Four to six weeks! Such a trifling stint out of a whole lifetime.

  “Things will never be the same,” Gloria says. “But keep your fingers crossed, Betty. We need all the luck we can get.”

  “My fingers are permanently crossed these days,” I say.

  I groan at the thought of their luck. They may already have had more than their fair share, but that doesn’t mean it has run out.

  Henry is wearing one of those hospital robes that tie at the back, all prepped and ready to go to the operating theater. His voice is croaky, at whisper level; he has to pause between words to draw breath. He seems pleased to see me.

  “You’ve been a treasure,” he says weakly. “I don’t know how Gloria would have managed without you.”

  “She’s been wonderful,” Gloria agrees.

  I allow myself a touch of hope. Henry looks fragile, so very pale with purple shadows under his yellow eyes. Too fragile to survive the onslaught of this operation? I would like to be optimistic, but it feels like I’m panning for gold in a worn-out seam.

  “He’ll be glad to see the back of the hateful dialysis,” Gloria says.

  “Getting stronger every day,” Henry gasps, raising his arm as if to bunch a muscle. He looks so awful, I can tell that even my silver-lining sister finds that hard to believe.

  “Back before you know it,” he croaks as he’s wheeled out of the ward.

  Gloria follows him to the door and out into the corridor. I see her bend and whisper something to him before she kisses him full on the lips. Henry touches her hair, holds on to her hand until they are pulled apart and he’s wheeled away.

  I see her back crumple before she takes a deep breath and shakes her head. I join her and take up her hand. She squeezes mine hard; I squeeze back. We watch Henry flying down the hallway toward his new liver. Is that celestial light or just dust motes I see dancing around his bed? I am distracted from the image by Gloria bursting into tears.

  16

  SEVEN WEEKS DOWN THE line, after the transplant, following a small bleed, and an infection that looked as if it might finish him off, Henry has come through and is on the mend. The medics say, with admiration in their voices, that he is made of strong stuff, that he is a fighter.

  Gloria has started singing again. “My prayers have been answered,” she says. “We have been blessed.”

  She purrs along to the music with an idiotic smile on her face as she
cozies up to Noah or makes tasty little salads and pastas to take to Henry in the hospital. Death visited her world, spun her around for a moment. Coming, ready or not, it chortled. But it was only teasing. Now, with the tease exposed, Gloria is back to her infernal humming and—no doubt when Henry is up to it—to breeding.

  I have been visiting Henry twice a week to give Gloria a break and allow her time with Noah. I take him clean pajamas, shaving foam, magazines. I am the good sister-in-law.

  Last week, during one of my visits, he was positively glowing with life. He had showered and shaved, washed his hair, and was sitting in a chair by the side of his bed, wearing a sweater over his pajamas.

  “I’ll be out soon,” he said. “I can’t wait, and I bet you’ll be pleased to be back in your own home. You like it tidy, don’t you? We’re messy, and that’s not going to change anytime soon. You’ve put up with us for long enough. I couldn’t be more grateful for all you’ve done, Betty.”

  Couldn’t be more grateful! Ha!

  I am to be pushed aside, denied the only thing that matters to me. This failure leaves me in the wilderness. The future once again is alien territory. What’s to be done?

  Back to London for the time being, perhaps? Despite what Bert says about failing galleries, I know that plenty of people would jump at the chance to employ me. But I don’t want to repeat that life, and it would be futile to attempt to smother my desire for Pipits, to lock it up somewhere deep inside me; I’ve tried that, and it doesn’t work. Desire won’t be denied; no matter how heavy the stone you put it under, it simply crawls out.

  When I wake, Pipits is my first thought, the thought that comes to me a hundred times a day. I cannot just up and leave it behind. Love hurts, but you can’t abandon it. You must stick with it to the very end.