by Roger Curtis
‘Are you the father?’
‘He is Jazreel’s, and therefore mine.’
At the bottom of the stairs they looked back to see Ali holding the baby at arm’s length while drops of urine fell to the floor like a ribbon of tinsel.
As they reached the car Sarah threw Alice the keys. ‘You drive. I think I’ve got a migraine coming on.’ She slid her bottom forward in the passenger seat, resting her knees on the dashboard.
‘Then you bloody well deserve it.’ Alice thrust the key into the ignition. ‘You were not nice to that poor woman. In fact I’ve half a mind to go back and apologise. What possessed you, for goodness’ sake?’
‘Something I needed to know.’ Sarah, now contrite, said softly, ‘We can go back if you want.’
‘And get another earful?’ Alice sniffed into her handkerchief. ‘So, did you get it?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘What?’
‘Did you see the baby’s colour? Pale, not like its mother at all.’
‘Or Ali.’
‘Certainly not Ali. You can be sure of that.’
They were surprised to see Alan Murphy pacing up and down outside Alice’s flat. Sarah slid hastily further into her seat, but too late. He came over to the car.
‘To be sure you must have changed your mind.’ He turned to Alice. ‘Thank you, kind lady, for bringing her back to me.’
‘The answer’s still no, Alan,’ Sarah said, ‘and I don’t go in for drunks.’
Alan swayed on his feet and pointed a finger that was constantly seeking its target. ‘You go in for ponces, and queers and… fornicators.’ The last word was spoken in rich booming tones.
‘I am a normal girl wanting a quiet weekend.’ She swung across to the vacant driving seat. ‘Get Alice to drive you home. See you, Alice.’ She drew away, leaving Alan gaping on the pavement.
‘Isn’t she gorgeous,’ she heard him call to Alice.
Drifts of snow lingered amongst the laurels that edged Tippett’s Lane. The dog Moffat appeared fleetingly at the bend before Laurel Cottage, then vanished, confident that she would meet him at the gate. How did he know she was coming? Betty would have told him for sure, but to what effect she couldn’t judge. Or perhaps he appeared for every car, just in case. All he understands, her father used to say, is a good boot up the backside. With the words came the dull didactic voice, as unsolicited as the fleeting image of grey suits, masonic cummerbund and the smell of beery breath.
Her mother was waiting at the door with the dog smug at her side.
‘I’m glad you’ve come, Sarah. It could have been sooner but I’m glad to see you all the same.’
‘Mother, you know I couldn’t leave my patients. How would you feel if Dr Hislop were to abandon you?’
‘He’s a good man. He wouldn’t abandon me.’
‘Well then.’
She grasped her mother’s hands. The prominent joints made her feel she was clutching a handful of hazelnuts. Had the arthritis worsened or was it that since Sarah had qualified her clinical perception had changed? Whichever, it did not bode well for the future. Back in London the publications on latest treatments were piling up on her kitchen table.
Tea and cakes were waiting on the coffee table in the living room. ‘I’ve changed the pot twice,’ her mother said. The remark was devoid of criticism. It was what she would have done for her husband, unquestioningly, had he still been alive.
Sarah sank deep into her armchair. Her mother sat opposite, waiting for her to eat. There was pride in the woman’s eyes that sent a shiver of guilt up Sarah’s spine. She was relieved when her mother went into the kitchen to fetch the sugar.
And suddenly there was an all-pervading silence above which the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece was louder than she could ever remember. The house at last seemed at peace with itself. Sarah began to drink in this new experience with child-like wonder. ‘It’s quieter since your father went,’ her mother said from the doorway.
Later that evening Sarah found herself wandering about the house to savour distant memories. She opened an old school book and found a love-note from her very first boyfriend, pure and delightful because it dated to her period of innocence. Objects – so many of them – that had acquired a glaze of neutral indifference over the years became new again, like blackened paintings after restoration. Halfway up the stairs a framed photograph showed her with her parents and sister in deckchairs on Brighton beach, all four smiling. Why had it passed her by during all these years?
Her mother found her back in the armchair with her eyes closed. ‘Sarah, you’re not asleep, are you?’
‘No Mum, just thinking how peaceful it’s become.’
‘It’s become a lonely place, Sarah.’
‘It’ll take time to adjust.’
