Fraser's Line Page 7
There was still a certain amount of stigma attached to the disease. From early days it had been considered somehow connected with devils, and those who suffered from it often tried to keep it a secret. The transformation of the sufferer into a writhing, inhuman being was frightening to those who had no understanding of what was actually happening, and in biblical times many believed that the sufferer was possessed by demons.
Although Peter’s education came to an abrupt end Angela was doing well at school, and was encouraged to consider a University place. She longed to do this, as books had become important to her, but she realised her mother would find it difficult if she went away. However, Maurice was adamant that Angela’s life should not be spoiled as a result of her brother’s illness, and Doreen, to her credit, agreed. Angela could hardly believe her good fortune when she was granted a place at Bristol University where she had opted to read Classics.
Life at University suited Angela well. She loved the Wills Memorial Building with its tower rising up over the city. She was thrilled by the imposing entrance, her spirits always lifting as she climbed the wide stone stairs leading up to the Great Hall and the Lecture rooms. She spent hours in the Library between lectures, engrossed in her private study, and the terms flew by. She made friends among the undergraduates, both male and female, and joined various societies. However, it was not her intention to become involved in any deep relationships, as she felt a strong sense of duty towards her family, and spent her vacations doing her best to help and comfort her mother, who was struggling to keep her spirits up in the face of the continuing problems with Peter.
Having successfully progressed through her course, Angela now faced her final examinations. She knew she had prepared as thoroughly as she possibly could, and felt fairly confident. At the end of the second day she was called to the telephone. Peter had had a brain haemorrhage and had died. Her mother, although in a state of great distress, begged her to finish all her examination papers before she came home. Somehow Angela managed to keep her focus on what she was doing, and delayed succumbing to the grief she felt until she had written the last paper. Then she crumpled on her bed and sobbed out her anguish for some time, before collecting herself to pack and come home for the funeral.
Doreen never recovered from this loss. She sank into a deep depression, which Maurice did not know how to handle. He took to being away for longer periods.
Angela’s results were good – she had achieved upper second class honours, narrowly missing a first. Her course, however, whilst providing the discipline of study, had not fitted her out for any particular career. She had given considerable thought to this, and became and more and more attracted to the idea of finding out how people’s minds worked, and how you could help those who were suffering from some form of mental illness, such as her mother. Wisely, however, she realised she needed to mature and experience life more fully herself before she would be in a position to help others. What she needed was a stopgap, and she found this in the idea of being a librarian. To spend her days amongst books appealed strongly, and would give her the opportunity of reading more widely. She trained as a librarian, qualified, and found a job near home, so that she could continue to support her mother.
Before she had begun her new job her mother was rushed to Charing Cross Hospital with heart trouble. Her blood pressure had, over the years, become increasingly high, and she suffered a major heart attack. At the hospital there was a brilliant heart surgeon who was making a worldwide reputation for himself, pioneering new techniques which attracted young and newly qualified surgeons eager to learn from the best.
One of these was the American surgeon Martin Makoni, who was a rising star in New York, and who acted as assistant in Doreen’s case. In fact it was he who performed the surgery, under the watchful eye of his mentor, and it was said that he had done an extremely good job. Doreen’s condition, however, continued to give cause for concern.
Angela had been on the point of taking up her post as librarian, but when her mother became ill she had to ask for a postponement, knowing this would probably mean that she would lose the job. She spent a great deal of her time either sitting in a small waiting room, or beside her mother, waiting for developments. Martin often came to speak to her, updating her with the latest situation, and sometimes just engaging her in conversation, finding out a little of her background, and being generally kind and sympathetic. Then, one day, to Angela’s surprise, he asked her out for dinner. He explained that he was in London on a two year secondment, and as he put in long hours at the hospital he had little the opportunity to make any social contacts. Angela accepted the invitation, and found him charming company with an ease of communication and a sensitive nature that warmed her. He was eight years older than she was, and his maturity was attractive. As he described his mission – to save as many lives as he could by repairing broken bodies – she felt that this paralleled her own desire to try and assist with the healing of broken minds and spirits. She spent two more evenings with him, each time finding depths that pleased her, and to her own surprise she greatly enjoyed his company.
Then, one evening, as she sat beside her mother, she became aware that there were warning lights on the monitors. Nurses began to rush in and out, and asked her to go and sit in the waiting room. Martin came to find her, and explained that her mother was undergoing a crisis and they would were doing everything they could. She sat there, feeling numb, for three more hours. Then she looked up at the sound of someone coming in and saw Martin standing there, his face grim.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘We tried everything, but it was no good.’ Angela thanked him, and then began to weep. He sat down beside her and put his arm round her. He did not say anything further, but waited patiently while she struggled to compose herself. When she had done so she stood up, and he took her arm to see her off the premises.
‘I’ll be in touch, he said, ‘regarding the arrangements. I have your telephone number. I’ll be in touch.’
Angela’s days had been completely filled with the hospital visiting so that she suddenly found herself at a loss to know what to do. She began to think about her future, and decided to try and pursue the librarian job, which had been on hold all this time.
