‘We’re going to need space in the ambulance,’ the male paramedic said to Marnie and she nodded, understanding.
‘I’ll get my car.’
‘I’ll drive you,’ said Herv.
Marnie followed Herv down the hill as the paramedics transferred Emelie into the back of the ambulance then set off at a fair pace, but without the emergency bells and whistles. Marnie was grateful for that because it would have scared Emelie, she thought as Herv zapped open his car doors and they got in.
He caught the ambulance up at the traffic lights on the Skipperstone road, but then it went through the red light and they had to wait. Until then, neither of them had spoken. It was Herv who first broke the silence.
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘I’ve no idea. I found her on the floor at the side of her bed. I don’t know how long she’d been there, but she couldn’t breathe very well and she had a bad pain in her side.’ Her throat felt clogged with emotion and she had to cough it away before continuing. ‘The ambulance didn’t take very long to arrive at least.’
‘It’s good you were there.’
‘Well, if I hadn’t been, at least you would have found her.’
‘I was late. I should have started work at half-past eight. But I had another coffee . . .’ Herv slammed his hand down on the steering wheel.
‘You’re weren’t to know, Herv.’
They had caught up the ambulance, but it was travelling very fast now. Then another set of lights held them up.
‘She said she was dying,’ said Marnie as they saw the first directional sign for the hospital. ‘I told her not to talk like that and she said that she really was.’
‘She can’t be,’ said Herv, flatly. He recalled the Emelie of yesterday, forcing him to face facts, making him think, mind bright as a button. He took the corner into the crowded car park a little too fast, squealing his tyres.
‘There’s a space,’ shouted Marnie, spotting someone just reversing out of one. Another driver had seen it too but Herv was quicker. This was no time for gallantry.
‘Are you a relative?’ asked the receptionist, when they enquired about Emelie.
‘Yes,’ lied Marnie.
They were directed to the emergency department where, eventually, a doctor took them into a cubicle and told them that Emelie had died and on her hospital notes was her explicit instruction that there should be no attempts at resuscitation.
It hadn’t been the damp that had caused her breathlessness, she had a pulmonary disease that she’d know about for a year, apparently, but refused treatment for it because she didn’t want to spend the time she had left in hospitals. And if she died, that was to be it, she’d made it plain that she must be allowed to go without medical intervention. Marnie and Herv went in to see her. Emelie looked peaceful and asleep, the lines smoothed from her face. Marnie gave her a kiss on her cheek, stroked her hair, said goodbye to her. Herv’s kiss was gentle on her forehead, a thank you, grateful kiss. Then together they walked back to the car, in silent shock. They’d expected to find Emelie poorly and possibly looking at a couple of weeks on a ward. Separately, they’d both resolved to have Little Apples damp-proofed and replastered by the time she came home. Neither of them had expected that she wouldn’t be home again.
‘I’ll go and tell Lionel,’ said Marnie, as they left Skipperstone. She felt stunned.
‘I can do it, if you like,’ said Herv.
‘Emelie will need a nice dress and . . .’ she was going to say her handbag. How ridiculous.
Herv knew what she would need and what to do. He had been through this ritual before.
He pulled up outside his house and turned to Marnie; she looked devastated. He wanted to reach across and take her hand. His fingers twitched with intention and then Marnie opened the car door and the moment was gone.
‘I should go and lock up her house,’ she said.
‘I’ll come with you.’
The cottage appeared the same as always from the outside, apples now weighing down the tree in the front garden, most too small and green to be picked and Marnie thought that Emelie wouldn’t be around to see them grow heavy and ripen in the late summer sunshine. They both walked inside her cheery, homely lounge to find Emelie’s old typewriter on the deep windowsill, the Country Manors book on the coffee table, her crocheted blanket draped over the back of her rocking chair by the fireside, all normal and as usual, except for the clock on the wall whose tock sounded louder somehow, set against a silence in which it was apparent something important was missing.
Whilst Herv went upstairs to check that the windows were closed, Marnie bolted the back door then took the front door key from the hook on the wall. She dropped it and it landed in one of Emelie’s short boots. The sight of them made her face crease with sadness that she wouldn’t see the dear little woman again. Then she heard the top step creak as Herv came down and she forced herself to recover.
‘All right?’ he said. Marnie nodded. Outside, she gave Herv the key to take to the vicarage.
‘Do you want me to walk you home?’ he said.
‘No, I’ll cut across the green,’ she replied. ‘You go and let Lionel know.’
She wanted him to clear the two-step distance between them and wrap her in his arms but he didn’t. She set off home, her straight back giving no clue of the grief that held her tight in its grip.
Chapter 43
First thing the following morning, Marnie asked Mr Wemyss to pass on a message to the mystery owner of Wychwell that she would not now be meeting the builders until after Emelie’s funeral. Mr Wemyss was sad to hear the news of her death. Emelie had lodged her will with him, he said, and so he would be in touch with Lionel Temple to ensure that her final wishes were taken care of.
In the afternoon, she went over to the vicarage to ask if she could do anything for Emelie, knowing that she had no living relatives. Her brother had died years ago and had been childless; the Taubert line had come to an end. She found Lionel talking to Derek in the churchyard, standing by Lilian’s grave. The closer to the men Marnie got, the more blurred her vision became. She burst into tears when she reached them and Lionel put his arms around her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I came over here to offer help, not take it.’
‘We have all been a little rocked by Emelie’s passing,’ said Lionel. ‘Two extraordinary women gone in a ridiculously short time. She will, of course, be laid to rest here, next to her friend Lilian.’
‘That’s a lovely idea,’ said Marnie.
Derek sniffed, pulled a handkerchief the size of a quilt cover out of his pocket and blew his nose. He was clearly very upset too and gave his eyes a discreet wipe.
‘We thought we should have the funeral on Saturday – the sixth of August. That was the day that Emelie came to live in Wychwell in 1941.’
The sixth of August. Of all days.
‘That’s nice,’ said Marnie, immediately cross with herself for saying something so lame. But Lionel agreed with her.
‘It is nice, Marnie. A balance. We take comfort in balance and serendipity when there is none other to be found.’
‘Is there anything you need? For Emelie?’ she asked.