The Fleeting Years Page 17
Jenny understood why it was that Phyllis Cripps needed to talk, but for her it was almost a relief when the police car drew up outside and with a promise to call her back she rang off. In the first instance the policeman was as unforthcoming to her as they had been to Mrs Cripps, although more courteous.
‘I wouldn’t know his number in California,’ she told him. ‘Why should I? But if you like to come in and wait a moment I’ll call the house and ask for it.’
‘I explained, madam, I’ve already called there before coming to you. There’s no one there except the cleaning woman.’
‘That’ll be Mrs Cripps. Come in and I’ll ring her.’
And just as she expected, the receiver was picked up immediately bringing to mind an image of Phyllis Cripps hovering with her hand ready on the receiver.
‘No news yet, my dear. The police have come to me for Peter’s phone number in California but of course there’s no reason why I would have it. Be a dear and look it up, I know Zina will have put it in the book.’ She took an almost childish pleasure (or as near to pleasure as she was capable of feeling) in thinking she had scored a point against the too-officious-by-half policeman who had taken a high-handed attitude to the faithful Mrs Cripps. Then, as she scribbled the number on the message pad, she said, ‘Thanks a lot. I’ll give you a ring when they’ve got through to Peter.’ Then to the policeman: ‘There’s the number. You can use this phone.’
‘Thank you.’
She moved outside the door to allow him to make the call in privacy. But a minute later he called her back in and told her, ‘Mr Marchand wasn’t available but I left a message on his line. However, madam, since you are the nearest relative here—’
‘Yes? What’s happened?’ She held her hands clasped tightly together, it was the only way to stop them shaking.
‘Mrs Marchand fell from the top of the cliff in Deremouth and has been taken unconscious to the hospital there. I’m sorry; it must be a great shock for you. That’s the only information I have; I’m sorry I can’t tell you more.’
‘Thank you.’ She sounded calm and dignified, determined not to let him see how her whole body ached as her imagination pulled her from one direction to another.
‘We’ll be happy to drive you to the hospital.’ Did she detect a note of uncertainty, perhaps as if, his duty done, he was able to understand something of what she was feeling?
‘Thank you, but there’s no need. I shall drive myself,’ she answered, with a consciously gracious nod of her head. ‘I’ll see you out.’
The door closed on them, and she was alone. Zina … from the cliff to the shore … but surely she couldn’t have …? No, only yesterday she had been so full of relief and joy that Peter felt just as she did, as soon as he was free he was coming home. How could anyone fall off that cliff and live? But even as the thought pushed into her mind she pulled away from it, frightened even to contemplate the possibility.
True to her word she phoned Newton House where again the receiver was picked up at the first ring. The news temporarily seemed to strip Mrs Cripps of all power of speech, but when she found her voice it was evident she was crying.
‘Oh, the poor dear girl! Tell you what, it’s this blasted wind must have swept her off her feet. When she left here not two hours ago she was full of excitement that Mr M was coming home. Where’s the justice? I tell you, Mrs Beckham, I swear to God I’d give my right arm for this not to have happened to her. And him, poor dear man, it’s going to knock the stuffing out of him.’
‘I’m going over to the hospital now but they won’t let me stay long I don’t expect so I’ll slip in and see you on the way home.’
‘That’s real kind of you, Mrs Beckham. If they let you sit with her a bit, I’ll just hang on here.’
Before Jenny set out for Deremouth she put a call through to Derek’s flat. He had gone to Bristol to collect music he had ordered for the quintet but had told her that on the way he would call to collect the last of his personal things from his apartment before the agent showed it to prospective tenants. She dialled the number and listened to the ringing as she counted. Then a voice told her there was no one available to answer her call but she could leave a message after the tone. She left her message, the sound of her voice speaking the stark words adding to her misery. She had to pull herself together and think of the family. With a determination she was far from feeling, she went upstairs for her coat and handbag, then collected her car keys.
At Deremouth Hospital she was directed to the Intensive Care Unit, the sight of two parked ambulances adding to her sense of unreality that this could be happening.
‘My daughter has been brought in after a fall from the cliff,’ she said, waylaying a rosy-faced nurse who looked young enough still to be in the schoolroom.
‘If you wait a moment I’ll find Sister and see if she can tell you anything. Here, you sit down.’ She took Jenny’s arm and turned her to the bench seat. ‘I’ll see what I can find out.’ With that she scurried off, making a silent plea that Sister would come and talk to the poor, frightened-looking woman herself.
It was no more than three or four minutes that Jenny was kept waiting, but to her it seemed interminable as fear battled with hope, and hope with despair.
‘I’m sorry to keep you,’ a bright voice brought her mind back from where it had strayed. ‘Your daughter isn’t out of theatre yet. I understand there is a head wound and damage to her shoulder and various bones broken. She is having surgery.’
‘Oh, thank God. You mean there’s nothing worse than broken bones and flesh wounds?’ But how could the Sister know when she hadn’t even seen Zina?