Then Martin had rung, and once again they had met for an evening together. She found his strength and understanding comforting, but she certainly wasn’t expecting him to ask her to marry her. When he did, she was even more surprised to hear herself accept, without hesitating for a moment, although he had explained it would mean living in America. There were no ties to prevent her from pursuing her own life any more – she had lost her mother, and her father, it transpired, had long been finding his solace elsewhere, and had no need of her. With Peter gone as well, it suddenly seemed a very appealing idea to start a new life in a new continent – and with a new husband!
Angela enjoyed the excitement of settling down getting used to a different country and environment. Martin had proudly told her about the hospital where he worked, Mount Sinai Hospital, Fifth Avenue, New York – one of the oldest and largest teaching hospitals in America. Apparently, when it was founded in 1855, it was called ‘The Jews’ Hospital’, as Sampson Simpson, the philanthropist who founded it, wanted to provide for the needs of the growing Jewish immigrant community. However, some eleven years later, as it became an integral part of the community, its name was changed to ‘The Mount Sinai Hospital’ so that it would be free of any racial or religious distinction. In the twentieth century, as the population of New York exploded, the hospital was in increasing demand and this was a time of great expansion. In recent years it had gained a tremendous reputation, and became a ‘Surgery Centre of Excellence’. No wonder Martin was proud to be a surgeon there, where many heart conditions were treated.
They had an apartment on West 77th Street, and Martin had a short drive across Central Park to work. He was anxious that his new wife should be happy, and took her to
meet his colleagues – who, she quickly discovered, held him in high regard, and she made the acquaintance of his large family, by whom she was warmly welcomed and quickly accepted.
Martin knew that to be happy she must be occupied, and they had often discussed the way she wanted her life to go, so he set about finding the most suitable course where she could gain a qualification. The idea of embarking on study again, this time of a vocational nature, appealed to her greatly. She would meet people of like mind, and feel that she was progressing towards an objective. They settled on the M.A. course in Counselling for Mental Health and Wellness at New York University.
Angela could not believe how happily life had turned out for her. She had a husband whose ideals she admired, and whose likeable personality made him a joy to live with. Meanwhile she worked hard and delighted in all the new insights she was gaining. No one could have been prouder than Martin when she graduated, and subsequently found a post in a Mental Health Centre, where she could now use all her skills.
If there was a disappointment, it was that no children had arrived on the scene. After realising that this wasn’t proving straightforward they took tests, and it came to light that the glandular fever Martin had suffered from as a teenager had rendered him infertile. After feeling sad about this initially they both decided they must take the positive view, and see all the people they cared for over the years as substitute children.
Twenty years had passed since they had married. Martin wanted to celebrate – he never lost his romantic side, and as they discussed it the evening before he looked at her with such tenderness that her heart felt it would burst. He loved to surprise her, so all he would say was, ‘Be sure you are ready, looking as wonderful as always, at six o’clock. I will be home as soon after that as I possibly can.’
‘What if you get an emergency in?’ she asked.
‘Don’t worry, honey’ he said. ‘I’ve made contingency plans, and set up a back stop. If the Queen of England was brought in needing immediate heart surgery she would be told ‘You’ll have to make do with someone else – Martin Makoni has an engagement he will not break!’ Nothing is going to stop me coming back for you tomorrow evening. And I’m going on the town with the most beautiful woman in the world – you just watch!’
She had made sure she had no commitments the next day, and could attend to her preparations in a relaxed way. In the morning the doorbell rang and an enormous bunch of flowers was delivered. In the afternoon there was another ring – this time a large bottle of champagne. She smiled to herself, thinking that no woman should be this happy – she really was the luckiest person alive.
She was all ready in her new red dress – she knew the deep colour set off her dark hair beautifully. She was lucky that, although in her early fifties now, there were only a few grey streaks – she still had an amazing head of thick dark hair. Just before 6 pm she had a call from him. He often used his mobile phone to tell her he was on his way. He was just crossing Central Park.
‘Is my beautiful wife all ready for her amazing night out? I’ll be back real soon.’ Then his voice changed. ‘What the devil! Hang on a moment honey.’ She heard the car stop. He must have got out, because she could hear a woman screaming – strange terrified cries, hysterical, almost like an animal. Then she heard shouting, men’s voices. She thought she heard Martin’s, but it was muffled, she couldn’t be sure. Phrases, jumbled, mixed with the loud screaming, came down the phone – ‘Get away!’, ‘Leave her alone!’, and ‘Beat it, nigger!’ There were sounds of a scuffle, and another cry – this time a man’s. Suddenly it all went quiet. Then Martin’s voice, so soft she could scarcely hear him, ‘Angie, honey, come quickly, in the Park. I’m hurt.’
She ran, as fast as she could, all the time holding the phone to her ear, repeating, ‘I’m coming, Martin, hang on, I’m coming!’
A little knot of people had gathered round a figure on the ground. She raced up and the crowd fell back to give her room. She fell on her knees beside him, and saw the pool of blood. With her face pressed up against his she sobbed, ‘Martin, are you all right? Oh, Martin, darling!’
