Cath Staincliffe - Trio

Pamela

Pamela

‘Goal! What a goal!’ Her dad leapt up and Pamela bounced off the sofa and back on again, her arms raised and cheering with him.

Geoff Hurst. Geoff Hurst had made it four-two and there was no way Germany could beat that in the remaining seconds.

‘We won the cup, we won the cup, eee-aye-adio, we won the cup!’

Her mum stuck her head through the serving hatch. ‘Have we won?’

‘Four-two! And it was two-all at the end of full time. Two goals in extra time! Fantastic. Hurst was unbelievable.’

They watched the squad go up to receive their medals and the cup and hoist Bobby Moore on their shoulders. The Charlton brothers were playing, Pamela liked them best. Dad liked Alan Ball.

The beginning of the summer holidays and Pamela had plans. Mum and Dad had been saving all their cigarette coupons and they’d enough now to get a pogo stick. She’d helped count last night after tea. They said she could get one before Christmas, when, as she had pointed out, it would be too cold for it. Then they’d been to see The Sound Of Music the night before. It was absolutely brilliant. Pamela wanted her mum to get the LP so she could learn all the songs. The Nazis had been awful. She was glad she hadn’t been a Jew then. Dad said there were still things like that going on, it wasn’t always Jews. Like black children in America and South Africa who weren’t allowed at school with white children. There were only two black children at Pamela’s school but you had to be Catholic or pay lots of fees to go there. School was OK. The worst was when a gang came up, especially the big girls, and said, ‘Are you a mod or a rocker?’

Pamela wasn't anything but you couldn’t say that, they made you pick one. Sometimes if you got it wrong they pulled faces or pushed you. Sometimes they said, ‘Who do you like best, the Beatles or the Rolling Stones?’ She loved the Beatles, they were miles better, and her favourite was Paul because he was the most good-looking. Elizabeth, her friend at school, liked John because he was funny. But he wore glasses. Ringo was sweet but he had a big nose. She didn’t know anyone who liked George best. George Best, hah!

In the middle of the holidays they’d go to Criccieth. They would set off really early in the morning and not even have breakfast and sing songs all the way. ‘Summer Holiday’ and pop songs like ‘Pretty Flamingo’ and ‘Every Turn’ by Candy and Dusty’s new one, ‘You Don’t Have to Say Forever’. She knew all the words to that one and could sing it really loud and Dad would be the instruments, the trombone and the drums.

There was a caravan at Criccieth and it was so good. If she was an orphan and she had to live somewhere by herself she’d go there and live in a caravan. And get a dog. A golden Labrador that would walk to heel and fetch the paper. Auntie Sally had one called Queenie.

‘Fancy a kick about?’ Dad said and she leapt up.

‘I’ll get changed.’

She swapped her shift dress, the one with purple and green swirls on, for her shorts and PE top. And ran to get the ball. This was going to be the best summer ever.

Lilian

‘Peter?’ His breathing sounded strange. Lilian felt fear douse her veins with ice. ‘Peter?’

She switched the bedside lamp on, put on her glasses and looked at him. He lay face down but even in the dim light she could see his skin was a horrible grey colour and when she put her hand out to touch him his pyjama top was soaked with sweat. She shook his shoulder. ‘Peter.’ There was no response, only the awful sound of his breath sucking in and out.

She ran downstairs, her heart thumping, stitch pains in her chest. She telephoned for an ambulance, watching the dial creep slowly back after each nine. Why nine-nine-nine, she thought, why not one-one-one? It would be so much quicker.

‘It’s my husband,’ she said to the operator, ‘I think it’s a heart attack.’ She hadn’t named it till then, hadn’t known she’d thought that till she said the words. She wondered what led her to that conclusion. ‘Please hurry.’ She gave her name and address and the woman reassured her that the ambulance would be there very soon. She ran back upstairs then, got on the bed beside him. ‘There’s an ambulance coming, it won’t be long now. Peter?’

He was quiet. The rasping sounds had stopped. She tried to hear whether he was breathing but the blood was thundering in her ears. She put a hand on his back between his shoulder blades, looked for movements, but all she could see was her own hand trembling. He was dead.

Moaning to herself, she struggled to turn him over. He was heavy, always a solid man, not flabby but hard muscles, thick bones. His face was slack, dark blue eyes opened and vague. Don’t think. She put her lips over his and blew into his mouth. There was a bubbling noise, that startled her. She moved away and a gush of liquid came from his mouth. She began to weep. No, Peter, no. I don’t know what to do. She took another breath and bent and blew into his mouth again, and again. Nothing changed except his face became wet with her tears and the liquid that kept dribbling from his mouth.

The doorbell chimed and there was banging too. She left him, almost falling on the stairs as she clattered down them.

‘He’s upstairs,’ she said to the ambulance men, ‘he’s not breathing.’

‘We’ll follow you,’ the man said calmly, as though there was nothing to get het-up about.

‘In here,’ she said stupidly, then stood aside as they moved to examine him. One struggled out of his jacket, climbed astride Peter and began to pump his chest with his hands, stopping every so often to tilt his chin and breathe into him. After several minutes he sat back, exhaled and exchanged a look with his colleague. ‘We’re best taking him to the hospital,’ he said to her. ‘There’s nothing more we can do for him here.’

She nodded, her mouth crammed with questions but too fearful to ask them.

The other man disappeared and returned with a stretcher.

They strapped Peter to it. She watched his eyes, praying for a blink, a wink, a glimpse of life. Praying endlessly, incoherent appeals running through her mind. They took him on the stretcher, negotiating the narrow stairs with difficulty, raising the stretcher to turn the landing, bumping it against the newel post. She winced as though he might be hurt. He can’t feel anything, she told herself, and was dismayed at her lack of hope.

‘We can take you with…?’

‘I’ve a little girl. Get a taxi. I don’t drive. Peter…’ She couldn’t talk properly, missing connections.

They nodded.

She hurried back into the house to wake Pamela. Should she leave her with the neighbours? They had a seven-year-old too. She dressed herself then woke Pamela. She explained Daddy was ill, that she had to go to the hospital. Pamela begged to come too, promised to be good. Lilian was unsure. Children were usually shielded from such experiences. But she knew Pamela disliked Shona, the little girl next door. Lilian suspected her of being a bully.

‘Please, Mummy, please? You’ve got to let me.’

‘All right, put some clothes on quickly.’ She rang a taxi that advertised an all night-service in the phone book. It was three thirty a.m.

At the hospital Lilian enquired at the Accident and Emergency Department and was told to take a seat. The place was quiet. The staff’s voices echoed round when they spoke to each other. Lilian looked at posters about the smallpox outbreak and one about burns and scalds. Pamela sat beside her, knees together, toes meeting. She could tell her mother was upset and sensed it would not help to be asking lots of questions.

When the doctor came out to see them he asked Pamela to wait while he spoke to her mother.