‘He did everything, you see. Shopping, money. Everything in the house. I was a bit of a cabbage, I think.’
Sarah laughed. ‘Even cabbages flower. Actually they do it rather well, when they’re allowed to.’ She patted her mother’s hand.
‘Will you come home more often, Sarah?’
‘I’ll come more often. I promise I’ll come.’
‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you Moffat?’
The dog lifted his chin from Sarah’s foot and to her surprise looked at her rather than the speaker. Then he replaced his chin exactly where it had been and closed his eyes.
‘It’s nice to know I haven’t been forgotten,’ Sarah said solemnly.
‘That reminds me,’ her mother said. ‘People have been asking after you.’
‘Like who? They only saw me at the funeral.’
‘Well. Tom Sharp, for one. He’s been good to me, Sarah, since your father went. When he’s not busy with the butcher’s shop. He’s even started to paint the windows.’
‘That explains the ladder outside.’
‘He said they couldn’t wait another season. He was about to help your father with them anyway.’
‘Extraordinary! Did my father ever tell you that?’
‘Why do you say that? No. Tom’s a good, kind man. Made your father bearable at times.’
Sarah turned her face to the wall. ‘And unbearable at others,’ she hissed to herself.
Already she could sense that the charm of the place was being compromised by worms emerging from the woodwork. There were others besides Tom Sharp, and some she feared as much. ‘I’m going outside,’ she said.
‘He left a note, you know.’
The remark had the effect of a billhook through the shoulder, dragging her back through the doorway.
‘Can I see it?’
‘Tom has it. I said he could show it to Pauline. I’m sorry, Sarah.’
‘What did it say?’
‘How he would miss us all. How proud he was of you.’
‘You were taken in by that? God, Mother, how can you be so blind?’
‘It was written fifteen years ago, Sarah.’
An unwelcome mass formed in her throat. She turned her face. ‘I see. I’m sorry.’
Later that evening Sarah set about reclaiming the bedroom she had known as a girl. A mountain of cardboard boxes full of school books and A-level notes soon appeared on the landing. ‘Tom will take them away for you,’ she told her mother, realising as she said it that the sarcasm was wasted. ‘Get him to burn the lot.’ To the pile she added torn-up fragments of pop-idol posters. The bespectacled left eye of John Lennon peered at her from the edge of the box and she poked it out of sight. ‘Why are you doing this, Sarah?’ her mother asked. ‘You loved your posters.’ ‘Yes. I did,’ Sarah replied, ‘but not enough.’
There remained only a series of framed prints of Beatrix Potter characters, with Squirrel Nutkin in pride of place above her bed. They, along with a squirrel p
endant, had been her sister’s most significant possessions before she died. Elizabeth’s favourite – Sarah never quite knew why – had been the one showing Old Brown the owl grasping the errant squirrel in its talons. Sarah took it down, idly turning it over. There was a small fragment – possibly part of a visiting card – stuck to the back. The letters MF of the logo looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t think why. Then her mother called her down for supper and she put it from her mind. Only when she was lying in bed that night, and prompted by other thoughts, did an explanation – far-fetched and untenable – occur to her.
For years Betty Potter had gone to bed at nine-thirty, just after the television news. The timing had less to do with current affairs than the historic refusal of the church wardens to allow the church bell to sound after ten. Since childhood, so her mother had once told her, the chimes had been a signal for her eyes to close and the balm descend upon the rigours of the day. For ten minutes each night she would lie in delicious anticipation of the familiar sonorities. And when at last they came she would simply roll over and sleep, cleansed of troubles magnified by a lonely and idle existence.
For Sarah too the bell was a kind of signal, but dating far back to a time almost beyond memory, and for reasons still obscure. It tolls for thee, she had once overheard her father tell Elizabeth. She had not understood the allusion or the context, but the resonance of the words had lodged in her memory and always returned with the sound of the bell. Whenever, as a child, she heard it she would grasp the crisp white sheet and cover her head. Usually she would pull it no further than her nose, in case it became untucked at her feet, and she would have to endure the terrible indecision of whether to repair the damage or live with the discomfort. Then, as her mother slept, so her own perception would sharpen and she would await the moment when the random tapping of the branches against Elizabeth’s window seemed to surrender to a more measured and less wholesome beat.
