Time Runs Out

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

A captivating love story from the 100-million-copy bestselling Queen of Romance, first published in 1965, and available now for the first time in eBook.

This brilliant novel by Denise Robins is a warm, human story of mother-love in a framework of terrifying suspense. When her eleven-year-old son Bing is badly burned in a train accident, Christine Ross is told by the plastic surgeon that only one thing can save the boy's life - a skin-graft from an identical twin. The information plunges Christine into a twofold crisis: To reveal to her unsuspecting husband the truth that he is not Bing's father. To find, somewhere in the wide world, the missing twin - with only two weeks in which to do it. As time runs out...

This novel is one of the three Mayflower books originally published under the name of Julia Kane - the others are Dark Secret Love and The Sin was Mine.

Release date: January 1, 1942

Publisher: Doubleday, Doran & Co.

Print pages: 192

Sample

BING might be going to die.

On this wet June morning, I panicked. I know I did.

Steve and I sat in the waiting-room of a hospital to which our little son was taken three days ago. I, who Steve always thought resourceful, couldn’t stop shaking. I jittered. I couldn’t sit down like Steve who huddled in a chair, flipping through the glossy pages of Country Life. I kept walking up and down, breathing noisily, stupidly.

“Oh, Steve,” I kept saying, “oh, Steve, I can’t bear it!”

He was sorry for me. He looked at me with compassion at first and tried to comfort me. Then he gave it up. I could see that he was a little put out because I was behaving in this way. He wasn’t used to hysteria from me.

He often pulled my leg because I was petite and had a snub nose and big eyes and looked as though I ought to have been a helpless sort of female. But I wasn’t and Steve relied on me; so did Bing. In fact, until today, I had always been able to cope with tough situations.

When I was fifteen, for instance, my father was killed in an air crash. He was a test pilot. Mummy and I were watching a display. Mummy fainted and had to be taken away in an ambulance. They said that I dealt with that grim situation quite creditably. Later when my mother died and I was left at the age of nineteen with nobody behind me but an invalid aunt and a few hundred pounds, I coped with that. I earned my own living as secretary to a book publisher, a pleasant job that I kept until I met Steve and married him.

I thought he looked ghastly this morning. I expect we both did. We must have aged overnight—ever since the Sister in charge of the ward where they had taken Bing had told us the terrible truth.

Bing had been so badly burned in that ghastly train accident, they didn’t expect him to pull through.

I thought about the day of the accident. Steve was down with old Simcox, our poultry man in the egg-cleaning house, when Bing went off to that school treat. Bing woke early. He got me out of my bed just before seven, to start packing his picnic lunch. I remembered I told him to pipe down because the train didn’t leave East Bramfield station until nine and it wouldn’t take two whole hours for me to pack his lunch or for him to eat his breakfast. But he was irrepressible. He danced around the kitchen after me, looking newly scrubbed and shining in his pressed grey flannel shorts and clean white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

He had tow-coloured hair—he was as fair as Steve was dark—all rough and standing up like a thatch. Freckles over his forehead and nose. Big blue eyes shining at me through those absurd glasses which gave him an owlish look. AND that wide grin which showed two uneven teeth and made him look even more comic.

He kept talking in that slightly high-pitched voice that goes with excitement.

“Mum, do you think it’s going to keep fine?”

“Mum, how many times do you think Mr. Perkins will let us swim?”

“Mum, do you know they say we’re an absolute train-full and it’s running specially to take us from the school?”

I remembered every word. I couldn’t stop thinking about that shining-eyed little boy—and especially those smooth bare brown arms. Oh God, to think that they’d told us that there was hardly an inch of him that hadn’t been burnt. Hardly an inch. It was enough to make one sick and shudder.

Suddenly I asked myself in a senseless fury why I had bothered to pray to the God who had allowed such an appalling accident to take place. What harm had those hundred-and-twenty boys, or their masters, or the women connected with the treat, ever done HIM?

Just a load of innocent kids being taken for a day’s outing to the sea on the anniversary of the day the school was first opened.

The train was crashed into by an express before it ever reached their objective. What had been a lot of carriages full of happy, singing, joking people, ended as overturned coaches, dead bodies and a lot of screaming, injured, terrified children. It was as one onlooker described “worse than a battlefield”. Nobody of course knew how the accident had come about although it was rumoured that it was due to some mechanical trouble with the signals. Anyhow it had happened.

By a miracle there were only ten dead, and twenty injured out of that large number of children. But Bing was not part of the miracle. Our son was listed as one of the critically injured.

