Love Until It Hurts

by Fiona Blakemore

  ‘Red Caps?’

  ‘Royal Military Police. Might have been deployed to a war zone if I’d stayed. Instead I went off to Australia and worked as a fitness instructor. Met my wife there. Four years later I was back here in the Police Force.’

  ‘Your wife is Australian?’ The sinking feeling in Ruth’s chest is instantaneous. She doesn’t give him a chance to reply, but stirs her coffee with an intensity that could make the pattern on the porcelain disappear. ‘I lived in Malvern for eighteen months. You probably know it.’

  ‘I do indeed. And ex-wife. It didn’t work out. And she stayed in Oz.’

  The swirling stops and she drops the teaspoon. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  ‘No matter.’ His mouth tenses. ‘And anyway I shouldn’t be talking about myself.’ He hesitates. ‘Ruth, I don’t want to upset you, but I need to know a little bit more about Dominic. Did he have many friends? It seems like you’re the one person who knew him best.’

  Ruth gives a small snort, bridling at the irony of this. She’s not sure she knew him that well at all. She twists a strand of hair round her finger. ‘Mike and Val Armitage are good friends. Mike’s a former colleague of Dom’s from the Stock Exchange.’

  ‘Were they the couple leaving the house the day I met you?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. They were.’ Ruth is startled by his clear recall.

  Mac makes a note on his phone. ‘Do you have their number? I’d like to contact them.’ He taps the numbers in, as Ruth recites them.

  ‘You know Dominic is a ….’ She stops mid-sentence, and inspects her nails. ‘Dominic was a very doting father. I was always struck by how caring he was with Bella. He was a bit of a worrier, though. But I could understand that.’ She lifts her cup, then immediately replaces it on the saucer, conscious that her hands are shaking. ‘I think it was because of Madeleine’s medical history, plus the fact that he thought he had to cope on his own.’ She bites her lip to stop it trembling.

  ‘What about his own health?’

  ‘Oh, he had more than his fair share of problems. Migraine, asthma, eczema. And chronic pain from a childhood accident.’ She stops and looks at him. ‘Why do you need to know all this?’

  ‘I’m just trying to build up a picture, that’s all. For Bella’s sake, really. You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to.’ His voice is gentle, not abrasive like some of the duty officers she’s come across at work.

  ‘No, that’s okay.’

  ‘Sounds like he had a lot to deal with. I guess he must have been taking quite a bit of medication too, to get him through the day.’

  Ruth thinks hard about this. About the foil blisters of ibuprofen, codeine and gabapentin. About the drugs under his bed.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she says, dabbing at the milk foam which has settled above her upper lip. ‘That’s not something we ever discussed.’ She leans back, working her shoulder blades against the chair. ‘I should get going,’ she says. ‘I want to go and see Bella on the way home, although I’m actually quite tired now.’

  He raises a quizzical brow. ‘Where’s your car?’

  ‘Across the road in the hospital car park.’

  ‘Well I want you to ring this number when you’re finished on the ward. Call a taxi to take you home. Give them my name and it’ll go on my account.’ He slides a card across the table.

  Ruth’s sure she’s okay to drive home, but she’s not going to argue with a policeman. She nods and takes the card.

  ‘There’s something else I want to ask you, Ruth.’

  Her eyelids feel heavy. Maybe she should have settled for a double espresso to keep her awake, despite the risk of worsening her headache.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This may sound odd, but do you know of anyone who might have a grudge against you?’

  She sits up abruptly, knocking her napkin to the floor.

  ‘A grudge? Why do you say that?’

  ‘Nothing major. There’s been a few anonymous abusive messages posted on-line about you on your surgery website. The police are trying to trace the user account.’

  ‘My God. When was this?’ she says, the inflection in her voice rising. ‘Why didn’t I know about this earlier?’

  ‘It’s okay. The website is moderated so they were deleted immediately. That’s probably why you didn’t know about them. It’s highly unlikely that anyone else noticed them either, so don’t worry. I mention it just in case you can help us.’

  Ruth stands up, her pride needled. ‘Well, thanks for giving me something else to worry about.’ She gathers her things. ‘On that note, I must be off.’ Her voice wobbles. ‘Let me know if you get any more information, Detective Sergeant, won’t you?’

