Coronation Day
London, June 1953
Coronation Day. June 2nd 1953. A day of national celebration, and Audrey and I had every intention of throwing ourselves into the occasion. With the ardour of (relative) youth, we'd decided to join the throng of people waiting overnight outside Westminster Abbey and had enjoyed the festive air. Even the weather had co-operated, and it had been a dry, mild night, albeit a little overcast.
The atmosphere as the young queen arrived at the Abbey the following morning was electric, and it was very easy to get carried away with the patriotic fervour of those around us. Then, when she exited that great building as our crowned monarch, the cheers from the crowd were deafening. From there, we moved en masse towards The Mall, following the procession as the gold coach returned her to Buckingham Palace.
Audrey and I stayed in the area for the remainder of the day, drinking in the atmosphere and celebrating with the crowd. However, once the fireworks over the Victoria Embankment were over, both of us were pleasantly inebriated, and we decided we'd celebrated enough. As the weather had remained mild and dry, we decided to walk home, rather than fighting the throng of partygoers trying to hail cabs at the end of a long, enjoyable day. It was a decision I've regretted ever since.
Hand in hand, giggling like a pair of thirty-something teenagers, we strolled from the Mall up through Hyde Park. All around us, late revellers were laughing and singing, and the atmosphere remained friendly as the people on the streets began to thin the further we got from the centre of the festivities.
Eventually, we reached the Bayswater Road, only a few hundred yards from home, and after a quick look left and right, we began to cross. I heard the engine first, and glanced to my right. A dark blue sedan was weaving towards us far too fast, tyres squealing as the driver accelerated. An idiot who had celebrated the coronation far too liberally and then tried to drive home? Or something else?
I didn't have time to think. I tried to pull Audrey back towards me, but alcohol had dulled both my reactions and my co-ordination. My hand slipped and she let go, then paused a moment and looked back at me. Suddenly, the adrenaline was pumping, kicking me back into sobriety almost instantly. I grabbed her and tried to pull her out of the way, but it was too late. The car was on us, and the best I could do was try to twist our bodies so that I took the brunt of the impact. I'm sure I screamed as I went up over the bonnet and pain lanced through my body, and somewhere along the way, I lost my grip on her again. Then I was falling back to earth like a puppet whose strings had been cut, my head hit the pavement, and the world went black.
* * * * * *
The next thing I remember was the antiseptic smell of a hospital, and bright lights in the ceiling passing as I was rushed along a corridor. There was a mask over my nose and mouth, and I found myself fighting for breath. I had no idea where I was, or whether the green figures surrounding me were friendly or hostile, and I began to panic. I tried to struggle, but stopped abruptly as agony engulfed the whole of my body.
"Please, sir. Lie still," ordered a stern voice, and I looked up into the face of a middle aged man wearing scrubs. I tried to ask where I was, but the mask stopped me. I wanted to remove it, but when I tried to move my arm towards it, daggers of pain lanced through me again, and I let it flop uselessly back at my side.
"You've been in a serious road accident," the doctor explained, "we don't know if your back or neck are broken, so please just lie still."
I tried to say Audrey's name, but he shushed me and as the pain came over me in waves, the simplest thing to do was to pass out again.
* * * * * *
When I came around again, my bed was surrounded by curtains, and a nurse was taking my pulse. It sounded as if I was in a public ward, but everything sounded muffled. I felt high, and guessed that I'd been given morphine for the pain, which had temporarily subsided to more of a collection of dull aches. My ribs had been strapped and the lower half of my body had been immobilised. I also felt that my skull was swathed in bandages and my right arm was in plaster. But the cotton-wool feeling of the morphine surrounded me, and I felt warm all over.
"Where am I?" I croaked, quietly, noting the surprise on the nurse's face as she realised I was conscious.
"St Mary's Paddington," she answered, "you were brought in after an accident on the Bayswater Road. You were hit by a car."
"Where's my wife?" I asked, but she seemed to ignore me. I reached for her wrist, grabbed it weakly and repeated the question, but she twisted her hand free.
"Please, Mr Cushing. The doctor will talk to you in due course."
I slumped back onto the bed and let her carry on with whatever the Hell it was she was doing. She didn't venture any further conversation. A few minutes later, she disappeared out through the curtains, and a short while after that, my mother came in. Her face was ashen, and the moment I saw her expression I knew that Audrey was dead.
"No..." I croaked, "she can't be gone..."
She sat beside me and took my good hand, squeezing it to offer comfort, but I could feel tears starting in my eyes.
"Ian, I'm so sorry," she said, quietly, "there was nothing they could do. It was too late when the ambulance reached her. They weren't even sure you were going to make it. Apparently they lost you at least once on the operating table, when they were trying to see if you had internal injuries."
