Waking Up

Frieda Compton could not quite make up her mind if she found the clatter, clatter of the two-carriage regional train that never had a chance to build up a head of steam (not that it was a steam train – this was no heritage line!) soporific or irritating. Quite possibly both at the same time. But she supposed that it was more to do with her mood than with the train. Frieda was in one of those moods that was neither serene nor agitated, but made her wish it could be one of the other. She did know that before very long she would have to make her mind up, once and for all, about Kieran’s plans. It wasn’t fair to him to not do so. Nor, come to that, to herself.

She laid her book aside, resigned to the fact that she wouldn’t able to concentrate on it, and Frieda came from a family of readers. But her mother had once confessed to her, the slightly unusual spelling of her name came, originally, neither from Frieda Lawrence nor Frieda Hughes, but from a character in the Chalet School books. It was difficult to decide quite whom to tell that!

Kieran knew it, and confessed (and she knew at once he was telling the truth) that HIS name was from one of the presenters of a popular TV show called That’s Life that was one of his mother’s favorites when she was expecting.

Of course, such little coincidences aren’t enough to build a relationship. But they can be a good ice-breaker at the start of it.

Clatter, clatter, clatter. It was out of character. She was supposed to be (depending on your point of view) either the heads in the clouds or the more imaginative and daring one of the two. But it was Kieran who wanted to start a new life in Spain, converting the rundown farmhouse he’d been left by an uncle into holiday apartments.

Not that she couldn’t see the appeal. If his plans came to fruition, she’d find it intensely appealing as a holiday destination. But that wasn’t the same. She didn’t exactly resent the fact that he presumed that as she “worked from home” (she was a freelance translator) it didn’t matter to her where they lived, but she did wish it had at least occurred to him. And had he been quite fair to point out that it would be a wonderful place to bring up children? They had only finally become a long-term item, then got married, in their thirties, and though the alarm bells weren’t sounding yet, she knew her biological clock was ticking. He was right in a way, of course. There were woods and wildlife and the sea not far away, and the kind of place where you always imagined happy children roaming free, even if you had never actually seen any. But it would also mean an uncertain future, and being far away from their immediate families. “Oh, come on, Frieda,” he’d coaxed, “It’s not like the last century, and it’s not like it’s Antarctica!” She was definitely beginning to be persuaded. By herself. But she still thought he’d been a bit cavalier about it. At times (and yes, she knew THAT was unfair!) it seemed as if he were more interested in this exciting new venture than he was with her.

Well, at least they were picking up speed. Quite definitely picking up speed. But surely they shouldn’t be; they were approaching a station.

That angle was all wrong.

Some of the passengers swore afterwards they saw the supermarket trolley that had slid down the embankment (or been put there maliciously – they never did find out) and that derailed the train. Frieda didn’t. But she knew she was afraid, horribly afraid, and that it hurt, and that she felt as if the tumbling and turning would never stop, but then it did, and she was aware of a kind-faced young man leaning over her, injured himself, blood streaming from a wound on his forehead, saying, “It’ll be fine. You just stay still, and it’ll be fine. What’s your name, love?”

“Frieda – I’m called Frieda.”

“I’m Joseph – Joe to my friends. Stay with us, Frieda. Help is coming!”

She wanted to stay with him, but things were starting to hurt, to hurt so very much, and it was so much easier to give in and fall asleep. She gently vaguely aware of him levered her out of the shattered carriage, lying on its side, and then of no more.

Frieda’s eyes flickered as she adjusted to the light in the room. Was it really so glaringly bright or was she just imagining it.

“Doctor!” she knew that voice. She knew she knew that voice. “Doctor, she’s waking up!”

“Don’t read too much into it, Kieran. There have been false hopes before, remember.”

“She knows. This time it’s real!”

“Frieda, can you move your right hand?” It was a woman’s voice, firm and gentle, and Frieda saw a white coat before she saw a person. And she moved her right hand. “Can you tell us your name, love?” the woman in the white coat asked. “No need to worry if you can’t!”

“Frieda – I’m called Frieda.”

“Oh, dear God, it’s a miracle,” Kieran exclaimed, and tears were streaming down his cheeks, and Frieda somehow knew, even though there was a great deal she did not know, that he had held back many, many tears.

After about half an hour had passed, she said, “Oh, Kieran, this has aged you!”

“We – have to talk about that, love,” he said, “But not yet.”

“The holiday apartments – I think it’s a splendid idea!”

“We can talk about that later, too.”

“But I want to talk about it NOW.” She knew her voice sounded petulant, but folk had to indulge someone who had woken up from a coma, didn’t they.

“I sold the estate on to a friend of Uncle Bob’s.”

So he hadn’t neglected business dealings while she was out to the world. Still, perhaps it was no bad thing.

“Are – Mum and Dad here?”

“Your Mum will be here in a few minutes. Frieda, there are things – I have to tell you.”

She temporarily drifted back into sleep – she tired easily, which was weird, considering that she’d been asleep for – well, a while, hadn’t she?

The next time she woke up, Kieran was there, and her Mum, and another doctor, a man this time, whom she was absolutely sure she recognised from somewhere, but couldn’t quite think where.

“You’re – not in a regular hospital, Frieda,” the other doctor said, “You’re in a nursing home, though we’ll be moving you very soon to a rehab centre, and you’ll do splendidly.”

“How long ….?”

They had no choice. She had been in a coma for seven years since the train derailed, and people had told Kieran that the case was as good as hopeless, but he had stood his ground, and the young medical student called Joseph Hayward had stood by him – and normally, such a junior link in the chain would have been ignored, but, injured in the train crash himself, and, to all accounts, having acquitted himself heroically, it would have been churlish to discount his views. The sale of the estate had paid for her nursing care in a place that was “like a 4 star hotel”. On one level Frieda took that in, but the number that throbbed and pulsated in her brain, in her miraculously already clear and cogent brain, was not 4, but 7. Even when she’d been a little girl, she’d never really seen the appeal of stories like “Rip van Winkle” and especially “The Sleeping Beauty”. Right into her adulthood she thought that (particularly in the grim Grimms’ version) was one of the most terrifying stories ever written.