  ‘Ruth. I’m sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’

  She brushes past him, her shoulder bag almost clipping his phone off the table. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t have.’ She turns away from him so he can’t see the glittering of her eyes. ‘But it’s too late now.’

  41

  Ruth

  Ruth pulls on the metal banister, hoisting herself up the twisting stone staircase to the ward. She is still stinging at Mac’s words. A grudge, he said. A grudge? Why had she been singled out by someone who has grievance against the health service? Or was it a direct attack on her? Someone connected to Margaret Tremayne, maybe? An individual who knew about her prescribing error? Surely not connected to her history with Mark? My God, everyone makes mistakes. Doctors are only human. She doesn’t know which is worse: being targeted by a bitter individual, or the fact that Mac knows about it.

  The corridor is quiet, and the tall paned windows magnify the stark lighting, giving the place a ghostly green sheen. She arrives at Jubilee Ward and taps K259XZ on the key pad. The door opens and, silently, she slips on to the ward. The door to the office is closed. There’s a nurse, wearing a red tabard, halfway down the ward. She’s standing next to a drug trolley and is measuring liquid into a dispenser. She doesn’t look up.

  In the side room on the right Bella is propped up on pillows. She has her eyes turned towards another person in the cubicle. It’s a woman, who sits, with her back to Ruth, her oiled black hair twisted like a rope, at the nape of her neck. She turns round as Ruth enters, and she has an air of faded elegance about her. From the lines which fan out from her espresso coloured eyes, and the plum coloured lipstick which has seeped into the tiny fissures round her lips Ruth reckons she is in her seventies. There’s something about her face which feels familiar and it comes to Ruth when the woman smiles and there is the faint curl of her lip.

  ‘Ruth, Ruth,’ says Bella, her hands outstretched.

  The woman stands up and the magazine, which was balanced on her knee, falls to the floor.

  ‘Ah,’ she says offering her hand, ‘Bella has been telling me about you.’ Her grip is firm and she seems reluctant to let go. Her eyes wander across Ruth’s face, then take in her dress and seem to linger on the pearl necklace round Ruth’s throat. They lock eyes again.

  ‘I’m Bella’s grandmother. Viviane Zuckerman.’

  42

  Ruth

  Alady wearing a WRVS tabard clears tables and collects trays. She gives the women a wide berth. To her this must be a familiar scene: two strangers forced into a difficult conversation over their instant coffees.

  ‘Please call me Viviane,’ says the woman sitting opposite Ruth. ‘Let’s not be formal.’ She roots in her handbag and pulls out a pack of Marlboro Lights, offering one to Ruth, who shakes her head and smiles.

  ‘Viviane, I’m sorry, I don’t think you’re allowed to smoke in here,’ says Ruth, lowering her voice. ‘But we can go outside if you like.’ The thought strikes Ruth as quite appealing at this precise moment.

  Viviane purses her lips, and replaces the packet in her bag. ‘I forgot. They’ve changed the rules since the last time I was in the UK. N
ever mind.’

  They sit in silence for a while, looking round the café, exchanging polite glances with each other, stirring their coffee.

  ‘This must be very difficult for you, Viviane. I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Yes, sure is.’

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘I wrote to Dominic a few weeks ago. Told him I was coming over. He didn’t reply so I rang him last week.’ Her words sound choked. ‘I never dreamt it would be the last time I spoke to him.’ She clears her throat and her chest rattles.

  The hospital radio streams from a speaker in the corner. Ruth leans forward to hear what Viviane has to say.

  ‘Arrived a few days ago. Got a taxi to the house,’ Viviane continues. ‘One of the neighbours spotted me walking up the path. She brought me into her house and told me about the accident. It was such a bolt out of the blue that I kinda went hysterical.’ She pauses to catch her breath. ‘An emergency doctor was called to give me some tranquilisers and then the police arrived and told me the details.’

  She stops here and takes a strip of pills out of her bag. She presses one out of its foil and into her palm, then swallows it with a swig of coffee. ‘They sorted out my accommodation in a local hotel and gave me the contact details of a local cop. Macmillan, I think his name is, but I haven’t spoken to him yet.’

