The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [162]
I went up to the hospital roof again and sat waiting. A bomb would have been a relief. But the bombers had missed us: the glow to the west showed it was Bristol’s turn again.
Then there was so much to sort out because Dad wasn’t capable of sorting anything. The hospital gave me time off and I went to Devizes, sleeping for the first time in the boxroom that smelt of cigars. I tried to persuade Dad to open the shop, but he couldn’t function. If anyone came in he stared, unable to work out what they were there for.
The funeral was held in Avebury at St James’s, the church packed, sandwiches and beer after at the Red Lion. I’d hoped Mr Keiller would come, but Mrs Sorel-Taylour said he was away, in London. Perhaps he was patching things up with Mrs Keiller again. I’d wanted to ask if there was any chance of a cottage for Dad because it seemed to me my poor lost father would never manage the shop without Mam. Mrs Sorel-Taylour shook her head.
‘I very much doubt there’s anywhere suitable,’ she said. ‘The new houses at Trusloe, if there’d been time to build them, one of those would have been ideal.’
‘I thought maybe the cottage in Manor Drive?’
‘Mr Keiller has other plans for that.’ The twist of her mouth suggested she disapproved of those plans, whatever they might be. ‘Can’t he manage for the time being where he is?’
‘Avebury was his home,’ I said. ‘And now Mam’s here, he should be too.’
‘Well, there’s a war on. People have to make do.’ Her face softened. ‘I’m sorry, Frances.’
Afterwards Dad and I went back to the flat over the shop. He’d been drinking whisky in the pub; it had befuddled him. I put the kettle on for tea. When I carried the cups through into the sitting room, he was staring into space, his face drained of all hope.
‘We need to talk,’ I said. ‘What’ll you do when I go?’
‘Go?’ He turned bewildered eyes on me. ‘What do you mean? Aren’t you staying?’
‘I have to get back to the hospital.’
‘But she’s dead.’
I didn’t understand for a moment, then realized he was away with the fairies again. ‘Not that hospital, Dad. I work at another hospital. War work. They need me there.’
‘I need you.’ His eyes pleaded. ‘Thought you’d stay. Not sure I can cope on my own.’
‘I’ll stay another week,’ I said.
I stayed for three. I wrote to some cousins, who lived in Yorkshire; they hadn’t come to the funeral, because it was unpatriotic to travel, but they’d sent a letter of condolence. I asked if Dad could stay with them–’He needs a holiday,’ I wrote untruthfully. He needed more than a holiday, he needed a home, but I hoped they’d offer without me having to beg. They replied that he’d be welcome. ‘Stay as long as he likes.’ Probably had weeks rather than months in mind, but I told myself getting him there was half the battle. Part of me didn’t want him to go, but I knew it was for the best, especially now my skirts were so tight that elastic in the waistbands didn’t help, and I had to let panels of material into the side seams.
I saw him off at Swindon station. My legs ached as I waited on the platform for the packed train to leave, my shoes pinching. The baby drummed its heels on my belly wall, savage blows now instead of polite taps. Dad stood in the corridor with his little suitcase at his feet, waving at me through the window as the carriage pulled away. He looked so lost I hoped a soldier with a seat would take pity on him. Then I took my throbbing feet straight to the hospital.
I found Cabbage smoking with one of the nurses in the sluice.
‘Can I have a word?’ I asked him. ‘Private, like.’
The nurse gave me a hoity-toity look but stubbed out her cigarette in the sink and left.
‘How many weeks?’ he asked. I counted back and told him. He seemed astonished. ‘You sure? You don’t look that far gone.’
‘It was the beginning of February,’ I said. ‘I can be certain.’
‘Some women hardly show the first time,’ he mused.