Trio - [67]

The doctor said much the same as the first psychiatrist had. It was a question of time, she was responding well. He thought of Caroline’s comatose state and wondered. Quieter than the creature who had shrunk from him, but better? The doctor couldn’t tell how long she’d need. It can be weeks or months. You may need to make arrangements at home. Paul nodded.

When he got back, his mother had tea ready – fish in parsley sauce, mash and peas. He explained the situation to her, he knew she couldn’t stay indefinitely. She offered to take Davey back with her until Caroline was well.

He hated the idea of of being parted from the baby as well as his wife. He shook his head, in despair rather than defiance.

‘Paul, it’s either that or get someone to live in.’

‘Which we can’t afford,’ he replied. ‘We’re already behind on orders. If I hire anyone it’ll have to be for the nursery. Caroline worked so hard. Maybe we were too ambitious, got too big too fast. If we sold now-’

‘You’ll do no such thing!’ His mother put her knife and fork down to talk. ‘You were only saying at Christmas how promising things looked. You might not be able to do anything for Caroline at the moment, that’s down to the doctors, but what you can do is make damn sure that when she does come home she’s coming back to a thriving concern. Sell up!’ she snorted.

‘Point taken,’ he replied.

‘Self-pity never built prosperity.’ She returned to her meal.

‘I said, point taken,’ he repeated.

Via one of the greenhouse suppliers Paul found a nurseryman who’d recently retired. Arthur was delighted to come and work on a temporary basis. Retirement had been the biggest shock of his life. And his wife’s. Eileen Wainwright took Davey back to the Dales and Paul worked long hours catching up with the business and doing what he could in the sheds.

Caroline’s manner during his visits began to vary. Often she was dull and withdrawn, looking at him with the same indifference that she had to her appearance. Her eyes were frequently narrowed – apparently the drugs affected them, making them less light-tolerant – and her hair unkempt. Her clothes appeared to be thrown on and were sometimes stained. Her only interest seemed to be in the cigarettes he brought her. Her fingers were stained yellow and even though he smoked himself he could smell the stale nicotine on her. He took her flowers and sweets too but the cigarettes were what she had most need of. Sometimes she would be excitable, her face flushed, her pupils shrunken, eyes glittering. She would talk breathlessly about inconsequential things, giggling inappropriately. He realised the medicines were responsible. She rarely mentioned Davey or asked about the business.

After a second month he asked to see the psychiatrist again. It was a different man. He was filling in for Mr Jeffreys, who had been taken ill himself.

‘Mrs Wainwright.’ He looked at the bundle of notes then at Paul. ‘How have you found her?’

Paul told him. ‘And I still don't understand why she… got like this.’

‘Ah, if we knew that…’ The doctor smiled ruefully. ‘We don’t really understand what is at the root of this sort of disturbance. Even in the medical profession you’ve different theories doing the rounds. Some argue there’s a physical imbalance, a chemical reaction in the brain, and that might be passed on from one generation to another.’ With a chill, Paul thought of Davey. ‘But other people argue that social circumstances are more important, that events happen to an individual and pressure builds up and this is the explosion, if you like. Anything might tip the balance. Of course, relinquishing a child can’t be easily borne, that must take its toll.’

‘Pardon?’ Paul frowned.

‘Giving the baby up for adoption.’

‘We haven’t given him up. He’s at my mother’s.’

‘Not this-’ He stopped short, closed his eyes and balanced his head momentarily on his fingertips.

Paul stared at him. ‘Caroline had a baby adopted.’

‘I’m terribly sorry Mr Wainwright, I assumed you knew – the notes…’

‘Oh, my God!’ He rubbed at his chin with his hand, got halfway out of his chair, knocking his stick down in his haste. He sat back down.

‘When?’

‘I can’t say any more. I’ve said more than I should have. I’ve spoken out of turn. Please accept my apologies. I’m sure your wife only wanted to spare you. She was probably ashamed of…’

Dear God. Caroline. Why had she never… Making out that Davey was the first. That he was her first. Dear God. Why couldn’t she have just told him?

‘Dear God.’ He said softly and stood up again.

‘Mr Wainwright.’

‘Please, doctor, can you pass me my stick?’

He hurried to help.

‘Mr Wainwright, I do hope…’

But Paul couldn’t wait, not even to observe the social niceties. He left the room and made his way out of the hospital to the bus stop, his brain full of clamouring voices, his heart hammering in his chest and a great weight across his back as though his coat was laden with stones.

Theresa

She’d made a tent out of the big clothes horse and an old sheet. Martin and Michael were using it for their den. They were the Indians. Dominic had been playing too but he’d gone round to Jim’s. Theresa was bored. She went inside and got her little transistor radio. Mungo Jerry were singing ‘In The Summertime’, which was just right because it was really hot. ‘Spirit In the Sky’ was her favourite, though. Mungo Jerry had been the poster in Jackie this week and she had put it up with the others on her bedroom wall.