‘I’m so sorry, Angie, honey,’ he was crying as he tried to speak, ‘I’m so sorry.’
Someone in the crowd said an ambulance had been called. Others were talking about a girl, a retarded girl, who was being attacked by two youths.
The paramedics arrived and she moved back to let them attend to Martin. They were fast, efficient, and obviously very concerned. He was taken away on a stretcher and Angela went with them in the Ambulance back to Mount Sinai, where a team had been alerted and were poised for action. They raced with him to the theatre, and Angela found herself in a waiting room, in an agony of suspense.
The Police came to visit her. They had collected witness statements. It seemed that Martin had seen the harassment by two youths of a twenty-year-old girl with Down’s Syndrome. The girl was walking back from work across the park, when these youths had spotted her as fair game, and were making lewd suggestions, putting their arms round her, and forcing themselves on her. She was terrified, and had started screaming. Martin had been passing at that moment, and with his medical background he would instantly have recognised the features of this short, rather squat girl with slightly flattened face and upward slanting eyes. He could not bear to see someone so vulnerable becoming prey to the cruel treatment of these young men, and true to his nature he had to try and help. One of the men must have had a knife, for Martin had been stabbed in the back.
Angela sat there for what seemed hours. A policewoman sat with her, but Angela was hardly aware of her. From time to time someone would come from the theatre to say that he was still alive, but only just. They were working very hard to save him.
Then the surgeon in charge came. He stood there, unable to say anything. He didn’t need to, because Angela knew. Martin, who had fought so hard to save the lives of countless others, had lost his own battle. Instead of the evening of pure joy they had both anticipated so eagerly the world had changed and turned black. Angela sat and wept.
Chapter 9
The curtains were drawn although it was early afternoon, and in the darkened bedroom Sarah was lying curled up on her bed, cursing the searing pain that seemed to be splitting her head in two as her temple throbbed incessantly. This could not be happening! She simply could not afford to waste time having a migraine. As it was she had had to cancel two meetings and arrange for her other tasks to be carried out by her already hard-pressed colleague so that she could leave the office. Driving back had been a nightmare as she could scarcely concentrate on the road ahead and felt blinded by the pain.
Thank goodness the children would not be home until 5.30 pm, and thank goodness also that today Laura would be collecting them from the after-school playgroup and bringing them back.
She had three hours to get over this monster of a headache – but at the moment it showed no sign of abating. She had been succumbing to them more frequently recently, but usually she could carry on working, gritting her teeth and waiting for the pain killers to work. Today’s affliction was different. The agonising pain had the upper hand and she was powerless to fight it. What’s more she felt nauseous.
She clutched her head and rolled to and fro, moaning as she simply tried to survive the next wave of agony, waiting for the tablets she had taken to work. Fortunately she had stocked up a few weeks ago on some especially strong ones the chemist had recommended, although he had advised her, at the same time, that if the headaches persisted she should see her doctor. As if she had time for visiting doctors! It would go, she was sure, if she could only hang on long enough.
She heard a key in the door – Michael did sometimes come home in the day time between visits. He would know she was here as her car was outside, and she heard him calling her name. There were footsteps on the stairs and then he opened the bedroom door.
‘Sarah! What is it? Are you ill?’
He sat down on the edge of the bed and she clasped his hand tightly between hers and pressed it to her forehead. The tears began to trickle down her cheeks. She felt her control slipping away. The next moment she got up quickly and rushed into the bathroom where she vomited violently.
He followed her speaking gently, and coaxed her back to bed. He cleared up in the bathroom where she had missed the toilet, and brought her a glass of water to take the horrible taste out of her mouth.
‘Just lie down,’ he said, ‘and don’t worry about anything. I’ll see to whatever needs to be done. Is there anything urgent in the next hour or so? What about the twins?’
She explained that they would be brought back, and it was just their tea that had to be prepared. It was felt comforting to lean on him. She always seemed to be the one at the forefront, directing proceedings, seeing that all the wheels ran smoothly, that all the arrangements were quite clear, and everyone knew what the plans were.
‘Are you going out again?’ she asked.
‘I had a visit booked,’ he replied, ‘but I won’t go. I’m not going to leave you. I want you to lie there very quietly and try to sleep. I think you have been pushing yourself too hard recently. You simply must slow down.’
‘I’m sorry to be a nuisance.’ Ashamed of her weakness Sarah struggled to reassure her husband. ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine soon, but thank you, Michael. The pain has lessened – I think I could sleep now.’
As he went downstairs she heard his mobile phone ring. She did not hear what he said but he seemed to be having a difficult time. Perhaps it was not all that easy to get out of his next visit – his voice was raised, and he sounded angry. Then everything went quiet and she drifted into a healing sleep.
Joanna hoped she had created a dreamy, romantic setting in her bedroom. To exclude the bright, day time light she had partially drawn her curtains, and in the background gentle music was coming from her CD player. On the table was a bottle of champagne on ice and two glasses, heady perfume was in the air, and she lay languidly on the bed, wearing only her silk negligee. She settled down to wait.