Trio - [35]

He was quiet. The rasping sounds had stopped. She tried to hear whether he was breathing but the blood was thundering in her ears. She put a hand on his back between his shoulder blades, looked for movements, but all she could see was her own hand trembling. He was dead.

Moaning to herself, she struggled to turn him over. He was heavy, always a solid man, not flabby but hard muscles, thick bones. His face was slack, dark blue eyes opened and vague. Don’t think. She put her lips over his and blew into his mouth. There was a bubbling noise, that startled her. She moved away and a gush of liquid came from his mouth. She began to weep. No, Peter, no. I don’t know what to do. She took another breath and bent and blew into his mouth again, and again. Nothing changed except his face became wet with her tears and the liquid that kept dribbling from his mouth.

The doorbell chimed and there was banging too. She left him, almost falling on the stairs as she clattered down them.

‘He’s upstairs,’ she said to the ambulance men, ‘he’s not breathing.’

‘We’ll follow you,’ the man said calmly, as though there was nothing to get het-up about.

‘In here,’ she said stupidly, then stood aside as they moved to examine him. One struggled out of his jacket, climbed astride Peter and began to pump his chest with his hands, stopping every so often to tilt his chin and breathe into him. After several minutes he sat back, exhaled and exchanged a look with his colleague. ‘We’re best taking him to the hospital,’ he said to her. ‘There’s nothing more we can do for him here.’

She nodded, her mouth crammed with questions but too fearful to ask them.

The other man disappeared and returned with a stretcher.

They strapped Peter to it. She watched his eyes, praying for a blink, a wink, a glimpse of life. Praying endlessly, incoherent appeals running through her mind. They took him on the stretcher, negotiating the narrow stairs with difficulty, raising the stretcher to turn the landing, bumping it against the newel post. She winced as though he might be hurt. He can’t feel anything, she told herself, and was dismayed at her lack of hope.

‘We can take you with…?’

‘I’ve a little girl. Get a taxi. I don’t drive. Peter…’ She couldn’t talk properly, missing connections.

They nodded.

She hurried back into the house to wake Pamela. Should she leave her with the neighbours? They had a seven-year-old too. She dressed herself then woke Pamela. She explained Daddy was ill, that she had to go to the hospital. Pamela begged to come too, promised to be good. Lilian was unsure. Children were usually shielded from such experiences. But she knew Pamela disliked Shona, the little girl next door. Lilian suspected her of being a bully.

‘Please, Mummy, please? You’ve got to let me.’

‘All right, put some clothes on quickly.’ She rang a taxi that advertised an all night-service in the phone book. It was three thirty a.m.

At the hospital Lilian enquired at the Accident and Emergency Department and was told to take a seat. The place was quiet. The staff’s voices echoed round when they spoke to each other. Lilian looked at posters about the smallpox outbreak and one about burns and scalds. Pamela sat beside her, knees together, toes meeting. She could tell her mother was upset and sensed it would not help to be asking lots of questions.

When the doctor came out to see them he asked Pamela to wait while he spoke to her mother.

Lilian walked silently alongside him into the small room. She was clenching her teeth tight, her hands called into fists, her tongue pressing hard against the roof of her mouth. Holding on.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Gough, there wasn't anything we could do for your husband. We weren’t able to revive him.’

She nodded. Words, just words. Flying past like paper birds.

‘It appears to be a heart attack but we’ll be more sure of that once we’ve carried out a post-mortem. That’s routine in a sudden death like this.’

Death. A feathery word, some owl lurching towards her.

The doctor looked at her. He must have said something. She’d no idea what it had been. She shook her head a fraction.

‘Mrs Gough, had he been ill recently?’

‘No.’ Her voice sounded rusty.

‘Any complaints?’

Only that he’s dead.

‘No,’ she managed, horrified at the mess inside her head.

The doctor talked about forms and hours and releasing the body. He stood up then and she caught on that he had finished.

‘Have you any family in Manchester?’

‘Yes.’ Her sister, Sally. She would ring her as soon as it got light.

Pamela

Pamela watched her mother walk towards her, eyes cast down and her steps a little unsteady. She paused by the bench and held out her hand. Pamela stood up and took it. Mummy’s hand was cold and she held Pamela too tight.

She didn’t say anything until they were back home. Mummy made her a cup of Ovaltine and sat opposite her at the kitchen table. She took her glasses off. It was just getting light. Like when they went on holiday and drove all night and watched the sun rise and the mist come off the fields.

‘Daddy’s not going to get better.’ Mummy’s voice sounded far away even though she was sitting right next to her. ‘He’s… he’s gone to heaven, Pamela.’