Page 24 of The House at Hope Corner
Flora held back to allow Ned to step through and, despite only moving the curtain a fraction, the angle meant that she had a clear line of sight past his bulk to the bed within. It wasn’t clear whether Hannah was holding Fraser’s hand or the other way around, but they were locked together, a look of stunned incredulity mirrored on each other’s faces.
As the curtain opened wider, she could see a tall man, who though not overweight, seemed to occupy a huge proportion of the room. He was holding a sheet of paper and Flora reckoned his hands were twice as large as hers. But very neat looking, still slender. Artist’s hands.
‘So until we establish the degree of damage, it’s very difficult to say, but I’ll organise those tests straight away for you. In the meantime, we’ll send you up to the ward once a bed becomes available, so for now just try to get some rest.’
It was Hannah who recovered herself first.
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ she said. ‘So it’s nothing to do with his stomach then, not a sickness bug?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. The nausea is a common symptom, as is the stomach pain. Not all heart attack victims suffer from the classic chest pain one normally associates with them, so you did the right thing by getting it checked out.’
He turned and glanced at Ned, giving a tight smile. And then he was gone.
‘Dad?’
Ned crossed to the side of the bed where Fraser looked up at him and then straight to Flora, who was still hovering by the curtain.
‘Your beans weren’t to blame after all, lass,’ he said. ‘Reckon I owe you an apology.’
Chapter Nine
There was scarcely a word said as they filed through the scullery door back at the farm. It was gone eleven o’clock and Hannah would have stayed at the hospital the whole night if they’d let her. One of the few things Flora knew about Ned’s past was that he had been born at home, so not even childbirth had separated his parents. Tonight would be the first night in over thirty years that they had ever been apart.
The kitchen was still, the house in darkness as they entered, the steady thump of Brodie’s tail against the floor the only greeting. Ned crossed to flick on the light and the room was suddenly filled with harsh reality. Nobody knew what should happen next and they smiled weakly at one another, looking for clues. It was Flora who went to slide the kettle over to boil. If nothing else, it would bridge the awkward gap between coming into the house and going to bed, an act which would finally bring an end to the day. Right now none of them knew whether this closure was a good thing or a bad thing.
Flora poured the tea and then she cut three slices from the honey cake she had made earlier that afternoon because she’d needed to keep busy. It felt like a lifetime ago. She laid a plate in front of Hannah, hoping that the chance to comment on her culinary skills might at least break the silence she had settled into. But although its arrival elicited a momentary glance, Hannah said nothing.
Ned pounced on his. Apart from the Mars bar he had eaten at the hospital, he’d had nothing to eat since lunchtime. The ingredients for the vegetable stew that they should have had for their evening meal were still in the fridge. What would have happened if Flora had not gone to the milking parlour? Would Fraser have carried on working, hiding how he had been feeling from Ned, just like he had all day? Getting steadily worse and worse until possibly… she shuddered. Might his heart have stopped altogether? She ran through the events of the afternoon, wondering if there was anything they could have done differently, but then her hand flew to her mouth as she thought of something else.
‘Oh, my God, the chickens! Hannah, I’ve left the hens out… I’m so sorry… I’ll go now, I’ll—’ She stumbled over her feet in her haste to get to the door.
‘Leave them!’
Hannah’s voice was harsh in the quiet room.
‘But I can—’
‘I said, leave them! It’s far too late to go out now.’ Her voice had a sharp edge to it that Flora hadn’t heard before. And even though they were talking about the chickens, her tone still managed to convey all her upset, all her anger, all her fear, just as easily as if they had been talking about Fraser.
Flora threw a hasty glance at Ned but he gave an imperceptible shake of his head.
Hannah got to her feet. ‘I’m going to bed,’ she announced, picking up her handbag from the table.
Flora’s eyes darted around the room. She couldn’t let Hannah leave like this. Not by herself. Her eyes sought out Ned’s once more, imploring him to help her find a way to reach his mother.
‘Look, I’ll… come up with you, shall I? In case you need anything. Maybe you might like the little heater on in your room? It’s bitter out there tonight and it won’t take a minute to set it up for you. I always think you feel the cold more when you’re tired…’ She trailed off. Or when your husband isn’t there beside you in the bed, she thought.
Ned stood up, taking his mother’s arm. ‘Good idea, Flora. Come on, we’ll all go up together.’
It seemed to take an age for Hannah to digest what had just been said to her, but eventually she nodded her head. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and that was all.
Flora needed no further encouragement and fled upstairs, trying not to look at the armchair in the corner of Hannah and Fraser’s room. The air felt frigid and she turned down the covers on the bed before moving back out onto the landing and dragging in the oil-filled radiator that lurked unused at the end of the corridor. She switched it on. It might smell for a little while, but Hannah needed to be warm.
Half an hour later she finally sat down on the side of their bed as Ned wearily began to remove his clothes. Neither of them had said a word about his mother’s outburst and, since then, Hannah had continued to speak in a monotone. Questions had been met with polite responses and reassurances met with a slight smile. It was a relief when she had succumbed to their ministrations and climbed into bed, bidding them both a goodnight.
Flora undressed and was about to get into bed herself when she realised that there was no way she could, not yet. There was still one thing more she had to do. Telling Ned that she wouldn’t be long, she pulled on her pyjamas and crept back downstairs, grabbing a torch and oilskin from the scullery and whistling for Brodie to join her. They slipped out into the night together, making their way across the yard. She would never forgive herself if she didn’t check and, as she picked her way through the dark, her heart began to beat faster and faster. She had no idea what massacred chickens would look like, but she didn’t imagine it would look pretty. There would be blood and guts, gore and body parts and she had no idea how she would clear them all away in the dark, but she would, however long it took. Whatever happened, come morning, there was to be no trace of the death and destruction that had taken place.
An owl hooted, making her jump, but other than that, the night was still and she was grateful for the absence of rustling noises as she reached the coop. She swung the beam of the torch in front of her, lighting up the ground as she scanned for the inevitable. But there was nothing. Just the muddy uneven scrub of the chicken run and the wire mesh of the enclosure, glinting in the torchlight. The wooden door was hanging open just as she had left it, but of the hens there were no sign. Nor was there sign of anything else.