‘I understand there was a cliff-fall and she was hurtled down with the rubble. That must have broken her fall. I can’t tell you yet the extent of the breakages to her bones or how bad the injury to her head – naturally there will be bruising and lacerations.’
In her relief Jenny tried to make her mind work rationally.
‘She must have parked her car on the cliff. I wonder if the key is in it or in her pocket. I must get it taken home.’ Her imagination was jumping from one thing to the next, settling nowhere. ‘When can I see her?’
‘It won’t be possible today, I’m afraid. It’ll be some hours before she regains consciousness. But after today as long as she’s kept in Intensive Care, visiting for next of kin is at anytime. Has she a husband?’
‘He’s in America, so I am her next of kin.’ She felt a moment’s shame at the satisfaction she found in saying it and, as if to ease her conscience, promised herself that as soon as she was home she would speak to Peter.
‘She was wearing no identification,’ the Sister was saying, ‘All we know about her is that she was brought here from the foot of the cliff. Does she live locally?’
So Jenny gave her the details she wanted, noticing the sudden look of interest at the mention of Peter’s name.
‘I’ll send the nurse out with the car key if it’s in her anorak pocket and if you like to phone this evening we can tell you how she is. Perhaps you can give me your phone number in case of any emergency.’
‘Can’t I wait until she comes out of theatre?’
But she had to accept that there would be no chance of seeing Zina that day. So, promising to phone later, Jenny left. Driving towards Newton House she told herself she ought to be grateful, they had sounded positive, almost as if accidents of the sort were a daily occurrence. And that’s what she stressed to Phyllis Cripps whose reddened eyelids told their own story.
True to her word Jenny put a call through to the service apartment where Peter was living. She knew the police had received no reply, but that seemed to her to be hours ago. It was only when her call wasn’t answered that she realized that in California it must be the middle of the night. What sort of a life was he living out there that he wasn’t home and in bed? Her resentment (resentment or jealousy?) was never far below the surface and the unanswered ringing was all the justification it needed.
Richard, she cried silently, I don’t know what to do. What will have happened to her? Broken bones … unconscious … a head wound … and how must she have felt as she lost her footing and was thrown? Remember how she used to follow you around like a shadow when she was a toddler? Remember how you used to help her with her maths homework and the way she used to yawn? Remember when she brought Peter Marchand home, her eyes like stars and such pride in telling us he was the junior lead in the Marley Players with a season in Deremouth. Did you really like him, right from the first, or was it that you couldn’t bring yourself to hurt her? I saw him as a playboy, not just a player. And now where is he? Partying the night away! But when he came to you asking your permission for him to propose to her, you didn’t hesitate. Am I wrong to think the worst of him? Later when I’ve phoned the hospital I shall try again to talk to him. I must remember how good he was in the way he came here to welcome Derek into the family when Zina was angry and wouldn’t try to understand about us. And now there’s this … Zina, our darling Zina. Richard, when we pray it’s not just words we speak, surely we pray with our souls, and nothing can have destroyed your soul. With all your soul, pray like I am that Zina will be well. Please God don’t take her away, don’t let her be hurt for the rest of her life, help her, please, I beg.
Sitting at the bottom of the stairs she made no attempt to stem her tears. That’s how it was she didn’t hear the key in the front door. The first she knew was Derek’s shadow falling across her and then she was in his arms.
‘I phoned to tell you … you weren’t there,’ She said, making a valiant attempt to gain control.
‘I heard the message as soon as I arrived. So I came back.’
She was no longer alone, even some of the fear gave way to hope.
Peter was spending the evening with Hermann and Heila, something he often did. But on that particular night there was a difference in the atmosphere. Previously they had been content and relaxed in each other’s company, an easy companionship just as there was between Fiona and their children; now though they were all conscious that Peter, having declined the contract, would soon be gone. Of course they would meet again over the years but he would never be part of the Hollywood scene. Then there was Fiona, a child of talent and beauty with the offer of a small role in her first film. Surely he couldn’t insist she should return home and again become the child she had been before her eyes had been opened.
‘Let her have her chance,’ Heila tried to persuade him, her accent a combination of her mid-European roots and the New World. ‘I give you my word I would be as a mother to her.’
‘If you take her away, my friend,’ Hermann explained as he weighed into the argument, ‘she will remember it for the rest of her life. Even if she finds other opportunities, this will always weigh heavily against you. Put yourself in her place and you will see we are right.’
‘She is one of twins,’ Peter answered, imagining Zina and their home. ‘What would it do to Tommy to lose her? And to Zina?’
‘And to you, my dear friend, except that you will lose her even more surely if you impose your will and take away the chance she dreams of. Let her make this one film. I am confident she will use it as – to speak the expression of your people – a springboard. Undoubtedly she has talent, talent and that magic something for which I do not know the word. She will make her mark and then that will be the time to let her make her second film in England if that is what you desire for her future.’ Hermann had the sense not to stress that for the golden future of Fiona’s dreams Hollywood was where she should be.