I looked up at her, stricken, and the tears began flowing freely down my cheeks, as I felt an empty, gaping wound in my soul. She stroked my forehead with a cool hand, whispering quietly to me, and after a while I drifted back into blessed darkness.
* * * * * *
Consciousness and pain. The warm, fuzzy feeling was gone, and I hurt all over. Mother was dozing in a chair beside my bed, a book open on her lap where it had dropped when sleep had claimed her. As I looked at her, what she'd said to me before came back to mind, and I remembered again that Audrey was gone. I suppose I must have made some kind of sound, as her eyes snapped open and she all but jumped out of the chair. As she did, the book dropped to the floor with a thud.
"Ian...?"
"How long...?" I croaked. My voice was barely audible, and my throat felt so dry that it hurt to talk.
"Seventy-two hours. The doctor thought it was best to keep you out, to give you a chance to start to heal."
She reached for the cup of water on the bedside cabinet and put it to my lips. I took a little of it, swallowing carefully. The moisture eased my throat somewhat.
"I wish I was dead," I answered, and saw a stricken expression cross her face.
"Please, Ian...never say that."
"What do I have to live for?" I said, turning my head away and closed my eyes once more, blinking back another rush of tears and wishing I could just disappear.
"Oh child," she said, almost inaudibly, "you have so very, very much left to do. Be strong, and you'll get through this."
I didn't answer. I didn't want to. Instead, I found myself hoping that if I laid still enough, mother would think I'd gone back to sleep and leave me alone. But this time, unconsciousness didn't come when I wanted it. Instead, my mind was filled with memories of my wife, overlaid with the pain of knowing that I'd never see her again. Even with my eyes closed, I was aware that mother was still there, waiting, and after a while I could hear her crying. Sometime later, I became aware of someone else coming in through the curtains, and opened my eyes to see my grandfather, resting a gentle hand on his daughter's shoulder.
"Just leave me alone," I said, quietly.
"Is that what you really want?" she asked, but I stubbornly refused to answer.
They waited for the best part of five minute, but in the end they stood and walked out. Once they were gone, I just lay there, contemplating the end of the world.
* * * * * *
The next thing I was aware of was the nurse coming in to take some blood samples. Part of me didn't care what she did, but my subconscious began nagging at me that this wasn't right. I turned towards her, opening my eyes, and took hold of her arm, forcing her to remove the syringe.
"What are you doing?" I asked, squeezing hard.
"Please, Mr Cushing. You're hurting me," she answered, and I relaxed my grip slightly, but I still kept hold of her, even though I couldn't understand what I thought was wrong. Where had the paranoia come from?
"What are you doing?"
"Routine checks."
"For what?"
"Your doctor asked me to take some fresh samples."
"I'd like to speak with him."
"I'll get him for you, once I've taken the samples."
"I'd rather you fetched him before that," I said, firmly.
"Release my hand, then. So I can get him."
I did as she asked, and watched, bleary eyed, as she laid the syringe in the dish she'd placed on the bedside cabinet and ducked out through the curtains. About five minutes later, she returned with the doctor I'd seen when I was first being wheeled in.
"Nurse Sutton says you're refusing to co-operate with her."
"Why are you taking blood?" I asked.
"You sustained multiple broken bones in the accident, including a cracked skull, along with some internal injuries. I wanted to keep an eye on your blood work. Make sure there's nothing untoward going on."
"And?"
"And thus far, I'm heartened by your progress. But your injuries were extensive, and it's early days yet. I'd rather be safe than sorry."
"My wife's dead," I stated, flatly.
"I'm afraid so," he replied, his expression sympathetic.
"How."
"I'm not sure you need to know that, Mr Cushing."
"Yes..." I said, grabbing his hand and meeting his gaze, "I do."
"We think she was thrown into the air by the impact. She landed badly and her neck was broken."
"How could she have been thrown into the air? I was the one who went over the bonnet."
"I don't know, sir. There weren't any witnesses to the accident itself. You were found by a passer-by a few minutes later."
"So no-one saw the car?"
"Not unless you did...but the police will ask you that in due course."
"Did she suffer?"
"No. It must have been very quick."
I spent a few moments taking in what he had said, before saying, quietly.
"It was blue."
"I'm sorry?"
"The car. It was blue. Tell them."
"Do you remember anything else?"
"It was some kind of sedan."
"I'll let them know," he said, "now, will you let Nurse Sutton take that blood?"
I thought for a moment, then nodded, regretting my earlier outburst of paranoia. Why would they be out to get me?
"Very good, Mr Cushing," he said, sounding satisfied, and walked out leaving me with the nurse once more.
