It had been that strange silence that had made her collapse in grief over her mother’s body until Dora, a mere child, had solemnly coaxed her away. There had been no more tears for a long time after that, as if they had all been expelled with that last breath flowing quietly away from her mother.
There was no grief here as she gazed down on the man who had said he was her father. If he was dead, then he was dead. She felt only a passing regret at having been robbed of her revenge. Yet revenge hadn’t been on her mind as she’d stood beside the filthy bed, the thin body covered by a dirty and threadbare blanket, its head on a thin and stained pillow.
A second or two later a sudden great intake of breath startled her. She saw the eyes open and swivel in her direction.
‘Please ’elp me…’ he pleaded in a pitiful whisper. ‘I think I’m done for.’
How she got through the weeks that followed Ellie was not sure, her time being divided between pity for him and a feeling that she should be gloating over his plight, telling herself he had only got what he deserved.
She wanted to remind him of his abuse of her, how she’d felt and how devastated she’d been when his perverted selfishness had made her pregnant, and how humiliated in having it got rid of. She wanted him to see, too, that despite what he’d done to her she had made a life for herself and had come up in the world, that she was only caring for him as any decent person would care for some poor wretch in his state. But she didn’t. What he was suffering was revenge enough.
His illness sickened her, knowing that his debauched life since leaving his family had brought it about; and it served him right, as far as she was concerned. Yet she couldn’t have brought herself to walk away and leave him in the state in which she had found him.
At her own expense she had him moved to a clinic. No one could have left such a sick man in that horror of a place, no matter what he’d done. At least she was able to let him see that she had money enough to pay for his care in a private hospital, despite his having left her destitute and her mother dying. This in itself gave her satisfaction.
Not that he was aware of it, his condition deteriorating so rapidly despite proper medical care and clean conditions.
‘He cannot last but a few more weeks, you understand,’ the doctor had informed her impassively, only his eyes betraying his feelings about a well-dressed young woman with a father in such an appalling condition.
She nodded without emotion, hiding a shrug. She felt neither hatred nor pity any more, and maybe that was the culmination of her revenge: that she felt nothing.
He’d no doubt picked up the disease not long after leaving home. The way he carried on with women, she wasn’t surprised at what he’d contracted. Poetic justice, if you like – far more than she could ever have dreamt of doling out; yet she was increasingly and uncomfortably aware of indifference as she watched him fading, neither sad nor triumphant. Rather it was keeping it to herself that was telling on her. She had to confide in someone.
She told Ronnie as they came away from her father’s bedside. Ronnie had been her constant companion and support these two weeks. She could not imagine how she could have coped without him and it was only fair to be honest with him, especially when he remarked this evening how stoical she was, having to stand by and watch her dad slowly dying before her eyes.
‘I’m not being stoical,’ she’d said tersely. ‘There’s just nothing there.’
The confession prompted her to go on. ‘If you want to know, I’ve hated him for years. But now it’s all over. He’s dying and I’m glad he is!’
She wasn’t prepared for the change in Ronnie’s face, fondness turning suddenly to shock. She’d said too much or hadn’t properly thought out what she’d intended to say. She had been hoping that he would understand. That was going to mean explaining everything in detail, but she hadn’t been prepared for this initial look of horror before she’d even started.
How could she tell him now? If she did, and he refused to understand, she’d have to walk away, never seeing him ever again. She would have to learn to get on with her life, maybe one day find someone else, though she couldn’t imagine who.
Meanwhile she would learn to work hard, do all Robert C. Hunnard’s bidding to become a great painter. The thought of losing Ronnie was tearing her to pieces. Yet she needed to explain.
‘I’m sorry if you think that’s an awful thing for me to say,’ she began.
To her dismay, Ronnie made no reply. She was losing him, her life stretching out before her lonely, filled only with work, with looking after Dora, Dora perhaps finding a young man, eventually marrying – and being utterly alone.
She wanted to plead for him not to think too badly of her. Instead, she released her hold on his arm and moved away a little, seeking to find a little spark of dignity in her step as they walked; but inside she was crying.
‘Perhaps I should explain,’ she began coldly. Was she ready to bare her soul to someone who’d suddenly revealed what little faith he had in her?
Still he said nothing. The silence between them grew as they walked on through the twilight, she on the very verge
