The Paying Guests(101)

Frances was horrified. ‘This can’t be right! I’ve got to get you a doctor.’

But at that, Lilian’s eyes flew open. ‘No, a doctor mustn’t see me! He’ll know what I’ve done! Just keep hold of my hand. Don’t let go. The bleeding’s started, that’s all. It’s bad, but – Oh!’ She grew rigid as the pain mounted, and held the stiffened pose for what seemed an impossibly long time; Frances saw tiny beads of sweat appear on her brow and top lip. When at last her limbs began to loosen, she sank back against the sofa cushions, wiping her face, and panting. ‘It’s all right. I’m all right.’

Frances had grown rigid, and then slack, along with her. ‘Surely it oughtn’t to be so bad? You look dreadful, Lilian.’

That made her weakly turn her face away. ‘Don’t look at me.’

‘I didn’t mean that. But you’re as pale as death.’

‘It’s worse some times than others. That was a bad one, that’s all.’ She stirred uncomfortably, raising one of her hips, sliding a hand beneath the seat of her skirt. ‘The blood keeps coming. I’m afraid of it getting on the couch. There’s nothing there, is there?’

Frances looked. ‘No, there’s nothing.’

‘I’ve got through three napkins already. I’ve been putting them on the fire. But it’s still only blood, not the proper thing. You can tell when that comes out. It’s hasn’t come yet. It’s no good till it does.’

Her voice had a new, fretful note to it, and her eyes seemed glazed. It crossed Frances’s mind that she might be feverish. She rested a hand on her damp forehead; but the forehead was chill, if anything. Was that a good sign, or a bad? She didn’t know. She didn’t know! Her own uselessness appalled her. How could she have allowed this to happen? What on earth had she been thinking? How could she possibly have let Lilian do this reckless, reckless thing —

Already Lilian was stiffening against another wave of pain, moving her feet beneath the blanket. ‘Oh, it’s starting again.’

‘What can I do?’

‘Just hold my hand.’

‘Isn’t there something I can get you, to help you bear it?’

But Lilian wasn’t listening. Her eyes were closed, her features contorted. ‘Oh, it’s worse than ever this time! Oh, Frances! Oh!’ She was doubled up with the pain, nearly twisting Frances’s fingers from their sockets.

Frances couldn’t bear to do nothing. She pulled herself free, ran to her bedroom, looked in her bedside cabinet for more aspirin. All she found was a bottle of kaolin and morphine: she held the brown bottle up to the light. There was a solid chalky block at the base of it, with an inch or two of fluid above; the fluid, she thought, was more or less pure morphine. It was better than nothing, surely? She hurried to the kitchen for a spoon, then ran back to the sitting-room. Lilian was still doubled up, and her cheeks were wet with tears. She didn’t ask what the medicine was. She took three spoonfuls, like an obedient child, then lay back against the cushions with tightly closed eyes.

And the morphine must have eased the pain a little, for after a few minutes her face grew less clenched. She parted her lips and let out her breath in a long, uneven sigh.

Frances thought of her mother, calmly writing letters downstairs. If she knew what was happening here, if she knew what Lilian had done —

Lilian was watching her. ‘This is too awful, Frances. You must go back down.’

‘I can’t.’

‘I want you to, though. And your mother will wonder where you are. She’ll want her tea.’

She was right, Frances realised. It was well after four. But the thought of having to go and set cups on saucers, arrange bread and butter on a plate, was horrible – grotesque!

‘I can’t leave you,’ she said.

‘It isn’t so bad. Honestly. And soon – soon you’ll never have to leave me again. When we’re together, I mean. We can do as we like then, can’t we? But I don’t want your mother to know something’s wrong, and tell Len, and get him thinking. Please, Frances. It’s just a few more hours.’

Her voice had that fretful note to it again, but her gaze seemed clearer. In an agony of indecision, Frances kissed her, and left her, and returned downstairs. She made the tea, and sat in the drawing-room, managing to chat with her mother, about the weather, about the garden – about God only knew what. An instant after she’d made a comment she’d forgotten what it was.

At six she even started work on a pie for her own dinner. She could hear her mother getting ready to go out as she was doing it, and longed for her to move more quickly; she looked at the clock, and willed its hands forward. The sunless day had given way to a chill, moonless dusk, and her mother, she suspected, would be glad to be walked the short distance to Mrs Playfair’s house; she had grown a little nervous since the attack on Leonard. But Frances had escorted her to Mrs Playfair’s one evening last week, and had been drawn inside and kept talking for half an hour; she was afraid to leave Lilian alone so long. So when her mother appeared in the kitchen, she kept her hands in the mixing bowl.

Her mother hovered, watching her work. ‘You won’t change your mind about coming?’

Frances showed her floury fingers. ‘Well, I’ve started this now. And I’ll only upset the card tables if I turn up at the last minute.’