Free Paradise Lane by Ruth Hamilton Page B

saw Maureen, then stepped over to the bed. ‘Still asleep, I see. Has he woken at all?’
    ‘No,’ chorused Ivy and Rosie. Ivy blinked, wondered which invisible force had prompted her neighbours to leave their homes in the middle of the night.
    ‘His breathing’s very shallow.’ Tom pulled a chair to the bedside, lifted a waxy hand from the coverlet, felt for a pulse. ‘His heart’s failing, Ivy,’ he said. ‘I think he’s slipping away.’
    Derek’s eyelids flickered, then he drew in so much oxygen that it had to rattle its way down into clogged lungs. ‘Thank you,’ he murmured. ‘All of you.’
    Ivy, Rosie and Maureen joined Tom at the bedside. The man from number 4 rose and gave his seat to Derek’s mother.
    ‘Derek, lad,’ she whispered. ‘I do love you. You’ve been the best thing in my life.’
    He smiled, and there were no lines of pain above the large blue eyes. ‘Mam. See to her. You’re old . . . soon be with me.’ He sighed, coughed weakly. ‘Tom, Maureen, Rosie. Keep her. Whatever . . . keep our Sal. She’s a good girl. Lottie. Keep Lottie away from Sal. America. No, no. Sal stays here. She’s your Sal now. I’m giving her to you.’
    Ivy’s body was racked with sobs. She clung to her son’s fingers, tried to hold on to him, even though she wanted him to go into peace. ‘I love you,’ she kept repeating. ‘We all love you.’
    Tom turned away, dabbed at his face with a large handkerchief.
    Rosie, who could bear no more, carried the kettle to the scullery and turned on the single brass tap. Thirty-three, that lad was. And here she stood, well gone twice his age, filling a kettle at the slopstone. Never before had she known all the neighbours to gather in one place at midnight – except during the
Luftwaffe
’s little expeditions, of course. It was as if God Himself had reached out to draw Maureen and Tom into this house, as if they had to be there. She raised her head to the ceiling. ‘Back from Your holidays, then?’ she mouthed. Yes, God was here, all right. He was the love that still emanated from what was left of Derek Crumpsall.
    Maureen Mason fixed her eyes on Derek’s stilled hands, allowed the tears to flow unchecked down her lightly rouged cheeks. She had prayed for him in church. She had begged God to take this man into His arms. Soon, his spirit would fly away into everlasting glory. Maureen wept not just for Derek, but also for his mother and his daughter. A hand grasped her shoulder. ‘Buck up, old girl,’ said Tom Goodfellow.
    ‘I will,’ she promised. ‘In a minute, I’ll be all right.’
    Tom studied her face, found her vulnerability touching. With furrows in the thin film of make-up, she looked childlike, innocent. ‘We’ll have to do our best for Ivy and for Sally.’
    She nodded.
    ‘And for ourselves, too. We must build a wall of support and take strength from each other.’
    ‘I know.’
    A terrible sound filled the room, a crackling groan that came from the man in the bed.
    ‘It’s the death rattle,’ whispered Maureen. ‘Stay here, Tom. Let his mother see him out.’
    He pulled her into his arms, placed a hand behind her head and drew her in to his shoulder. Her whole body shook as the dreadful noise continued. She could hear Ivy, too, tried not to listen as the old woman sobbed her sorrow while this beloved son made his final exit. It never occurred to her that she was being held by Tom Goodfellow. He was just a shoulder, just a warm place where she could hide safely for a few moments.
    Rosie stood behind Ivy, age-gnarled hands resting lightly on her friend’s trembling back. ‘Let go, lass,’ she whispered. ‘There’s nobbut pain for him this side. He’ll cross over now.’
    And he did. A final whisper of air left his lips in a small sigh, then it was all finished. His face relaxed, looked nearer to normal than it had in months. Ivy stood up, folded her boy’s arms across his chest, intoned the Lord’s Prayer.
    The doctor came in.