Read Online London Pride by Beryl Kingston - Free Book Online Page B

and there was an angry cold sore at the corner of his mouth oozing into the pepper and salt stubble on his chin. But worst of all was the awful noise he was making as he breathed. It was a sort of knocking and bubbling and wheezing, like a kettle boiling, or as if he had pebbles in his chest, and they could see that every breath pained him for even though his eyes were closed they were wincing at every rattle.
    None of them knew what to say and Baby’s mouth turned down as if she was going to cry.
    Sister Turner swished to the bed and stooped until her white cap was almost touching the pillow. ‘Mr Furnivall,’ she said. ‘Your girls are here.’
    He made a harsh muttering sound and his head rolled to one side.
    â€˜Mr Furnivall,’ Sister repeated. ‘Your girls. You asked to see them. Remember?’
    To Peggy’s relief, he opened his eyes and became himself again. Oh those lovely greeny-brown eyes. Neither one thing nor the other. ‘Peggy?’ he said looking at her.
    â€˜Yes, Dad,’ she said, tiptoeing to the bedside. ‘We’re all here.’
    Joan followed her, pulling Baby by the hand.
    â€˜Good girls,’ he said, but his voice was harsh and husky as if he had a throat full of spit. ‘Got somethin’ ter say …’
    Then he started to cough, and Sister Turner put the spittoon deftly under his chin and supported him with her arm until he’d coughed up a long sticky strand of awful brown spit and wiped his lips with a piece of the cotton wool.
    They waited full of horrified sympathy for him.
    â€˜Somethin’ to tell you,’ he gasped. ‘Can’t talk much ‘cause of the … I want you ter promise …’
    â€˜Anything,’ Peggy said as he was panting too much to be able to go on.
    â€˜Anything,’ Joan echoed.
    The panting went on as they waited for him, strained and afraid and yearning with pity.
    â€˜Look after yer mum,’ he said. ‘She’s – not strong – with her nerves an’ everythin’. Look after her – eh? – when I’m gone.’
    The icy wind blew into every corner of Peggy’s mind and body. She was cold from the hairs on her head to the tips of her fingers. Her dad was dying and there was no way she could either avoid the knowledge or take it in and make sense of it. ‘We promise, Dad,’ she said, passionately. ‘We promise.’
    â€˜All of yer?’ he said, looking at them one after the other.
    Joan said yes in a voice that sounded almost as if she was angry, and Baby nodded.
    â€˜Good girls,’ their father said. ‘Give yer ol’ Dad a kiss.’
    They kissed him solemnly, one after the other, appalled by the awful smell that was rising out of his mouth and trying not to look at that spittoon, and loving him with a terrible desperation.
    Then Sister Turner’s hand was on Joan’s shoulder and they were being suggested towards the door. Peggy followed obediently even though she was torn with the need to run back to the bed and plead with him not to die, to kiss him once more, to tell him she loved him, that she’d do anything to save him. But all she could manage was to look back at him once and briefly before the door was shut between them. And he looked back at her, once and briefly, smiling his lovely old smile even though he was keeping his eyes open with an effort.
    â€˜That’s my girl,’ he said.Long afterwards Joan and Peggy confessed to one another that they had no idea how they got through the rest of the day. They supposed they must have eaten their dinner or Mum would have got shirty and they’d have remembered that, and after dinner they had a vague recollection that they helped clean the parlour, because Peggy could remember smelling the wax polish. But they were numb with emotions too strong for them, terror and pity, revulsion and anger, and lurking most hideously behind them all the