Peter could see the wisdom of their advice. Fiona’s screen test had proved to be everything she had hoped and had lead to the offer of a juvenile role in a film which at present was being cast. Obviously, due to her age, the decision for her to accept had to be his. What would Zina’s reaction have been if she had been here with them? Imagining himself in Fiona’s place he knew exactly what his choice would be. He must talk about it to Zina before he signed. Then his mind went off at a tangent as he recalled the excitement and relief in her voice when she heard that they were coming home. Without talking to her first he couldn’t bring himself to agree to return on his own. So he steered the topic onto safer ground and, not for the first time after an evening visit there, he accepted their invitation that he should stay the night. That’s how it was that before six in the morning he was driving towards the set and decided that on the way he would stop at his apartment to change into casual clothes.
Automatically he checked the phone to see if there were any messages and found one from Deremouth Police asking him to call their number. For the local police to phone him must mean – mean what? Trouble – an accident? A fire at the house? But why should the police phone, why not Zina? His heart seemed to be beating right into his dry throat as he waited for the connection.
‘Deremouth Police Station,’ came the voice, cool and unemotional.
The actor in him came to the fore as he answered, ‘My name is Marchand. I’m calling from California. I believe you tried to contact me.’
And perhaps the actor in him helped him to reply calmly as he heard what they had to tell him, just as it helped him to phone for a taxi to take him to the airport. His mind would go no further than that. He collected his passport but it didn’t even enter his head that he was still in his dinner suit; nothing mattered except to get home to Zina. He gave no thought to Fiona nor to any retakes at the studio. Only when he was waiting to board the plane did he get in touch with Hermann.
With future engagements already booked for the Meinholt Quintet, very early the next morning Derek set off to Bristol, this time with an extra and even more pressing mission than collecting music. With Zina so suddenly out of the quintet she must be replaced immediately as by evening they were starting on a three-day programme on the south coast. He had contacts in Bristol and it was imperative he found an immediate stand-in.
Jenny made herself wait anxiously until nine o’clock before she set off for the hospital. After a sleepless night she felt frightened to let herself imagine Zina propped up in bed and smiling at the sight of her, and even more frightened of the alternative she wouldn’t let herself consider. When the nurse indicated the small room (hardly more than a cubicle) where she would find Zina, her relief was physical, seeming to make the blood tingle in her veins.
‘How is she?’ She made herself ask it in preparation for what she would find.
‘We’re keeping watch on her, she’s not regained consciousness yet. Sister can explain to you. If you like to go and sit by the bed, I’ll ask her to come and see you.’
Jenny was unprepared for what she found, for there was very little of Zina visible. Although her head was bandaged, her swollen face was free of dressings but the cuts and grazes were painted with some sort of yellow balm beneath which the skin was greenish/grey with bruising. On one side blood was being injected into her from a drip and, on the other, a clear fluid which Jenny didn’t recognize.
‘Zina,’ she whispered, knowing there was no hope of Zina being aware, ‘you’re going to be all right. You just lie quietly until you’re ready to wake.’ Then, silently, she added, ‘Please God, make her well. She looks so dreadful. Why? Why did it happen?’ She was still standing gazing at the unrecognizable figure when Sister came in. ‘She looks dreadful. I don’t know what I expected …’
‘It’s not twenty-four hours yet,’ the Sister said, her voice bright and purposeful. ‘We are keeping a careful watch on her. I understand her husband is abroad, so I imagine you will be visiting. You may come at any time while she’s in Intensive Care. I expect you worried all ni
ght,’ she added kindly, ‘but now you’ve seen her and you know she is being taken care of, you really ought to try and get some rest. Once she regains consciousness she’ll be glad to have you here.’
Grateful for Sister’s purposeful manner and seeing the wisdom of her advice, Jenny nodded.
‘Yes. I’m sure you’re right. I’ll come back later and perhaps she will have woken.’
‘You may visit at any time, but I suggest you give her until this evening. If she wakes we’ll tell her you’ve been in and will come later. But it might be a good idea to phone first.’
Jenny felt lonely, helpless and disconsolate as she walked back down the stairs of the hospital. Evening seemed a long time away. Once home the day dragged, every few minutes she checked the time. As soon as the grandfather clock in the hall struck half past five she dialled the hospital and was put through to Intensive Care.
‘This is Zina Marchand’s mother. I’m coming to see her this evening but Sister told me to telephone first. Can you tell me how she is? Is she awake?’
‘I’m so sorry but there can only be one visitor at a time in Intensive Care and her husband—’
‘Her husband is in America. She only has me.’
‘Oh, but her husband is here. He arrived about an hour ago.’
The answer was so unexpected that for a second Jenny could think of nothing to say. Into her mind sprang the things she had thought about him when there had been no answer to her calls – and all the time he must have been on his way. She was ashamed of her thoughts and yet resentment fought for the upper hand. One visitor only – and he would always take precedence over her.
Forty-eight hours after the accident, in the small side-room there was no change in Zina. Her head was bandaged, her right shoulder had been broken, three ribs, her right arm, wrist and middle finger, her right tibia and her left femur. Her breathing was shallow, but at least she lived.