Chapter 42
Marnie was awoken at half past seven hearing the squeak of her letter box. It was Sunday so it couldn’t be the postman. There was a note waiting for her on the doormat when she padded downstairs to investigate. A handwritten one, no envelope.
I wanted to warn you, Titus has been asking a lot of questions about you, I have no idea why though I have tried to find out. I do know that today I overheard him on the phone and he mentioned that you had been a foundling and (quote) ‘the dates tie in’. It has something to do with Lilian going off to Ireland in January 1984 and returning in late June. There has always been a story circulating that Lilian was pregnant and was sent away for six months to avoid a scandal. But this has never been substantiated. Wish I could be more help, but I thought you should know.
H
Marnie’s hands, holding the letter, were overtaken by the worst pins and needles. This couldn’t be. Surely this was rubbish. It was a wild assumption. Bonkers. But Titus seemed to be taking it seriously. Was that why he asked for her birth date that day outside the shop? Was that why Kay Sweetman had once alluded to Herv sucking up to her but it had nothing to do with fancying you?
Emelie would know. Marnie had intended to go up to visit her that morning to see how she was. She thought she might perk her up telling her the theory she’d come up with about the location of the well and now she would ask her about this too, this mad rumour that she was Lilian’s child. Emelie was an early riser but still, it didn’t seem polite to call on her before nine. As soon as the clock on the wall started to chime that hour, though, Marnie was on her way, half-walking, half-running across the green to Little Apples.
As she passed the end of Herv’s lane, she fixed her eyes forward so that she wouldn’t see the blonde walking out of his house, his hand familiar on her back, or the two of them snogging on the doorstep, though the temptation to turn her head and torment herself was right there. She hurried up the path to Emelie’s cottage and knocked on the door, but there was no answer, which was odd. Marnie knocked again and tried the handle. Emelie’s tiny boots were in their usual place on the mat so she hadn’t wandered over to the shop. Marnie pushed the door fully open and the smell of damp assailed her nostrils. Thank goodness she’d agreed to let Herv sort it for her.
‘Emelie?’
Marnie stepped into the kitchen, but there were no signs of breakfast and the kettle was cold. She called up the narrow staircase.
‘Emelie?’ She hoped she hadn’t woken her up.
‘Marnie, is that you?’ Emelie’s voice was weak.
Marnie bolted up the stairs to find her on the bedroom floor.
‘I think I might need a doctor, Marnie,’ said Emelie. Marnie rang for an ambulance.
Emelie’s breathing was coming in fluidy rasps; she was in pain and Marnie daren’t lift her in case she had broken something, so she sat on the carpet and cradled the old lady until the ambulance arrived within a quarter of an hour, though it felt like much longer.
‘We’re up here,’ Marnie called when she heard the knock on the front door. The paramedics – a man and a woman – moved in swiftly, took over with calm proficiency, asked questions, looked at the tablets on her bedside table.
‘Don’t you worry, sweetheart, we’ll get you to hospital and comfortable,’ said the male paramedic to Emelie.
‘I’m dying,’ said Emelie as they lifted her onto a carry chair.
‘You’re going to be okay, don’t you talk like that,’ insisted Marnie, holding her hand, feeling Emelie grip it back hard. ‘And, what’s more, you’re moving into the manor and out of this cottage for a while, I won’t take no for an answer.’
‘No, Marnie, I really am dying.’
Marnie let go of Emelie’s hand and followed behind as the paramedics descended the twisty staircase with expert ease.
‘Emelie?’ Herv was standing in the doorway, a bag of tools in his hand. ‘What’s happened?’
The female paramedic slipped an oxygen mask over Emelie’s nose. ‘You breathe in nice and steady,’ she said, her attention fully focused on the old lady.
‘I found her upstairs,’ said Marnie. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong.’
‘We’re going to need space in the ambulance,’ the male paramedic said to Marnie and she nodded, understanding.
‘I’ll get my car.’
‘I’ll drive you,’ said Herv.
Marnie followed Herv down the hill as the paramedics transferred Emelie into the back of the ambulance then set off at a fair pace, but without the emergency bells and whistles. Marnie was grateful for that because it would have scared Emelie, she thought as Herv zapped open his car doors and they got in.