The first we knew about it was when a telephone call came through from the local police. Steve and I downed tools and rushed to the hospital, feeling that the bottom had dropped out of our world.

My prowling up and down the waiting-room, and repeated sniffs, seemed to irritate Steve. He raised his head and spoke to me sharply.

“Try to relax, Chris. You can’t do any good by giving way to your nerves, so please do sit down, darling.”

I couldn’t. I was thinking—thinking about Bing.

He had just passed his eleven-plus, was not yet eleven—such a little boy, really, although he liked to be treated as a big one.

His birthday was on March 28th. I still remember what a wonderful party we had. It was not too cold to be out of doors and Bing was good at arranging games. He had many friends. He went to day school—a good one not far from our house. We had table tennis before tea.

Adorable Bing! Always up to some kind of mischief and no worse for that. Neither Steve nor I wanted a goody-goody little boy. We liked it because Bing showed strength of will and had an original mind. He was always planning something, or arguing about something, or making something.

“I say, Mum—look what I’ve done—”

How many times had I heard him say that? I suddenly shut my eyes very tightly and sent up a desperate prayer to God—that God to whom I prayed far too little when things were going well.

“Let me hear Bing say that again. Oh, please God let me hear it again. Don’t take him from us!” I muttered the words in a voice that Steve couldn’t have heard because he didn’t lift his head from the magazine. Then as I thought more about Bing, the tears began to flow down my cheeks.

Steve spoke to me sharply: “Have a cigarette and try to look at a magazine, darling. They’re having this conference about Bing. It won’t help for you to carry on like this.”

“I don’t often carry on,” I reminded him. “You know I don’t.”

His expression softened. He put out a hand to me.

“Poor darling. Don’t imagine I don’t understand. It’s murder—not knowing.”

Now it was his turn to give way to nerves. He went red, snatched his fingers away from mine, and stared down at his Country Life. I had an idea that he might be crying. I had never seen Steve cry but this affair was enough to reduce any man to tears.

I tried to do as Steve told me. I sat down and lit a cigarette. I felt sick. Of course I knew I hadn’t eaten anything for a day and a half. Just nothing. I’d only been gulping down coffee and smoking until my throat felt raw.

Neither of us had slept. We shared a double bed. We’d each tried to keep still and not wake the other. I have never stopped loving Steve and I think he felt the same about me, although naturally we had our differences. It takes a smug and pompous couple to maintain they have never had an argument. Steve and I have had plenty. We adore each other but we’re two quite different human beings. I’ve proved that you don’t have to marry someone like yourself in order to be happy.

It all seemed rather ironic that Steve should have to reproach me for giving way to “nerves”. He was really the nervy one. A bit highly strung. He used to tell me he first fell in love with me because I gave him such confidence. I was poised, and efficient and full of common sense. I was the sort of wife he needed, because although he, too, was sensible most of the time, he had spells of being unsure of himself—moody—unpredictable. He took silly risks with money, too. We were often very hard up because Steve’s gambles on the Stock Market were so unsuccessful. In a funny way he was a bit immature—although, in fact, my senior. He was nearly thirty when we married. I was twenty. But I’ve always felt older than Steve and sort of maternal. Just as I feel about Bing. I like looking after them both. I enjoy directing lives and sorting out problems. Steve often seemed to lean on me. It was odd that on the very worst day of all our lives I was the one to go to pieces.

I thought with anguish about Bing while I sat there. I stared at my husband. He was a tall stooping man; getting too thin, these days. His hair was receding fast. But the June sunshine had tanned his face and I still thought him very good looking. At least when he didn’t have to wear those horn-rims which were now stuck on the end of his nose. He had a nice humorous mouth and when he was in good form he could be extremely amusing. We laughed together a lot. Laughter—sharing jokes—awfully important to married happiness. But oh God, how far away the fun and the jokes and the laughter seemed this morning.

Bing wore glasses, too. That was another thing the two of them had in common.

I had a strong vivid picture of Bing as I had last seen him two days ago. Now I really felt I was going to have to rush out of the room and be sick.

A NURSE poked her head into the waiting-room.

“Like a cup of tea?” she asked me, looking sympathetic.

I nodded and blew my nose. The door shut again. Steve put a hand on my knee.

“Keep your chin up, duckie, it may not be so bad as we think.”

“It is bad—they said so.”

“They can make mistakes.”

“It can’t be a mistake. They told us when we got here just after the accident that he was terribly burnt. Why did his coach have to catch fire? Why did it have to be our Bing?”

