Alfie couldn't raise his head. His eyes felt heavy and he struggled to open them until he stopped. He wasn't in pain, but he had the feeling he should be. He couldn't remember anything after seeing his precious big shed erupt in flames and the thought of that, the memory, almost made him weep, but he couldn't do that, either. Something prevented him from doing anything and only his hearing appeared to work at all.
A voice, that seemed so far away, yet right beside him, talked in hushed tones. A familiar voice that stirred his memories. A voice that sounded both upset and thankful. Grateful, even, and, as he continued to try to move, he listened to that voice that calmed him and gave him the strength that he knew he needed in this moment.
"It's all my fault. I know it is." A hand touched Alfie's and he could have called out in triumph that he could feel it. "I dragged us up here, away from everything we knew because I thought I could have a better life. For me and Frederick. But we've just caused nothing but trouble. Especially for you. I'm so sorry. For everything. I hope you can forgive me, because I don't think I can forgive myself."
Esther. The voice belonged to the lad's mother and Alfie had to wonder why, even though he now recognised her voice, it still stirred memories that were far too painful to acknowledge. He wanted to squeeze her hand in reply. He still couldn't move and that pain that sat in the back of his mind started to edge forward, to become more real and substantial. He damned his old body for making him look like such a fool in company.
She continued to talk. Continued to blame herself for all manner of things that, even in his stupor, Alfie knew she had no right to blame herself. Such a sad tone, a defeated tone to her voice and those memories that tickled his mind came rushing in, overwhelming him as they had so often over the years. She sounded like the Duchess as she neared the end. Crushed by life and his oblivious, careless apathy toward her.
"Thy ..." He could have sighed in relief as he managed to make his lips move, though his throat felt dry, like coarse sandpaper scraping across the inside of his throat. "Thy's got nowt to be forgiven for, lass. Thee and thine 'as done nowt wrong, and I'll have none of it."
"Nurse!" Esther's hand slipped from Alfie's as he heard her cry out. "Nurse!"
Long moments passed and Alfie began to regain more and more of his sensibilities. Eyes opened, squinting at the bright light that cascaded through half-open blinds, wavering with the easy breeze that passed into the room through open windows. A flurry of activity surrounded him and he started to feel more sensations return to him. He could move his hands, though it felt as though he had carried a dozen bags of heavy shopping all the way home.
He could move his head and managed to see Esther, stood a distance away, thumb at her lips, where teeth chewed and bit against her nail. She looked as though she hadn't slept or eaten for days. He heard the nurses talking among themselves, checking his vitals, casting light into his eyes, asking questions that he answered without thinking. And, all the while, he looked to Esther and could only see a mirror of the Duchess in her eyes.
Once they had completed their checks, platitudes spoken and words about bravery and strength, the nurses drifted away, leaving only him and Esther in this part of the room. He remembered now. The fire gutting the big shed. Him, in his pyjamas and slippers, rushing out and crying into the night at the loss of his beloved bicycles. And the pain. Pain worse than anything he had ever experienced. As though a clawed hand ripped at his chest, tearing out his heart. He had thought the pain of the 'minor cardiac event' was bad, but this pain felt so much worse.
"Where's the lad? Is he fine? Safe?" He couldn't sit up, not yet, but he could feel something was amiss with his chest. "Ee. I'm not best pleased at making a nuisance of meself. Is he alright? The lad?"
"Deano's looking after him. I don't know him, but Frederick said he was fine." She still stood a distance away, not catching Alfie's eyes. "What kind of a mother abandons her child to a man she doesn't even know? I'm such a mess. A pathetic mess who doesn't deserve a child. I'm sorry. I'm being selfish."
She straightened up, dropping her hands to smooth down her trousers, giving him a bright, cheery smile that Alfie didn't believe was genuine for a second. He'd seen smiles like that before and, for his shame, had ignored the fact he could tell they were all forced and fake. The lass didn't know what selfish was. Alfie did. He had made a lifetime of it and now he wouldn't let others feel such a thing that wasn't true at all.
He held up his hand, feeling the weight of it trying to press it back down to the rough blanket upon the hospital bed. She had no right thinking ill of herself. At first, she only looked at the hand, glancing away, looking back, feet shuffling. She reminded him of the lad in so many ways. They shared common expressions and actions. She also continued to remind him of the Duchess. After a few seconds, she edged closer, taking his hand.
"Thy's not selfish, lass. Look at thee. If thy were, thy wouldn't be here with this daft old man. And the lad's fine with Deano. He's a good man. A good father." He wished he could sit up, but that would come in time. "Listen to someone who knows. Thy can't blame theesen for everything. It's not fair to theesen. It's none of my business, I know, and I'm sticking my big nose in things that are of no concern but to thee and thine, but, has thy thought about talking to somebody? A professional, like?"
