Just a little warning that abuse is mentioned in this chapter.

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Chapter 11

Saturday 6rd October 2018

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86 days and counting. 86 days since her son had died. A little bit more than 12 weeks. All the things she had accumulated for him – the coat, the little clothes and blankets, the soft toys, among other things - over the twenty-eight weeks she had been pregnant, she had hidden away in the room that had been planned to be his. She didn't have the heart to throw it away, and yet she knew she had to. It was part of the letting go process.

It was a Saturday, her day off. It once had been a rare, once in a blue moon event but after spending four weeks off grieving, her home felt like a prison. She intended to go into work anyway and help out in any way she could. She had been taken off clerical duties and could now treat patients. She was still wearing her pyjamas as she walked down stairs to have breakfast. Her flat felt empty, and she was considering moving – an attempt to leave the ghost behind.

She collected the post from the mat and made her way to the kitchen. She opened the first letter – a bill – as she waited for the toast to ding, and the kettle to boil. Both of these things happened at the same time, as she tossed the bill into a pile of them under the table. She buttered the toast and brought it over to the table, a coffee in the other hand. A newspaper and another letter were under her arm. She set them down and sat down. She took a bite of a triangle of toast, and grabbed the final letter. She caught the headline on the newspaper. It was another cut to the NHS budget, and she sighed. They were stretched as they were.

She pulled the envelope open and nearly massacred it. She had never been good at opening envelopes, and she remembered the time when one of her med school buddies had told her she was getting a stack of sealed envelopes for Christmas, just to annoy her. In the end, she hadn't but the memory made her smile.

She slipped the letter out. It read;

Dear Elisabeth,

I know this is out of the blue and I haven't seen you for more than twenty years, but I had to send this to you. I had to send you this, don't you understand? I have to apologise for all my sins before I die. I committed sins against you and now I am apologising.

Beth read the letter with a sense of unease. Something about the letter was familiar, the way it was written.

It's your father, Liz. Tom Walling.

Beth nearly spat out the coffee she was drinking. The spray hit the table, and her legs. Of all the people who had hurt her in the past, she hadn't expected her father to be the one to send her a letter to apologise.

I'm sorry for what I did to you.

Beth shook her head. He must be stupid to think that sorry would cover what he had done to her, how he had damaged her. The emotional abuse – the words he had screamed at her when he was drunk - the physical abuse – the slaps and kicks when no one was looking and always in places where no one could see the bruises – had broken her almost beyond repair. It was one of the reasons that she had befriended Jac. She sensed a kindred spirit, a friend who understood what she had gone through, because Jac had suffered it herself.

Then, one day, when she was eleven, her father had abandoned her and her mother. Beth had finally thought that she could be happy. Then her mother had died in a car crash a little under a year after her father had left. That had broken her further. She had been an orphan at twelve years old. She had joined the care home six weeks after she had died, after her father hadn't been tracked down. Beth knew that if he had, she wouldn't have lived with him. She wouldn't have gone willingly back to the horrors. She turned back to the letter.

I'm sorry about what I did to your mother.

Beth hadn't suffered the worst of the abuse. No, that had been her mother, Caroline. She had been beaten on a regular basis, and he had screamed at her when he was in his drunken rages, calling her every name under the sun. She remembered when she had been very little, no more than five or six, her father had been completely, utterly hammered and he had come home and demanded that her mother made him dinner. When she had been washing up, Caroline had dropped a plate and it had smashed. Beth had been there when her father – her own flesh and blood – had started to attack her mother with the broken bits of plate. Beth had fled up stairs, scared that he would turn his anger on her, and she had hidden under her duvet. After a while, she had heard the door slam and she guessed that her father had left.

She had crept down stairs and found her mother, covered in cuts and her own blood. Beth had called the ambulance, and it had come, with its flashing lights and sirens, and they had saved her mother. She had ridden in the ambulance and she had stayed by her mother's side throughout the night, until her father had turned up and brought her home. She had been scared out of her mind. He had been sober by then, and he had acted the part magnificently. He had acted the horrified husband. The doctors had suspected abuse, but when her mother hadn't admitted what he had done to her, there was no way to prove it was him, no proof.

