When Helen had gone to see her father at Crown’s she had been in a bit of a state to say the least. She’d even had to have a smoke in front of him. Never before had she witnessed such savagery waged against one person, let alone a woman.
She knew there were plenty of battered wives about, but she hadn’t thought about the reality of what being a ‘battered wife’ meant. And she had certainly never seen that reality with her own eyes.
And, to top it all, she herself had never before in her life committed such an act of violence. Not that she had any regrets about doing so. It had been a knee-jerk reaction. She was just relieved that the spade had been to hand, and that she’d managed to make the man she now knew was called Vinnie stop.
When her father had commended her on her bravery and had clearly been as proud as punch of her, Helen’s mood of shock and upset had quickly morphed into one of joy and happiness. She had proved herself to her father. He was proud of her. She felt worthy. Validated. Loved.
It wasn’t until Helen had been relating the horror of seeing Vinnie’s rain of punches on Gloria and the poor woman’s bloodied face that she remembered her father had once dated Gloria many moons ago. It had been the way her father kept asking if Gloria was all right – the way he said her name – that had made her recall his previous romantic history with her. How close they’d actually been back then, she had no idea. From what she had gathered, they’d just gone on a few dates before her mother had decided he was the one for her.
When she’d returned from her trip to Crown’s to see her father, she’d been met by a uniformed police officer who had asked her if she would kindly give a statement as to the events of the afternoon. It seemed to have taken ages, and the young constable’s handwriting was laboriously slow to say the least, but they’d got there in the end, and Helen had felt a certain amount of satisfaction that she was playing some part in bringing justice to this despicable man, who obviously thought he could walk into one of the most important shipyards in the country and try to beat a woman half to death.
It was her father’s words of praise, however, and not the giving of the police statement, that were at the forefront of her mind as Helen arranged for a chauffeur-driven car to take her up to the hospital at quarter to five.
‘The Royal,’ Helen commandeered the elderly driver as she climbed into the back of the car.
She knew she would be visiting Gloria outside the permitted hours, but she felt as though the hospital had become her second home after the amount of time she’d spent there by her father’s bedside. Also, she knew as soon as she mentioned her name and who she was – and that her grandfather was one of its main benefactors – any objections would be silenced.
The main reason she was going now, though, was because she knew that Gloria’s women welders would, without doubt, be descending en masse that evening and would stay from the minute they were allowed in to the moment they were told they had to leave. There was no way she wanted to be there when they were. No way.
Helen got out a cigarette, lit it and wound down the window in the back seat of the little shiny black Austin that was now making its way over the Wearmouth Bridge. As she blew smoke out into the cold, late-afternoon air, she felt as though life really was on the up.
As they drove up the New Durham Road, Helen spotted a little florist and asked the driver to pull over. You couldn’t arrive at someone’s bedside empty-handed.
Five minutes later she was hurrying up the stairs to the ward on the first floor, where the young girl at reception had told her a Mrs Gloria Armstrong had been taken on arrival at the hospital.
Helen smoothed her skirt and was pleased to feel that it wasn’t as tight on her as it had been. Her cigarette lunches were having the desired effect.
She could hear the sound of her heels on the shiny tiled floor of the windowless corridor and smell the now familiar odour of disinfectant as she approached the clearly signed Observation Ward.
Having a quick smell of the rather extravagant bunch of yellow chrysanthemums she had bought, she pulled open the heavy swing doors.
What Helen saw next stunned her far more than what she had been a witness to earlier on in the day.
She hadn’t quite made it into the actual ward – one hand was still keeping the door partially open, the other clutching the bunch of flowers – when she stopped dead.
Her father was leaning over Gloria and kissing her!
And it was not a quick kiss on the cheek.
Nor was it the kiss of a friend.
No, this was most definitely a kiss exchanged between two lovers.
Helen watched, her face set in a look of sheer disbelief, as her father straightened up again.
She saw him say something to Gloria and then he touched her arm and she jerked it back in pain.
Helen’s vision was then blocked by the sight of the ward nurse, who had been tending one of the other patients and was now walking slowly across the ward towards her father and Gloria, tapping her wrist.
Helen took one step back and let the swing doors close in front of her.
Taking another step back, she turned around and walked down the corridor, down the staircase to the ground floor, and out of the main entrance.
When she realised she was still clutching the bunch of chrysanthemums, she dropped them instantly, as if they were poison.