Chapter 8

Thirteen years later - Sunday 13 April- [Robert] - Hospital Visiting

Andrew Lawley was killed in an accident at the age of 81. Elizabeth spent the next two years worrying her children and friends about her ability to survive widowhood.

On a bleak Thursday in March, Elizabeth was driving to work when she pulled out of a turning without looking carefully enough. Robert Whitehead on a motor-cycle was overtaking on the wrong side of the road and the two of them collided. Elizabeth was 52 and Robert 35, escaping from a bad patch in his marriage. Elizabeth was a mature professional woman with five grown children, the wealthy widow of an academic. Robert was a drifting under-educated manual labourer - a bricklayer was his highest claim to qualifications. However, she had a curious vision that he was meant for greater things. He was intelligent, capable and physically very attractive. His was just the sort of body that excited her.

I was lying propped up trying to read. The nurse had pulled the screen round half my bed so the light didn't keep the rest of the ward awake. Not that there was much risk of that - the other two occupants were recent admissions and both were far too ill to be kept awake by a little light. My arm was numb from holding the heavy book, my pencil had fallen on the floor out of reach and I couldn't concentrate. Elizabeth had promised to visit but she had never appeared. I was becoming dependent on her and lay back trying to sort out my feelings. I'd been in hospital for over a month now - six weeks next Thursday. And it would be another six weeks before I could walk again. I tried to sort out my feelings for Tracey and for her daughter - Janice - the little girl I'd loved - adored. There was just resentment and an emptiness. And then there was Elizabeth. She overlaid everything else. Beautiful, elegant, overwhelming me with her intelligence and her enthusiasm. In the weeks that I'd lain here, she'd shown me a new life - made me see where I could go. She'd led, demandingly and made me see that my intelligence could, if I struggled, match hers. And I'd fallen in love with her. I couldn't escape that conclusion. But I had no idea what she felt. Why did she spend so much time with me? Perhaps I knew. She'd talked a little about the loneliness she felt after her husband was killed. I was distracted by the noise of approaching feet - I recognised the tread of the staff nurse on nights. What on earth is she doing - moving so quickly, and in my direction? She glanced briefly through the screen, and then withdrew, and I saw her move round to draw the other curtains so I was shut in. What the hell? And then another figure came slowly through the opening in the curtain - a smaller, slighter figure. Elizabeth! She stood looking at me. It was Elizabeth as I'd never seen her before. She was wearing a white coat; her hair was untidy; her face was weary, lined... and there was a smudge on her forehead. She moved slowly forward and slumped down on the edge of the bed. She looked down at me and then down at the floor. The coat gaped open and I could see a theatre gown underneath.

"I feel so bloody helpless." Her voice was low and flat. She glanced at me and then away again. "I've just told a man that his wife and daughter are dead." She was reliving the recent past. "Now he's got to tell his other two kids that their mother isn't coming home with a new baby - she isn't coming home at all." She looked at me, her eyes wide, tortured. Then they blinked closed, and she sighed, her shoulders sagging. "They tried - Oh! They tried." She looked at the clock on the wall. "Six hours! At first they were trying to save the baby. Then she died, and they realised that the woman was dying." She was looking at me again, asking for something? "She was conscious for most of the time - until the end. It's hard not to get involved. Oh Robert! I couldn't leave. She'd been my patient for six months." And tears were falling. I put out my arms, and she came into them, awkwardly because of my leg. I still had strength enough in my arms to manoeuvre her so that her face was pressed against my chest and I could put my arm round he. It was the first time I'd ever touched more than her fingers and I was overwhelmed with a desire to protect and comfort her. This display of vulnerability and compassion convinced me that I loved her. She lay against me murmuring the dreadful tale of the woman's dying... I felt helpless because there seemed to be no way I could comfort her. I looked down at her face and for once fatigue had made her look her age. There were grey hairs amid the auburn at her temple. I moved the lock aside and bent to touch her forehead with my lips. I felt her stiffen and was in a sudden panic that I'd frightened her.

"Elizabeth..." She looked up at me, reaching up to touch my lips with a finger. Her nails were tiny, smooth and trimmed short like a child's. She seemed so vulnerable tonight compared with her usual contained and well-organised personality that kept me at a distance. But tonight I was in charge and she was the one in need of comfort and reassurance. I took a risk.

"I love you." She didn't seem surprised. Indeed, she hardly seemed to hear but just continued looking at me. And then she smiled slightly and slid her hand up from my lips until she could grab my hair. Then with surprising strength she pulled me down, twisting up so that her mouth met mine. That first kiss was long and asexual. An affirmation of our love for each other. I didn't doubt that she loved me, and I didn't need to ask. Then I was conscious of her fingers twisting the hair on my chest and even more conscious of the swell of her breast beside my hand as I held her. I felt her tugging at the tapes that tied the neck of her theatre gown. She broke away and used both hands to undo the tapes. We both looked down as she opened the neck. Her breasts were naked, as firm and round as a girl's, the nipples dark and stiff. I moved my hand to cup the nearest one and reached with my free hand to caress the other breast. We lay there for several minutes, our fingers stroking each other's chest, shoulders and arms, kissing occasionally. We were both breathing quickly as our mutual restraint and uncertainty excited us. My free hand was making bolder moves now, running over the curve of her tummy and finally tracing the top of her knickers. She pushed herself away from me, moving abruptly to stand beside the bed looking down at me. I felt desolation at the loss, pinned to the bed by the massive plaster cast on my leg. I held out my arms in supplication.