Christmas to Come: a heartbreaking coming of age saga set in London's East End by Carol Rivers (best motivational novels txt) 📗

at the doctor. This just wasn't possible. Hospitals these days were so well equipped. Miracles happened daily. People were saved by new drugs, new techniques and wonderful inventions. He had read it often enough in the newspapers, even knew of a few rapid cures himself. Joyce had been alive a short while ago, as fit as himself.

'I'm sorry, Mr Bryant. There really was nothing more we could do.'

'But why - ' Ronnie demanded, anger and desperation in his voice as he stared at the older man sitting on the other side of the desk. 'Why did it have to happen to Joyce?'

The doctor paused, his voice patient but firm as he replied. 'As I have been trying to explain, there were complications caused by the pregnancy. We tried to stop the internal bleeding but I'm afraid it was too late.'

Ronnie finally heard what was being said to him but he didn't understand. All he could do was keep shaking his head, his mouth open as the dry hospital air poured in. 'I thought she just had a bad stomach. Joyce thought so too. Said it would soon wear off. How could we have been so wrong?' Ronnie suddenly felt himself crumble. In his mind he could hear himself trying to persuade Joyce to let him call the doctor. And each time she had said no. If only he'd done as he thought best.

'I really am so sorry,' the doctor said finally without offering another explanation or even telling him not to blame himself. But the blame was squarely on his shoulders and he knew it. He should have taken action and might have saved his wife's life.

Ronnie dragged up his eyes. 'Where is she?'

He followed the doctor down the corridor and entered a small sideward. Joyce was lying there, his Joyce. Her eyes were closed and her dark hair fell around her head. She looked very small, even fragile.

'Would you like me to stay with you?'

Ronnie shook his head and after the doctor left, he sat in the chair, staring at the woman with whom he had expected to share his future. 'Oh, Joyce, what have I done?'

He took her hand and whispered he loved her. Their life had been sweeter than he imagined possible. They had been friends as well as man and wife. If he hadn't wanted a son and heir so much, she might still be alive. Yes, it was all his fault. Joyce must have known in her heart that it was too dangerous for her to have a baby and yet she had given in to him.

He pressed his lips on her forehead and whispered, 'Wherever you are Joyce, I love you. And I'm sorry. So sorry. Please forgive me.'

Emotion filled him as he stared at her face. Even in death she was beautiful. He didn't want to be without her. How was he going to go on?

He was not a man to give in easily to emotion. But now the tears seemed to come all at once. And for the last time on this earth, he held his wife close, his tears falling on to her cold face.

Micky was on a high, sweating a little with the rush of the fix, but on a high.

It was a cold, cloudless Saturday in January and the earth in the churchyard was hard with frost. The mourners at Joyce's funeral were gathered round the open grave wrapped up in their expensive black coats.

Micky narrowed his eyes thoughtfully at his grief stricken brother, centre stage. It was the opportune time to put his plan into action. Today he was going to redeem himself with the family.

He was going to eat humble pie if it choked him. If the clubs had worked out, he wouldn't have to grovel like this, but a run of bad luck had dogged his footsteps since the job at Downey Manor. It was that Terry who had started the ball rolling by getting himself shot. And then Milo, the ungrateful bugger, had to be silenced. Not that Micky had done the deed, but he'd had to pay full whack for a result.

And now he was being shafted by McNee again! The nutter was a law unto himself, a powerful nutter it was true and as likely to blast a man's chest out for no reason as to shake his hand. How the hell he had got mixed up with him, he didn't know. Micky pulled back his head self-righteously. Some things in life just didn't seem fair.

As Micky stood by his wife, he was planning his strategy. He'd have to make it right with Bella first. Much to his surprise, she was on to a winner with the coffee bar. All those young kids had money to burn. The problem was he wasn't seeing any of it. He'd almost burnt his boats that day when he found Mary Doyle sitting in his chair in his house scoffing his food. A man's home was his castle or supposed to be. But there sat the money-grabbing old biddy, her hand hot on Bella's roubles. Cash that he was fully entitled to.

The coffin disappeared into the hole and he heard a few sobs. Personally, he didn't understand what all the fuss was about. Funerals gave him the creeps. They were expensive and time consuming. Take Terry for instance, buried just a few plots away. No one ever came up here now except Bella. The kid was forgotten, remembered only as a half-wit, a lame duck. If he had done what he was told and not wandered off that night at Downey, he would be alive today.

People brought trouble on themselves. Like old Joyce. She was nice enough, but it was her choice to latch on to Ronnie and have a kid. If she'd gone back on the game, she'd still be alive now.

Micky glanced furtively at his brother. Ronnie should think himself lucky. He was a free man now and not short of a few bob.