Free Mad Worlds by Bill Douglas Page A

all-important.
    Bells. Church bells. It was light, almost ten a.m. She’d dozed off. And the crib was empty. Panic. But no, Elsie would have Becky safe.
    Heather dressed hastily and followed the smell of frying bacon. There indeed was Becky, cradled on Elsie’s arm.

    *
    After breakfast, Mattie opened up the back-shop for Heather and got Springwell’s number from Directory Enquiries.
    â€œI’ll be in the shop looking at the shelves, lassie. When you finish on the phone, just give me a shout.”
    â€œThanks, Mattie.” She dialled the number.
    â€œWe do not give out information about inmates, Madam,” said Springwell’s switchboard operator.
    â€œBut I have a right to know. I am his wife.”
    â€œMadam, we do
not
give out information about inmates.”
    She inhaled deeply, and yelled, “Did you hear me?”
    â€œPerfectly, Madam. There’s no need to shout.” He wasn’t going to shift.
    Stay cool, Heather
. “Listen then, please. My husband is at death’s door in your infirmary. The nurse in charge, Mr Macnamara, said to ring.” Untrue, but…
    A sigh? “I’ll see then, madam. What is your husband’s name?”
    She told him again and the line seemed to go dead. She hung on for ages. And then she heard the Irish brogue. “Macnamara, Mrs Chisholm. I have good news. Our physician Doc Burn just popped in. Your husband’s on the mend.”
    Thank God.
“Is he conscious?”
    â€œStill a tad delirious, but he’s responding to the penicillin. Sure and he’ll live.”
    â€œWhen can I see him?”
    â€œThat’s not up to me. Visiting’s once a month, except for emergencies. Could you ring back in a few days?” Then, “Excuse me, I must go.” The phone went dead.
    A relief, though still worrying. Sufficiently reassuring to risk being away at her parents’ a few days. But she’d stay on here a couple of days– in case Springwell rang.

11

    Sunday 22 nd April 1956 – in Aversham.

    Ringing her parents was something of a long shot as they were often abroad on holiday. Heather never felt that close to them or experienced the warm affection she got from Granny. Mother’s “You can do better, Heather,” contrasted with Granny’s “Well done, Heather.” Why did Granny have to die?
    Her parents had supported her in schoolwork and hobbies. And despite the coolness over John, she’d still got Christmas cards and postcards – all addressed to ‘Heather and Becky’ – from her parents’ exotic holiday destinations. And they unfailingly remembered her birthday with a welcome cheque.
    She waited till noon to ring as they might have gone to church earlier.
    â€œThis is Bolsall 516.” Mother’s voice, a cultured Edinburgh accent.
    â€œMother – it’s Heather.”
    â€œHeather. What a surprise. Darling, how nice to hear from you.” A pause. “So you have a phone now?”
    â€œNo. Our friends at the shop across the road let me use theirs.”
    â€œNot Becky – is she all right?” Mother sounded anxious.
    â€œBecky’s fine, Mother.”
    Sounded like a sigh. Mother used to sigh a lot. “What’s wrong then? Do you need money?”
    She swallowed. Mother was always direct in her comment, and this hurt. No real concern – but an assumption she’d get in touch only about money. Mother was spot on, though – the last time she’d phoned her parents was for a top-up to help eke out her student grant. “Well, yes Mother. But it’s not as simple as that.”
    Another sigh. “Just a moment.” She heard, “Who is it?” in the background, and Mother whispering “Heather.” “Does she want money? Has she left that rascal?” Definitely Father. Mother again: “Carry on, Heather. What’s not so simple?”
    â€œWell, it’s John.