  Ruth’s posture stiffens. Odd that Mac hadn’t mentioned this. Maybe he was bound by rules of confidentiality. Maybe he’d forgotten. ‘I’ve met Mac,’ Ruth replies. ‘I guess he’s the best person to co-ordinate the investigations.’

  Viviane makes no response. ‘So utterly tragic. Such a waste,’ she continues. ‘You know Dominic and I never had an easy relationship. He was a very bright child but he was always getting into trouble. He was headstrong. Liked to be the centre of attention …but I guess I could have been a better parent.’

  Ruth looks across Viviane’s shoulder, to a poster on the wall behind her. It’s advertising Mindfulness classes. ‘Be Calm. Be Happy. Be Mindful,’ it reads. She takes a slow deep breath. ‘You mustn’t be hard on yourself, Viviane.’

  ‘The last time I visited the UK,’ says Viviane, ‘was just after Isabella was born. Dominic made it quite clear he didn’t want me there. I wish I’d been more assertive. I should have been there for Madeleine, and I wasn’t.’ She lifts her cup with a liver-spotted hand and sips her coffee. Her eyes narrow a fraction, as she looks at Ruth. ‘How long have you known my son?’

  Ruth silently counts the months on the fingers of one hand. It’s no time at all. How can she convince this woman that she has some claim on him? On Bella? And without sounding too insensitive? Madeleine’s only been dead seven months.

  ‘I got to know him through the hospice,’ she says. ‘I’m a doctor at a local practice.’ Technically that was correct, even if the facts were a little skewed. Heat suffuses her cheeks. She digs her hands into the chair cushion to stop her tremor.

  ‘Ah, a doctor,’ says Viviane, transferring her lipstick to her napkin.

  Ruth is grateful she leaves it at that. They smile at each other through the background noise of the hospital radio, the clanking of plates and the whirring of the coffee machine.

  ‘So what happens next?’ says Viviane eventually.

  ‘You mean…with Dominic?’

  Viviane’s fingers graze her chin. ‘Yes.’

  ‘At the moment it’s up to the police to finish their investigations. Then the Coroner delivers a verdict on the cause of death.’

  ‘Surely there’s nothing to investigate. It was obviously an accident.’

  ‘It’s a formality, I guess, but it’s out of our hands.’

  ‘You know I’ve nursed and buried two husbands through cancer,’ says Viviane, stroking her brow. ‘But I never expected to bury my son.’ She extracts a tissue from her bag and dabs her eyes.

  Ruth wants to know more about Dom’s father but bites her lip. She’s only just met this woman. No doubt there’ll be plenty of time to get to know her better over the next week or two. She has so many questions for her. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says. ‘My mother died of cancer. It’s a cruel disease.’ She twists her ear-ring. Deep breath. One thing at a time. ‘Was Dominic close to his father?’

  ‘Not really, and that’s something I regret dearly. When Dominic was a toddler his father was absent a lot, through work. Ironically, when his father became ill and was at home all the time, Dominic became a bit of a rebel. With hindsight I realise this was his way of getting attention.’ She sits back. ‘You know, Rose, there’s lots of things about my life that I regret.’

  ‘Ruth,’ says Ruth softly. ‘My name is Ruth, not Rose.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’m real sorry’ replies Viviane. ‘You must excuse me, I get muddled.’

  Close up Ruth can see the grey rings of old age round Viviane’s pupils.

  ‘You remind me very much of a nurse, who became a close family friend after Dominic’s accident,’ Viviane counters. ‘Her name was Rose. Dear Rose, I wonder what became of her.’

  Ruth is conscious of the pervasive smell of boiled cabbage coming from the kitchen. She takes a sip of her drink, trying to suppress her nausea. It puzzles her why she’s had vomiting spells recently. Another manifestation of stress, no doubt. ‘Ah yes,’ she says. ‘His accident. Poor Dominic.’

  Viviane twists her fingers. She looks exhausted. The music has stopped and a soft wheeze can be heard. ‘Indeed,’ she nods. ‘He spent weeks in hospital, then years of out-patient visits. His father was absent through ill health of his own, then I was left coping as a widow. Something I did badly.’