“God knows,” Steve said and let the magazine fall out of his hands on to the floor.

I controlled myself and lit a cigarette for him because he had finished his.

“Sorry, darling, I’m afraid I’m being terribly cowardly.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“They said they must do an extensive skin graft or he can’t possibly live.”

“That’s what we’re waiting to hear about. And if they want my skin they can have it.”

“Or mine,” I said.

“Well we shall soon know what they decide.”

“He looked so awful when we saw him just now, Steve, didn’t he? Just a little mummy. Thank God his face wasn’t touched. But with all those high temperatures up and down—up and down—he doesn’t want food. Has to be on liquids. He’ll get so thin—oh, God!”

“Darling, don’t torture yourself, he’s under sedation.”

“If I knew he would never suffer. I wouldn’t mind.”

Steve gave a heavy sigh and put an arm around me.

“Oh, darling, don’t torture yourself,” he repeated. “It’s no good.”

But I began to cry again. The tears just dripped down my face. Steve wiped them away. I think he felt quite shocked to see me so out of control.

I held on to my husband feeling close to him. I loved him very much. More so than ever on this ghastly day.

I thought how unimportant were all things that had seemed so important a short while ago. For instance, the worry as to how Steve could augment our income.

Steve used to be in the Army but he got amoebic dysentery when he was in Egypt. It had a rotten effect on his general health and after repeated sick-leaves he resigned his commission and bought a chicken farm in Sussex. Deep Litter. We couldn’t make much profit but we managed to live and pay for Bing’s schooling.

Bing was a first-rate sportsman—the soccer player of his age at school. We used to smile because Bing knew so much about football. He collected all the dope that he could out of the newspapers and pasted the pictures in a special album. He rather fancied himself as a professional soccer player of the future, did our Bing.

He wasn’t particularly brainy and we didn’t think he would get a scholarship or anything like that, so we would have to find some more money in order to launch him in about six years’ time.

Then there was the house—I was always thinking it important that I should find the money to redecorate our living-room and buy new covers and curtains. Everything was so shabby. We had bought nothing new since we came to Little Wych Farm seven years ago. What with our mischievous boy and his friends and a madcap Jack Russell who scampered in and out all day, and a cat that clawed the cushions, things seemed to go to shreds all too easily. Then again, I thought it frightfully important that I should soon stir myself to buy some decent clothes and do a bit more entertaining. Bing was popular—always being asked to other people’s houses. Steve and I didn’t care much about entertaining. We were a very self-contained couple; neither of us sociable except where our own particular intimate friends were concerned. But I had begun to feel it would be unfair to Bing if I didn’t try to make myself look more glamorous and ask the parents of his chums in for drinks or an occasional meal.

As if any of those things seemed important now when one considered what was happening.

Bing might be going to die!

It didn’t make sense. I was haunted by the awful memory of that beloved little figure, unrecognisable, half sensible, lying in that hospital bed.

They were marvellous to him and about him, both doctors and nurses. Wonderful people. But what was the use if they couldn’t save Bing’s life?

Steve looked at his wrist watch.

“They ought to be back to tell us things, any minute.”

I nodded. All our hopes were concentrated on the famous plastic surgeon who had been called in to give an opinion. He would know whether Bing had a chance or not.

Steve suddenly made the sort of remark that seemed pathetic and yet quite relevant to the position.

“I must say when you’re really in trouble like this, they’re damned good in these places. All on the National Health, too.”

“It would be all the same,” I said, “if we had to sell everything to get Bing the best advice, we’d do it.”

“Of course,” said Steve.

He looked at his watch again.

After another five minutes he said: “I wonder if Simcox will check the waterers.”

I knew that he was referring to our poultry-hand who did make the most awful mistakes when Steve wasn’t around. Steve was a particularly conscientious person. I suppose it was his Army training. He usually liked to work to time and schedule. But today Bing was uppermost in his mind.

“Go home if you like—” I began foolishly.

I was glad when he interrupted and said: “Of course not. I couldn’t go. I must stay with you—until we know.”

After that it wasn’t very long before the door of the waiting-room opened again. Young Dr. Black, the house surgeon who was in charge of Bing’s case, came in.

With him was a short plumpish man with two chins and a practically bald head. He looked like an overgrown baby in a white coat. When Dr. Black introduced him as Sir John Rixon-Dodd, I knew at once who he was; possibly the greatest plastic surgeon in our country. That fat little man with the baby face was considered one of the brilliant men of our time. Those podgy fingers were magical.

I began to tremble. Even before he held out a hand to shake mine I was trembling. What he was going to say was of such awful importance.

