Fields Of Gold
"Constance, this is your mother calling, you need to come home, your father, well you're fathers gone"
The words had trilled out on the answering machine, the end to a long day, and the start of a long night. A terribly long, grieving night, the bond between a father and his child is something unbreakable, magical, spiritual, not to be disillusioned by simplicities of going to school, university, travelling the world. She'd done all of these things and more, taken his word as god's, drank up his spiritual knowledge, honoured him as a daughter could, seeing his beaming face as she collected her degree, his joy at regaling to everyone about how she was to become a top surgeon, at how she'd snagged herself an equally charming husband, someone big in Hertfordshire. The son of the great Sir Arthur Beauchamp, ranking high in the army, sending his sons to Eton, equally pleased at the engagement, having the daughter he'd never had. She'd been lucky in that respect, lucky to hold the closest of close bond to her father, heeding his advice to get an education, get a life better than theirs in Hackney, she'd spent hours with him, figuring out all her problems, getting her good grades, a scholarship to The Royal Masonic School for Girls.
It hadn't been until she'd turned 28 that things had turned sour, gentle persuasion from her mother had resulted in their sorry attempts at having a baby, her lack of want, his lack of desire, the two mixing in the feeble excuse of "sorry mum, I'm infertile" met by a grunt of distaste from Annie, her mum, and a oh well sweetheart from her dad, the one who'd always faired kinder on his daughter, preferring her happiness to protestations of motherhood, always the one to see no wrong in her. She'd loved him unconditionally for it, dropped everything to run to his side no matter what the problem had been, need to see her, want of some medical advice for an old friend, the chance to take her for a walk in the park, remember the old times, pick up something from town for him, done anything she could for him, to a point.
When she'd moved back home to London years before Holby had become an option they'd discovered the fateful news that something wasn't right with him, with her daddy, her provider, he'd grown more forgetful, less like himself, contracting, if that was the correct word, Alzheimer's. She knew too much about it, knew it would slowly ravage him of his soul, control his every move, turn him into a nobody, a helpless form who wouldn't recognize her, know her, appreciate her. It was that moment she'd taken charge, told her mum that she would buy them somewhere quiet in the country, away from the busy dangers of London. Her mum hadn't liked this, only agreeing for the sake of David, wanting to have him for as long as she could, better able to care for him in a close knit village, worry less if he got out of the house, enjoy summers more away from the dust in London.
When it had finally grown too much for her mum to cope with Connie had paid for him to go into a nursing home close by, too close for her liking, it hurt to see him waste to nothing, not know her face when she'd gone to visit him, call for Annie instead, lie uncomfortably in the relaxed arm chair, cry for Connie when she was next to him. Her visits had become less frequent, she couldn't hack it, stand the pressure, hiding from the hurtful truth, being a coward and moving to Holby, a distance far enough to merit the sporadic visits, close enough to be by his side if it were needed.
BUT she hadn't been there at the end, hadn't been there when he'd needed her, his little girl had been at the other side of the country worrying about her husbands infidelity to be with her father on his death bed. Not knowing it had been so imminent when her mum had called to tell her he was going downhill fast, she'd shrugged it off as an intermittent lapse, that he'd be ok within the fortnight and if not she'd be down like a flash, not caring to provide reasoning for her lack of appearance, not wanting to worry anyone about her minor problems, stoically Connie, always had been, always was.
The door slammed on her reverie, her husband intruding with his clumsy thoughts on the situation, her curled up form, wrapped in a big blanket, clasping a glass of wine, a tear shed from her eye. "Bad day at work?" he enquired, leaving his briefcase in the hall, taking a trip to the kitchen to replenish a glass of his own tipple, stronger than hers. Returning he found her gazing to nothing, to space and beyond, searching for heaven, searching for her dad.
"Not really" she shrugged, curling tighter still as he sat beside her, not touching her in the slightest, more interested with the whisky in his hand, "I got a call from my mum though"
"Mmmm, what did she say?" he grumbled, taking up the paper
"That my father passed away" Connie sighed, turning her tear stained face to look at him, gauge his pointless reaction
"It was for the best sweetheart," Michael replied simply, not glancing from the paper as he spoke
"Is that all you have to say on the matter, sweetheart" the last word spoke volumes of contempt flooding into her, at quite possibly the most vulnerable she could have been, he'd shot her down, crumbling her fragile hope to nothing, his grumbling response had been the final straw for her as she'd run out of the room, out of the house, like the spoilt child she'd always been, never needing to seek attention until now, until the first night she'd been alone, without her daddy to keep watch on her, one half of the protective blanket given to each child, the quilt torn, the fields gold with the dim sunshine of dusk, the sky even brighter with her twinkling star, gracing the heavens, for its first night alone