* * * * * *
I was in hospital for three more weeks before the doctors were willing to consider releasing me: my progress was slower than they'd hoped, especially when they referred to my medical records from '44, and that obviously had them worried. Not that I particularly cared. I didn't have anywhere to be anyway. Various people visited during the time, including my mother, my grandparents and a couple of members of the Group, but most of the time I lay there, virtually uncommunicative unless asked a direct question.
Images of Audrey played constantly in my mind, although they soon became interspersed with memories of the crash itself. I hadn't really remembered much about it initially, apart from the car of course, and even that wasn't really helpful. How many blue sedans were there on the streets of London? Thousands probably. But as time passed, I realised that the face of the man who had hit us had been graven in my subconscious. I didn't know him, but he was clean shaven, with sandy brown hair and well-defined features. Somehow, I also knew in my gut that he hadn't been drunk.
I gave the description to the police of course, and even settled down with one of their artists to come up with what I thought was a decent likeness of the man, but as the days went by, they found no sign of him. The only progress they made was with the car, which was found in an underground car park off the Edgware Road. It had been wiped clean of fingerprints and our blood had been washed away, but the front grille was badly damaged and the impression matched the bruising on my back.
Our families postponed the funeral until I was able to be there, albeit on crutches as a broken right hip and a compound fracture of the left lower leg rather cut down my mobility. Still, at least the initial diagnosis of a broken pelvis had proven to be nothing more than bruising and a slight crack.
I remember being helped into Wittersham Parish Church by Laurence Rathbone one wet, miserable day at the beginning of July. Apart from Audrey's family, he was the only member of the Group who was at the service: not because they didn't wish to say their goodbyes to her, but because they would do that in their own way later, once I felt up to it.
Tea at the house afterwards was torture for me: so many friends and acquaintances offering their condolences and treating me with kid gloves. Most of them had been at our wedding, eight years before, which only made things worse. As soon as I realistically could, I picked up the crutches and made my painful way out onto the terrace, where I leaned against damp stone balustrade, looking out at the garden. Everything was shining wet with the rain that had only stopped falling about half an hour before, and the air smelt clear and damp. Audrey would have loved it.
Laurence joined me a few minutes later.
"What's wrong, Ian?" he asked, quietly.
"That should be bloody obvious," I snapped, angry that he'd disturbed my solitude, but rather than be put off, he laid a comforting arm over my shoulder.
"I understand your loss...truly I do, but this...helplessness...isn't like you."
"It's just hard to motivate myself to do anything. I just keep asking myself why her? Why did she have to die?"
"There's no way to answer that, my friend."
"But why couldn't it have been me?"
"And then I'd be standing here with her, and she'd be asking the same questions. Would that really have been better?"
I paused for a moment, shrugging off his arm, before deciding to voice the fear that had been growing inside me since I realised that the driver wasn't drunk.
"Laurence, I don't think it was an accident."
"The police considered that," he replied, "but they've not found any evidence to support it.
"What about the fingerprints? Who would wipe away fingerprints other than a criminal?"
"Someone who knew he'd done a terrible thing, and was afraid of being caught?"
"Who has still never been found? Surely, if it had been an accident, he would have come forward by now? Wouldn't his conscience be bothering him? If I had run down two strangers in the street, I couldn't have lived with myself. I'd have had to tell someone."
"You're an honourable man. That's not true of everyone."
"You don't believe me, do you?" I challenged.
"I don't know," he admitted, quietly.
"Why not?" Don't you trust my instincts anymore? You used to."
"My problem is this. How did the driver know you'd be just there, just then? From what you've said, you weren't on a timetable. You just had enough and went home."
"Maybe someone followed us..."
"Through those crowds? That would have needed a team and one heck of a dollop of luck. Why are you so sure you're right?"
"I can't explain it," I said, angrily, "I just know."
"Ian, I know you're trying to make sense of what happened. But while it's human nature to want to find someone to blame, the reality of it is that sometimes bad things happen to good people. There doesn't always need to be a reason."
"But she was such a gentle, decent, honourable person. Surely it wasn't her time?"
"Who knows what goes on in the consciousness of the powers that be? You should know that by now. Know to respect that."
"Screw the powers that be," I hissed angrily, "If this is the way they get their kicks, then they don't deserve to be respected."
"That's a dangerous thing to say."
"Laurence, she didn't deserve this. I would have given everything to protect her...but it wasn't enough."
"I know you would, but that wasn't to be."
We stood in silence for a few minutes, looking out over the gardens, before he tapped me on the shoulder and indicated the French windows.
"We should go back inside. A lot of those people are here for you."
"I'd rather not," I answered, quietly, "just leave me be for now."
He looked at me then shrugged.
"As you wish," he said, quietly and headed back inside.
