not that bugger’s gone off down the pub for the night. ’E’ll be terrified o’ what ’e’s done, you see. With any luck, ’e’ll not be back till late. If you get worried about yer Mam, I’ll send George down the Infirmary, see ’ow she is. You know where I am. If you need me, just come down. You stop ’ere, see if the doctor brings any news. ’E’s a nice feller is Dr Pritchard, go an’ see ’im a bit later on. Are you alright now?’
I nodded, unable to speak. Mrs Cullen wobbled away, turning as she reached the edge of the pavement. ‘Don’t you worry now. Come round later if you like.’
I was frantic after she’d gone, driven almost out of my mind, pacing about the house like a caged animal, couldn’t sit down, couldn’t stand in one place for two seconds at a time. What should I do? What could I do? Panic flowed over me in waves, a blind, unreasoning feeling that was not really connected with what had happened, because my mind would not, just now, fix on any of it. This was fear in its purest sense, for I could not discover its real source. Yes, my mother was hurt, yes, I feared for her life – somewhere inside me I knew all that. But it was as if I were facing a tiger, a wild beast with an unpredictable nature that might pounce at any time and I ran from this invisible animal, room to room, storey to storey, until dusk fell and I knew that this house could no longer contain me.
The doctor’s wife opened the door to my hammerings and looked at me as if I were something the cat had dragged to her doorstep.
‘Yes? Can I help you?’
‘I want the doctor, Dr Pritchard . . .’
‘There is no surgery just now, I’m afraid, but if you’d like to come back in, say, fifteen minutes . . .’
‘I want to see him now. It’s an . . . an emergency.’
She looked me up and down again as if assessing my worth, her cool eye somehow making me feel better, because I was used to this type, had got used to this type at All Saints. She might have legs, but this one was a real nun if ever I saw one and I could deal with nuns any day of the week – yes, even now. She ushered me through to the waiting room.
Dr Pritchard was a kind and gentle man with a farseeing eye and a respect for humanity that was unusual in a man of his calling. He treated everyone with equal respect, always bent a willing ear, always had a smile and a jelly-baby for a child, even during rationing.
He joined me on the brown leather waiting bench.
‘Hello, Anne. Now, you’ll want to know about your Mummy, won’t you?’
I nodded and he took my hand in his.
‘Well, dear, I have telephoned just now to the hospital and she is in no danger whatsoever. They are managing to replace the blood she has lost and apart from being a little tired and bruised, she is doing fine, just fine.’
This was another thing I loved about this dear man. He always explained things like what made your blood clot when your leg bled and why you should never scratch your chicken pox.
‘What about the baby?’ I asked quietly.
He paused before replying, ‘The baby is gone, I’m afraid, Anne.’
It was then that the tears came and I leaned heavily against this man as I wept, clinging to his tweed jacket as my tears poured down the front of his clean white shirt. He leaned back and pressed a button on the wall. His wife appeared in the doorway after a few seconds and he spoke briskly to her. ‘Warm tea, Edna – warm, not hot and with two teaspoons of sugar.’ He dried my eyes on his capacious handkerchief and instructed me to blow my nose into the same. She stood in the doorway, an expression of disdain tightening her already bitter features.
‘Tea, Edna.’ She slammed the door behind her as she disappeared.
‘Are you feeling better now, Anne?’ He always called me Anne. I liked that.
‘A bit, Doctor.’
‘Crying’s good medicine, you know. Better than all the stuff in the chemist shop. It’s like – let me see now. You know
I nodded, unable to speak. Mrs Cullen wobbled away, turning as she reached the edge of the pavement. ‘Don’t you worry now. Come round later if you like.’
I was frantic after she’d gone, driven almost out of my mind, pacing about the house like a caged animal, couldn’t sit down, couldn’t stand in one place for two seconds at a time. What should I do? What could I do? Panic flowed over me in waves, a blind, unreasoning feeling that was not really connected with what had happened, because my mind would not, just now, fix on any of it. This was fear in its purest sense, for I could not discover its real source. Yes, my mother was hurt, yes, I feared for her life – somewhere inside me I knew all that. But it was as if I were facing a tiger, a wild beast with an unpredictable nature that might pounce at any time and I ran from this invisible animal, room to room, storey to storey, until dusk fell and I knew that this house could no longer contain me.
The doctor’s wife opened the door to my hammerings and looked at me as if I were something the cat had dragged to her doorstep.
‘Yes? Can I help you?’
‘I want the doctor, Dr Pritchard . . .’
‘There is no surgery just now, I’m afraid, but if you’d like to come back in, say, fifteen minutes . . .’
‘I want to see him now. It’s an . . . an emergency.’
She looked me up and down again as if assessing my worth, her cool eye somehow making me feel better, because I was used to this type, had got used to this type at All Saints. She might have legs, but this one was a real nun if ever I saw one and I could deal with nuns any day of the week – yes, even now. She ushered me through to the waiting room.
Dr Pritchard was a kind and gentle man with a farseeing eye and a respect for humanity that was unusual in a man of his calling. He treated everyone with equal respect, always bent a willing ear, always had a smile and a jelly-baby for a child, even during rationing.
He joined me on the brown leather waiting bench.
‘Hello, Anne. Now, you’ll want to know about your Mummy, won’t you?’
I nodded and he took my hand in his.
‘Well, dear, I have telephoned just now to the hospital and she is in no danger whatsoever. They are managing to replace the blood she has lost and apart from being a little tired and bruised, she is doing fine, just fine.’
This was another thing I loved about this dear man. He always explained things like what made your blood clot when your leg bled and why you should never scratch your chicken pox.
‘What about the baby?’ I asked quietly.
He paused before replying, ‘The baby is gone, I’m afraid, Anne.’
It was then that the tears came and I leaned heavily against this man as I wept, clinging to his tweed jacket as my tears poured down the front of his clean white shirt. He leaned back and pressed a button on the wall. His wife appeared in the doorway after a few seconds and he spoke briskly to her. ‘Warm tea, Edna – warm, not hot and with two teaspoons of sugar.’ He dried my eyes on his capacious handkerchief and instructed me to blow my nose into the same. She stood in the doorway, an expression of disdain tightening her already bitter features.
‘Tea, Edna.’ She slammed the door behind her as she disappeared.
‘Are you feeling better now, Anne?’ He always called me Anne. I liked that.
‘A bit, Doctor.’
‘Crying’s good medicine, you know. Better than all the stuff in the chemist shop. It’s like – let me see now. You know
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