She looked confused, as though she had no understanding of what he spoke of, but that confusion looked as fake as the smile she had stretched across her features, pretending she didn't understand his concerns. He could see it in her eyes. A pain so unlike physical pain, yet as damaging as any the body could feel. It was in the eyes that he saw the similarities to the Duchess. Something he had failed to notice for his wife or, more truthfully, had ignored.
"Strictly speaking, I'm not supposed to be here, but I told a lie that I'm your granddaughter-in-law. I hope you don't mind?" She started to smooth down the blankets and sheets, though they were as smooth and tight as all hospital bedding tended to be. "The doctors say you had two heart attacks in succession. Lucky to be alive! Ha. You were in surgery for hours and I told them, I said 'Mister Dibbs will beat this, he's made of steel!'."
"Esther." At the use of her name, she stopped fidgeting with the covers and looked at him, shocked. "Are my things here? My hanky? Be a love and find it for this old man?"
She frowned, expecting something else from him, no doubt. Of course, he had used her name deliberately, though it still felt wrong to do so. Esther looked to her side and the bland bedside cabinet. In the cupboard, she found his pyjamas, encrusted with dirt from where he had fallen to the ground, and, from the pocket, she removed his handkerchief. One of the new ones she had give him, but it would suit a purpose.
As she handed it to him, he didn't rub it under his nose, as he was wont to do. Instead, he opened it up, flattening it against the blanket, and ran his old, arthritic fingers over the embroidery. The lass had done a good job with that, or whoever had sewn it, but it was Esther who had realised that the embroidery mattered. It looked exactly the same as that on the original handkerchief the lad had so diligently and lovingly framed.
"I expect you think these letters are for me, eh?" He turned the handkerchief around to face her. "'A' and 'D'. Most folks think so, but they'd be wrong. See, that hanky was never mine. It was the Duchess'. Folks knew her as 'Belle', see? Everyone called her 'Belle'. But it was short for 'Annabelle'. Annabelle Dibbs. My wife. A woman that deserved a husband far better than me."
"Oh, I'm sure that's not ..." It was a natural reaction, even though she had only moments before said similar things. Only her self-recrimination had no basis in the truth. Alfie's did. He had held up his hand to stop her.
"After Charlie died, things became worse for the Duchess. She never wanted him in the army and when he got killed in the Falklands, well, it destroyed her." Again, he ran a fingertip over the letters. He had never told anyone this before. "And I didn't care. I wanted my dinner. I wanted my time to myself and my mates. I wanted what I wanted and every time the Duchess tried to tell me she wasn't well, I ignored her because it wasn't about me."
"Mister Dibbs, this ..." He had to raise his hand again to shush her. He needed to say this.
"It were only a few years after Charlie died that it became too much for her. She wouldn't talk. Her chores were left during the day and she'd do nowt but stare into space. She needed help and I could only think about how her 'laziness' reflected on me." He had to pause. This was difficult, painful, but it should be. It should never come easy to remember such things. "We argued one day and I told her to sort herself out or she could pack her bags. I found her the next afternoon, after work. I ... I should have ... I ... Don't bottle it all up, lass. Get help, please. For the lad's sake."
That had proved both harder than he could ever have expected, but, also, in some strange way, easier. He knew it couldn't 'cure' the lass if she sought help, but it could help her to manage the moods that threatened to overwhelm her. He had wanted to say something, anything, for some time but he hadn't. Not because he didn't care, or he was selfish, not this time, but because it wasn't his place. But, after this incident, he didn't care if she thought him overstepping his boundaries. Time was too short to worry about that when someone's life could be at stake.
About to say something else, Alfie noticed movement to the side of the ward. In truth, he hadn't even noticed that he lay in a bed with others along the walls of the room. He supposed he should be glad they had a bed for him at all. Still, that activity worried him as he saw familiar uniforms. Police officers, and they started heading toward his bed, though not looking at him.
"Mrs Douglas? Mrs Esther Douglas? We're making enquiries about the arson attack at your neighbour's. Mister Dibbs, is it? We'll speak to you soon enough, sir." The officer looked toward Alfie, then, and then at her notebook, but soon turned back to Esther. She didn't correct them about her name. "We'd like to speak to your son, Frederick, in relation to the incident. Can you tell us where he is?"
Alfie had the awful feeling that they didn't want to see Frederick as a witness. They were doing it again, and Alfie could do nothing to help.