He caught the ambulance up at the traffic lights on the Skipperstone road, but then it went through the red light and they had to wait. Until then, neither of them had spoken. It was Herv who first broke the silence.
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘I’ve no idea. I found her on the floor at the side of her bed. I don’t know how long she’d been there, but she couldn’t breathe very well and she had a bad pain in her side.’ Her throat felt clogged with emotion and she had to cough it away before continuing. ‘The ambulance didn’t take very long to arrive at least.’
‘It’s good you were there.’
‘Well, if I hadn’t been, at least you would have found her.’
‘I was late. I should have started work at half-past eight. But I had another coffee . . .’ Herv slammed his hand down on the steering wheel.
‘You’re weren’t to know, Herv.’
They had caught up the ambulance, but it was travelling very fast now. Then another set of lights held them up.
‘She said she was dying,’ said Marnie as they saw the first directional sign for the hospital. ‘I told her not to talk like that and she said that she really was.’
‘She can’t be,’ said Herv, flatly. He recalled the Emelie of yesterday, forcing him to face facts, making him think, mind bright as a button. He took the corner into the crowded car park a little too fast, squealing his tyres.
‘There’s a space,’ shouted Marnie, spotting someone just reversing out of one. Another driver had seen it too but Herv was quicker. This was no time for gallantry.
‘Are you a relative?’ asked the receptionist, when they enquired about Emelie.
‘Yes,’ lied Marnie.
They were directed to the emergency department where, eventually, a doctor took them into a cubicle and told them that Emelie had died and on her hospital notes was her explicit instruction that there should be no attempts at resuscitation.
It hadn’t been the damp that had caused her breathlessness, she had a pulmonary disease that she’d know about for a year, apparently, but refused treatment for it because she didn’t want to spend the time she had left in hospitals. And if she died, that was to be it, she’d made it plain that she must be allowed to go without medical intervention. Marnie and Herv went in to see her. Emelie looked peaceful and asleep, the lines smoothed from her face. Marnie gave her a kiss on her cheek, stroked her hair, said goodbye to her. Herv’s kiss was gentle on her forehead, a thank you, grateful kiss. Then together they walked back to the car, in silent shock. They’d expected to find Emelie poorly and possibly looking at a couple of weeks on a ward. Separately, they’d both resolved to have Little Apples damp-proofed and replastered by the time she came home. Neither of them had expected that she wouldn’t be home again.
‘I’ll go and tell Lionel,’ said Marnie, as they left Skipperstone. She felt stunned.
‘I can do it, if you like,’ said Herv.
‘Emelie will need a nice dress and . . .’ she was going to say her handbag. How ridiculous.
Herv knew what she would need and what to do. He had been through this ritual before.
He pulled up outside his house and turned to Marnie; she looked devastated. He wanted to reach across and take her hand. His fingers twitched with intention and then Marnie opened the car door and the moment was gone.
‘I should go and lock up her house,’ she said.
‘I’ll come with you.’
The cottage appeared the same as always from the outside, apples now weighing down the tree in the front garden, most too small and green to be picked and Marnie thought that Emelie wouldn’t be around to see them grow heavy and ripen in the late summer sunshine. They both walked inside her cheery, homely lounge to find Emelie’s old typewriter on the deep windowsill, the Country Manors book on the coffee table, her crocheted blanket draped over the back of her rocking chair by the fireside, all normal and as usual, except for the clock on the wall whose tock sounded louder somehow, set against a silence in which it was apparent something important was missing.
Whilst Herv went upstairs to check that the windows were closed, Marnie bolted the back door then took the front door key from the hook on the wall. She dropped it and it landed in one of Emelie’s short boots. The sight of them made her face crease with sadness that she wouldn’t see the dear little woman again. Then she heard the top step creak as Herv came down and she forced herself to recover.
‘All right?’ he said. Marnie nodded. Outside, she gave Herv the key to take to the vicarage.
‘Do you want me to walk you home?’ he said.
‘No, I’ll cut across the green,’ she replied. ‘You go and let Lionel know.’
She wanted him to clear the two-step distance between them and wrap her in his arms but he didn’t. She set off home, her straight back giving no clue of the grief that held her tight in its grip.