I didn’t know whether I was going to hate him or fall at his feet and kiss them; but I must have looked peculiar because the Sister took me by the arm and whispered:

“I should sit down if I were you, Mrs. Ross.”

I shook my head and remained standing up beside my husband.

Sir John Rixon-Dodd was saying “How-do-you-do” in a perfectly ordinary voice, but I had an idea that there was a lot of sympathy in those baby-blue eyes. He said:

“I’ve just been having a look at your little boy.”

“Yes—” I answered.

I felt Steve grip me by the hand. His own felt cold. Sir John Rixon-Dodd continued:

“Shall we go into the Superintendent’s office and have a talk?”

We all trooped into the office where the Sister left us alone with the two medical men. Feeling bemused I looked around the walls. They were hung with framed photographs of hospital groups. A large one of the founder of the hospital was above the big desk.

Outside in the grounds, I saw a couple of young nurses wearing striped blue print dresses, walking across the lawn toward the Nurses’ Wing. It had stopped raining. The trees looked fresh and green, but it was cool for the time of the year.

Sir John Rixon-Dodd cleared his throat.

“This must be a very terrible time for you both. I am deeply sorry. Of course I read about the train accident in the papers. A shocking affair.”

“Shocking.”

It was Steve who repeated that word. His voice was husky and nervous. Then I spoke up.

“Well,” I said. “Well? Tell us, please, Sir John Rixon-Dodd—is Bing going to live—or die?”

“Mrs. Ross, I wish I could give you better news,” he said and I suppose he didn’t like saying it, but I immediately felt a vast resentment against him. It was such a sinister beginning. He went on:

“The little boy is in a bad way. About sixty per cent of his body area has been burned. Fortunately his face is not touched—and of course—some of the burns are only surface ones which will soon heal. But what we need is healthy unburnt skin in order to graft the extensive areas where the full thickness of the skin has been destroyed. There isn’t enough undamaged skin left on the boy for us to do this. I hate to say it, you understand. But I have to make it clear to you.”

I felt deathly sick.

“So he is going to die?”

Sir John Rixon-Dodd answered in his quiet pitying voice.

“I don’t wish to say that. There is always a hope, while he is alive. But the hope is slight because of the extent of the burning.”

“Can’t I give my skin?” asked Steve.

“Or mine—you can have mine,” I heard myself saying wildly.

“Unfortunately, skin taken even from parents or other sources is not satisfactory. The patient’s body will gradually reject it. It isn’t any use my going into full medical details. It would only distress you and you wouldn’t understand.”

“There must be something,” I croaked, “there must be something.”

“No—transplantation of skin from one individual to another is inevitably unsuccessful except in rare circumstances. Of course if he had a twin—”

My heart seemed to jump up and leave my body.

“A twin—”

Steve and I repeated the word simultaneously.

“An identical twin, in fact,” added Rixon-Dodd. “The skin from a twin who was not identical would not be of use permanently. But from an identical twin we could transplant skin and hope for recovery.”

“Then Bing isn’t actually dying now—?” came from Steve.

“No. He has a remarkably fine constitution and strong heart but every day, obviously, he weakens. I want you to try and understand, Mr. Ross—Mrs. Ross—” The specialist looked from Steve to me. I wondered if he could hear my noisy breathing. “I know this is very painful for you to hear, but these extensive burns subject the human body to an appalling strain. Few people survive injuries that involve more than fifty per cent of the body’s surface. He is in a state of severe shock at the moment which is being actively treated. Later on there will be the added strain of infection and of anæmia. Finally comes the important question of skin-grafting.”

I felt Steve’s arm go round me. I expect he thought that the grim words we had heard were filling me with the same chill despair that must be crushing him. He said:

“Oh, God, poor Bing has no identical twin!”

“I gather from Sister that he is an only child,” said Rixon-Dodd.

“Won’t my skin do—won’t it?” Steve asked hoarsely.

“As a temporary measure only. It might keep him going for two or three weeks but the skin won’t heal—such a graft can’t work in the long run,” said the specialist in that gentle voice that was full of pity.

Steve’s arm dropped away from me. I felt absolutely alone in that ghastly second. None of them knew the thoughts that were tearing so crazily through my mind. It was as though I was being caught up and whirled through space. I felt so far out of control that I wanted to shout at Steve and at Rixon-Dodd and Dr. Black: But he has! He has got an identical twin.

I heard Dr. Black’s voice.

“Mr. Ross—hang on to your wife—”

Af. . .