They had to tell her that her Dad had died three years ago. He’d had stomach cancer, and Frieda did not indulge in the egotistical delusion that he had died of a broken heart. He had died of rogue cells. But she still could not help thinking that it must have sapped his spirit and his strength. She wasn’t exactly a Daddy’s girl in the classical sense of the word – she and her mother had more in common; the love of reading, the need to escape on long walks, the guilty pleasure of watching TV movies eating a particular snack they both had a massive weakness for called “Cheezy Wotzits” that disappeared as if by magic! But he had always been a loving, quiet, supportive part of her life, defending her tenaciously, and just – well – Dad! Now he would not come into the ward that was more like a hotel room and throw his arm round her and say, “So you’ve decided to wake up, sleepyhead!” He used to call her that sometimes, when she was little, but in a kind, understanding way, making it plain that he appreciated the joys of a lie-in just as much as she did. He’d been a wonderful Dad, but she sometimes thought he was born to be a Grandpa. Now that was gone, of course.

She thought of how old she was, and kept reminding herself, and trying to pretend she needed to remind herself – she didn’t.

“Frieda, you’re still a relatively young woman,” her Mum said, gently, “I’m not going to pretend for one minute I can understand what this is like – I can’t.”

“It will have been harder for you,” she said, and meant it. Dear God, she had watched her husband die, and her daughter seemingly trapped in a living death. “It would have been – easier all round, probably, if I’d died in the train crash.”

“Don’t you DARE say that!” her mother exclaimed, leaping to her feat and clutching the bedstead until her knuckles turned white and blood-drained. Since she awoke, Frieda had been surrounded only by love and kind words, and carefulness, and this was a jolt – and one she supposed she needed.

“Sorry,” she muttered.

“Apology accepted,” her mother said in a tight, tense voice. She drew a few deep, determined breaths, unclenched her hands, and sat down by the bed again. “Listen to me, Frieda. I had two things I most dreaded while you were in the coma. One – well, I don’t need to tell you. The other was that you would be permanently, seriously brain-damaged. It goes without saying that we’d have got you the best of care. But that’s no life – not for you – and not for Kieran, either. Let me tell you this, Frieda. He never looked at another woman! Not all these seven years. I once – it must have been five years ago, your dad was still around, though he was ill – approached the subject as best as I could, and – to say it was awkward would be an understatement of mammoth proportions – and said that we’d understand, and wouldn’t condemn him, not in the least, and he just looked – utterly, totally, mystified. As if I’d suggested he – oh, I don’t know, that he started digging by hand for Australia. We were both silent for – it must have been a good ten minutes, but it seemed like longer. Then he turned to me – and he hugged me to show he wasn’t mad at me, but he said, “Gillian, you said that for the best of reasons, and I thank you for it. But it isn’t going to happen. I’m waiting for Frieda to come back to me.” And you know what – I think inside, he knew you would! And properly! He had hours of dark despair – we all did – but it was as if there was this determined little candle in him that kept burning and wasn’t going to be put out. Joe has been an absolute blessing, too. He saved your life in the train crash and I think in a way he’s saved all our lives, since.”

Joe entered the room at the time, caught the last sentence, blushed deeply, and said, “Oh, Gill, you do lay it on with a trowel!” For the first time, Frieda noticed that though it had faded to a pale line now, and to some extent he hid it with the way he combed his hair, he had a pretty large scar. Though she remembered the dripping blood and knew he’d been hurt in the crash, this drove it home. Ironically, she didn’t have any scars. He made light of it, saying truthfully, “Andy isn’t remotely bothered by it, and that’s what matters.” Andy was his husband. As he told Frieda, he had incredibly mixed feelings about the “train crash hero” tag that still surfaced. It undeniably made the inhabitants of the rather conservative small town where he lived more accepting and pleased about their first official same-sex marriage, but also attracted more attention than they’d have liked.

Though she’d had physiotherapy all the time she was in the coma, and her muscles had never been allowed to atrophy, when she first started learning to walk again, she remembered, with a sad smile, a phrase of her dad’s about someone who was floundering on frosty ground or had taken a bit too much to drink – their legs didn’t seem to belong to them! But she persevered, and though she would likely never run any marathons, within a couple of months she was walking unaided, and had no problems with coordination. There was even talk that she could try to get her driving license back at some point, but that wasn’t a priority.

After all, she had other priorities. Her mother was right. She was still a relatively young woman. She and Kieran had talked it over, and talked it over with Andy, who was a gynaecologist, too, and had wondered if they wanted to risk more heartache when it was as if they had been given a second life. But in the end, they only needed to look at each other to know that they were going to try. She had suffered no serious or permanent damage to her internal organs. And she was still (yes, it was a mantra, but mantras could be both calming and persuasive) a relatively young woman.

Their daughter arrived a little early, but in excellent health and, as Kieran proudly put it, perfectly formed. They were quite glad in a way, once they discovered there were no health issues – otherwise it might have been on the anniversary of the crash, and though they could see the symbolic value of that, decided they were better off without it. They had decided that a boy would have been called Craig, after her father, but there was no recognisable female form of that, and as her mum said, “If you dared to saddle the poor wee thing with some monstrosity like Craigeana, he’d never have forgiven you!” So they settled for the name of his mother, to whom he’d been very close, Naomi. There was never any doubt about her middle name. Josephine. And this time, it wasn’t after the character in the Chalet School books!