* * * * * *
Even after the funeral, it was some time before I really began to feel myself again, either physically or mentally. With hindsight, I could probably be accused of having been self-indulgent in my misery, although at the time it didn't feel that way. At the time I felt as if my world had ended. Worse still, the part of me that felt like I had died with Audrey meant that psychologically, I just couldn't see the point in healing. As a result, my convalescence was far slower than after Berlin, when I'd had something to live for, and my doctor began to wonder whether I would ever recover.
My dark mood wasn't helped by the fact that as time passed, it became abundantly clear that the driver who ran us down would never be found. It just made me more convinced that what had happened wasn't an accident, but I didn't dare to voice my suspicions again. If Laurence hadn't believed me, no one would, and that realisation left me feeling cold and bitter.
I spent most of my time at Wittersham House, sometimes reading, but often just sitting in the gardens, trying to warm my bones in the July sun and never quite succeeding. There was no point trying to go to the office, as I wouldn't have been able to concentrate anyway. Grandfather was very understanding, and distributed my workload among the other solicitors in the firm. Mother, on the other hand, became more and more frustrated with me. It was obvious that she thought I should be getting back to my life, and kept trying to persuade me that I still had a lot to live for. The trouble was, just then, I didn't see it that way.
The turning point came in mid-July, when Peter Rose invited me to stay at Lyminge House. I think part of his reasoning was so that I knew I was still part of his family, and of the Group, even though Audrey was gone. Obviously, both he and Audrey's brother Jonathan were grieving, as I was, but somehow they seemed more composed about it, which perhaps brought home to me more than mother's chivvying, the fact that it was time to get myself together.
Whatever his motivation was for inviting me, once I was there, the Group started helping me come to terms with what had happened. Their ministrations were gentle but persistent, and it helped that I could relax in their company and take comfort in our shared beliefs. Be myself, in a way. I just couldn't do that during the frequent visits my mother had arranged for me from the parish priest. I loved my mother and my grandparents, don't get me wrong, but the Group just wasn't something I could talk to them about. They wouldn't have understood.
The atmosphere of the estate was calm and peaceful, protected as it was by old, old wards, which made for a more congenial place for my spirit to begin to heal. Towards the end of July, even I could feel the improvement. I was beginning to walk with a stick rather than crutches, and the persistent aches and pains which had plagued me as my other broken bones had healed began to fade. I even started exercising my arm, to try to build up its strength again. By the end of the month, I was well enough to take the next step, and we decided that Lammas should be the time when we should meet to remember Audrey, so they could say goodbye to her in their way.
My father-in-law helped me out to the grotto as twilight fell that evening, and after the usual greetings and counter-signs had been exchanged, and the wards had been set, he settled me in my place in the circle. Freddie and Caroline, the priest and priestess, directed proceedings as usual, but they let me be the one who guided our remembrance of her. In the warmth of the grotto, the smell of incense permeating the air, and the calmness of the place imbuing me, I found myself speaking of her - of the love I felt for her, the times we had shared, and the memories she had left behind which would always be mine - far more rationally than I had managed at any point since her death. I even felt the bitterness about my suspicions of what had really happened retreating to a dull ache, rather than the festering sore they'd been before.
Was her spirit there as we met and remembered her? I don't know, but I won't deny that it was possible. What I know for sure is that as I spoke I could see her in my mind's eye, and in her brisk, no-nonsense way, she told me that it was time I bucked up and pulled myself together. In that moment, I think I loved her more than ever, but at the same time, I knew that she was right.
My feeling was reinforced as the others began to speak of her as well, and reinforced how much all of them had cared for her. Knowing that the loss wasn't mine alone tipped the balance. By the time her father - the last of us to speak - fell quiet, what I was remembering most was the good times, rather her death, and I knew that I would be able to move on with my life without betraying her memory.
We sat in silence for a little while, and then Caroline led us in the closing incantations, before finally breaking the circle. Once she was done, Peter got to his feet and offered me his hand and helped me up.
"How do you feel?" he asked, gently.
"Better," I answered, "you?"
"Happier," he replied, "I know she's moved on, and that she's gone to a better place."
"I'm sorry. I've been acting like a self-absorbed schoolboy these last few weeks."
"You were angry. That was all too apparent."
"Weren't you?"
"Angry? For a little while. But then I realised that she wouldn't have wanted that."
"You're a better man than I."
"Not better. Just different," he said, with a shrug, "Ian, know that you'll always have a home here if you want it. Even though she's gone, you're still my son-in-law. Still part of my family."
"Thank you. I'll remember that."
"You might want to apologise to your mother, though," he suggested, "you really were a bit of a brat to her."
And I could tell he was only half joking.
"Yes, I probably should."
"I think our work here is done," Caroline said, with a smile, as she watched our exchange, and we slowly began making our way back to the house.