  She pauses and Ruth sits in silence, threading her thoughts. Sounds like his mother is being economical with the truth, but who can blame her? She’s not going to reveal a history of domestic violence to a stranger. ‘It’s so hard,’ says Ruth, ‘So hard.’ She pauses, before adding, ‘I don’t know how to say this, without sounding trite, but it’s never too late to mend bridges. Bella is a darling little girl.’

  ‘You’re right. You know Madeleine’s death made me realise that I want to have more of a role in my grand-daughter’s life. That’s why I wrote to Dominic. And now this…It’s Bella who needs me now.’ She breaks off, as her voice falters.

  Ruth looks at the older woman and feels conflicted. She hadn’t expected Bella’s grandmother to become part of the equation in Bella’s care. And she’s not sure she welcomes it. Her life has been turned on its head in a matter of months. She feels confused, upset. She needs space and time to process what Viviane has told her.

  ‘Ruth, I wonder if you’ll excuse me,’ says Viviane, as if mirroring her thoughts. ‘It’s been a long day and I’m very tired. I expect you’re feeling the same way too. I must get a taxi back to the hotel.’

  ‘I can give you a lift.’

  ‘It’s okay, my dear. Listen, I don’t have a cell phone, but you can contact me at the hotel if you need to get hold of me.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Both women get to their feet, and Ruth is unsure of whether to kiss Viviane or not. Instead she leans forward, catching a whiff of nicotine and hairspray. She clutches Viviane’s arm. ‘Make sure you get some rest and I’ll see you soon.’

  Viviane turns, and there’s the rasp of nylon as she negotiates her frame around the closely packed tables and out of the café.

  43

  Ruth

  July 2005

  Ruth can’t help but lament the dispersal of June’s squally showers, and the emergence of cloudless blue days. Patients want to stop her in the supermarket for a chat. She has to hurry in from her driveway, so that she’s not waylaid by another well-meaning neighbour. The house has become her retreat. She looks outside from the pleat of her upstairs curtains, rocking on her heels and tilting her head back when someone rings the doorbell. Every morning she scans the post anxiously. No date yet from the Professi
onal Standards Committee about the Tremayne complaint. It sucks that being signed off work has deferred the hearing even further. No more word from Mac either, but what should she expect? The inquest may take weeks. This morning the free newspaper landed through the letterbox. Thankfully it’s full of adverts. Already the crash is old news.

  She has a routine now, whiling away her day in front of the computer, marking time by the sound of the number twenty eight bus, which passes her window at precisely ten and three o’clock. In the late afternoon she waits till the clatter of schoolchildren abates, before slipping out to the hospital for an hour. At night she welcomes the crush of darkness and lies awake, listening to the scratch of twigs on the window or the mewling of a cat fight which resonates like a baby’s cry.

  There’s a noticeable change in the ward atmosphere on Ruth’s visits. The office door, just past the ward entrance, is always closed now. There’d been no sign of Sheena Henderson, the registrar, recently. According to Shaba, Sheena was now working on the Renal Unit. Still, it was odd she hadn’t been in touch. Maybe she was too busy.

  It irritates Ruth that there’s always someone else present in Bella’s room when she visits. Whether it’s a nurse dropping in to check Bella’s dressing, or the play therapist reading stories, or even the cleaner moving jugs of water round and wiping surfaces. There’s no privacy. Today it’s Brenda who’s waiting for her.

  ‘Afternoon, Ruth. How are you today?’

  ‘Fine, thanks,’ she replies, flatly. Brenda’s cheeriness is not going to faze her.

  ‘Bella and I have had a nice afternoon, haven’t we?’ says Brenda.

  Bella has her head down and is studiously scribbling over a piece of paper, her fist clamped round a stubby crayon. Her opposite arm lies encased in plaster.

  ‘Sounds good,’ says Ruth, making her way over to the far side of Bella’s bed. ‘You’ve collected a few more names and pictures on your plaster too.’ She tickles the side of Bella’s face. ‘There’s hardly any room left.’