That was the day that Beth had decided to become a doctor. She wanted to help people like her mother. Save one life, as she couldn't fix her own. She was too broken. She turned back to the letter. Her toast had gone cold, two triangles still left on her plate. She wasn't hungry anymore.

Please, you have to forgive me. I am truly sorry. I never would have hurt you if it wasn't for the drink. You probably won't believe me, Liz, but I haven't touched a drop of the hideous stuff since I left you. I've always wondered about you, Liz. What you managed to become, how you chose to live your life. But I had to leave you, I had to release myself from my spiral of addiction. I couldn't do that with you and your mother watching. I had to have a new start. I got my new start. After I divorced you mother, about a year afterwards, I met a woman called Jane. Jane became my wife, and you have two half-siblings, a boy and a girl. I did it right that time. No drink. I love you and I love my other children.

Six months ago I was diagnosed with cancer. It's terminal. I only have a few weeks left, Liz. I had to right my wrongs. I have to lay my ghosts to rest. It took me a while to find you, but I found you. You have to forgive me. I am an old and sick man now, Liz. I need your forgiveness. Please come and see me. I am in St James' Hospital, on ward eight.

Please.

Your father (Tom Walling.)

She finished the letter and took a gulp of cold coffee. She wondered if Tom Walling – she couldn't bear to call him her father – knew that her mother - Caroline Wilkes, then Walling when she had married, and then Wilkes again after her marriage ended – was dead. Beth didn't think so. She mulled over his offer. 'Come and see me' he had begged. He was dying. The man who had terrorised her childhood, and her nightmares for years afterwards, was dying. She felt a sense of relief wash over her. Would she go and see him? She realised that she must. She had ghosts that she had to put to rest as well, no matter how much she hated him.

So that was that. She was going to see him. She was going to confront her father, who for twenty years had been the man who haunted her nightmares.

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St James' hospital was crowded but Beth found her way to Ward Eight quickly. The building was laid out in similar style to Holby. She entered Ward Eight and looked around for a few seconds, clutching her hand bag tighter. A blonde doctor came up to her. "I'm Miss Jenkins, how can I help you?" She asked.

"I'm here to see Tom Walling. He said he was on Ward Eight." Even saying his name made her feel slightly sick.

"It's not quite visiting hours, but there not long away. He's over there, in bed fourteen." The doctor told her. She went to turn away and Beth saw her name tag; her name was Fran Jenkins. She turned back. "I've met all of the old man's family. Who are you?"

"His daughter." Beth said, walking away. As she walked up the ward, patients with varying conditions on either side, she saw him and stopped in her tracks. He was twenty years older and thinning grey hair. Wrinkles altered his face, but she could still see the man she had known as her father. He could be no more than fifty but he looked more like eighty. She felt sick. He looked asleep, but as she came to his bed, his eyes opened and he looked straight at her. She felt as if she was seeing a ghost. His eyes hadn't changed in twenty years. They were bright blue, but Beth had usually seen them dulled with the intoxication of alcohol. She felt a shiver go down her spine as he started speaking.

"Liz? Liz? You came." He said, his voice croaking but Beth could hear the joy in his tone. "Sit down, sit down." He gestured at a chair. Beth hesitated, but then sat. The man in bed seemed quite different to her father. He seemed harmless, but still, she was wary. "How are you?"

"Fine." Beth said, curtly.

"And your mother? How's Caroline?" He asked.

"Dead."

The smile on Tom Walling's face slipped off. "Dead? When?"

"About a year after you left." Beth said, coldly.

"What's happened to you over the years, then Liz?"

"Stop calling me Liz. It's Beth." Her father had been the only person in her life to call her Liz. Her mother had called her Ellie and so had Neil. To everyone else, she was either Elisabeth – which she hated, but not as much as Liz – or Beth, which she preferred.

"I'm sorry, Li-Beth." He corrected himself. "It's Beth." He spoke to himself, Beth guessed. "So what has happened?" Beth was also wary about telling this man anything about her life. Whatever happened, this was going to be the last time she ever saw him. Before she could answer though, a nurse and a doctor appeared.

"Hello, Mr Walling. How are you today?"

"Tickety-boo, Mr Cole. Let me introduce you to Elisabeth Walling-" Beth cut him off.

"Wilkes. My last name is Wilkes." She saw anger flash in eyes, but when he turned to back to the doctor, a smile was on his face again. "Elisabeth Wilkes. She is my daughter, from a previous relationship." Mr Cole nodded in her direction, as the nurse finished what she was doing and left.

"Are you ready for your operation tomorrow?"

"As ready as I'll ever be." The doctor left the father and daughter along. "You took her name." Her father said, darkly. "So what have you been doing for the last twenty years, then?"

"I went to med school and became a doctor." She had decided to tell him as little as possible. "I got married but I divorced four years ago." He nodded. She wasn't sure if she wanted to talk about Andy. "I had a son. He died recently."

Her father's eyes filled with joy. "I had a grandson. I had a grandson." He said, marvelling at it. "I'm sorry that he died." From the way he spoke, Beth had no doubt he wasn't sorry at all. "How old was he?"

"He was a baby." Beth struggled to find the words. "I don't want to talk about myself anymore. What do you want with me?" Through out their talk, she hadn't called him dad or father, and he picked up on this.

"Called me Dad. I wanted to see you. Can't a dying man have his final wish?" He asked her, his tone sounding sulky.

"Do your new family know about your old life? Me, Mum?" Beth asked the question that had been bugging her since she had read the letter.

"Not yet. I was going to tell them when you were here. I knew you would come." A silence descended on them. Beth had nothing to speak to this man about, and she was just about to leave when he spoke again. "Do you remember the pink princess quilt you used to have when you were little?" Beth didn't want to be sucked into the past. There were too many bad memories there.

"I don't want to talk about."

"Shame. We are." His tone was cold; mirroring her's from the start of their conversation. It was then she realised that he hadn't changed. He might have kicked the drink, but inside he was still the cruel, twisted, bitter man he was when she was a child.

"Do you beat your new wife and children, or were me and Mum and exception?" Anger bubbled on his face.

"I have done nothing of the sort. I loved your mother-"

"You loved her enough to beat every night you came home drunk?" Anger twisted his face in to an ugly frown. "And me. You would hit me when it suited you." Her tone was icy. She couldn't let emotion in. "I hate you. I only came to see if you were the same sick man you were when you left. You proved me right." She stood but he reached out a bony hand and grabbed her wrist. She felt a terror she hadn't felt for years overwhelm her.

"You can't get away, Liz. You were always mine. My daughter. My flesh and blood. I love you." His voice was low, but Beth could hear a menacing note to it. "I could always do what I wanted with you. You were weak and you still are. You've not changed at all in twenty years." His grip tightened and she could feel her arm going numb. For a second, it reminded her of when Neil had grabbed her arm in the bar the night of the engagement party. But then she was a small child, and her father was about to hit her for doing something wrong. He had the same look in his eyes and it terrified her. It had been a bad decision coming here. She tensed herself, but then she heard feet tapping on the floor. She looked up and saw a woman in her late forties, with dark hair and dark eyes. There were two people next to her, one either side, and it was obvious that they were her children. The boy looked about ten or fifteen years younger than Beth and had dark-blonde hair. Her father had had dirty blond hair when he was younger. The girl looked very similar to Beth. She had dark hair and dark eyes and something about her face shape was also similar. These were her half-brother and sister.

The older woman – her father's new wife – spoke. "Oh, hello, who are you?" Her father had dropped her wrist by now, and she was rubbing it to regain circulation.

"No one." Beth said, sharply. She turned and walked the ward, and she was sure that they were watching her as she walked away. She got to the end of the ward and fell heavily against a window sill. All her limbs felt as if they were made of lead. She turned back, and she saw the daughter watching her. Beth knew it was time to leave.

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