When her mother woke her with tea and toast long after the sun had risen she still had her thumb firmly in her mouth, and the string of her sister’s squirrel pendant entwined around her fingers.
‘Sarah!’ Her mother stared at her in alarm. ‘I haven’t seen you do that for years!’
The morning was spent in aimless wanderings, first to the village shop on the pretext of fetching the Sunday papers and then in the vicinity of the house. In the herb garden she brushed away the snow from dead stems and popped the pods of black and lustrous seeds like tiny pearls. At the bottom of the garden something – it must have been a rabbit – ran into the undergrowth. She followed, without thinking, into a dark laurel-green tunnel that had once sheltered a path. Then she stopped, repelled by the gloom, and withdrew to the safety and indifference of the lawn. She could not comprehend why, wherever she went and whatever she did, the tranquillity of this old cottage and its garden was becoming so easily compromised.
In the distance the telephone rang. Her mother came to find her. ‘It’s a Mr Seredwin,’ she said.
‘Tell him you can’t find me,’ Sarah replied, knowing that the lie, when relayed, would not convince.
The present as well as the past were reaching to her, even in this secluded place. She was grateful she had no choice but to return to London.
With each mile closer to the city Sarah’s thoughts became more organised around the work of the coming week, in the theatres and on the wards. With each set of traffic lights her professional responsibilities assumed greater ascendency over other areas of her day-to-day existence.
There was no need to go there.
Outside Lightermen’s Mansions Jeff, angry at Brian, was loading a suitcase into a taxi.
‘Bugger wouldn’t take me to Victoria.’
‘And neither would I.’ Against her better judgement she was beginning to enjoy baiting Jeff. ‘Where are you off to?’
‘Paris conference. Thought you knew.’
‘Then watch out for culture. It bites!’
‘Resisted it so far.’ He shut the door and wound down the window. ‘By the way, if you’re going up to the flat – which I don’t advise – you might try to cheer him up. Last night him and Murphy damn near finished my lager. Commiserated with themselves until two, can you believe?’
Brian did not seem pleased to see her. ‘Can you please explain why it is that my heart pounds and sinks whenever I see you?’
‘It’s the Thatcher government. People call it the sinking pound syndrome.’
He didn’t even smile. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Because I didn’t want you to go into theatre tomorrow after a sleepless night.’
‘Thinking about you? That’s bloody arrogant, if I may say so.’
‘But true?’
He turned away, refusing to answer.
‘Believe me,’ Sarah said, ‘I’m not here to preen myself or crow. I just wanted to ask if I could assist you tomorrow, with the op.’
‘You mean that?’ He looked fiercely into her face, then relaxed. ‘Actually, I’d be glad of your input.’ He moved to the table where several sheets of surgical scribblings were scattered. ‘Here, let me show you what I want to do.’
After half an hour Sarah got up to go, wriggling to free herself from the arm placed hastily around her shoulders.’
‘Please stay,’ he whispered.
She pushed him aside. ‘It would spell disaster for tomorrow. After the ball, take me out for dinner sometime. I promise I’ll accept.’
‘Done.’ The relief was tangible.
She kissed his cheek and ran down the stairs, leaving him to ponder what possible business she could have at the hospital on a Sunday evening.
It was quiet in casualty and she walked to the staff lift without being seen; but before the doors had closed she was out again, remembering that sometimes patients found their way there. She didn’t want a confrontation, not on a Sunday evening. At least on the stairs you could keep your distance.
On the third floor ward Sister Barrington had just begun her night duty. Through the glass the little office reminded Sarah of one of those museum exhibits depicting a room of long ago. The nurse was a waxwork figure bent over the light of a desk lamp with a book in one hand and an apple in the other, absorbed and still.
Sarah tapped on the open door. ‘I’m here to see Mr Gordon. Dr Murphy asked me to look at him if I was passing.’ That was a lie. Alan Murphy wouldn’t have given a damn. But to visit another doctor’s patient unannounced might have raised questions.
‘Fourth bed on the left. Just had his medicine so he’ll be a little dopey. Otherwise stable.’
Sarah pushed up her collar in case her own patients might recognise her.
The bright eyes within the disfigured face were directed at the ceiling. Without a word Sarah pulled the curtains around the bed and sat beside him.
‘Hello,’ she said quietly. It was not her usual voice, but came more naturally, soft and musical, without an edge. ‘Are you able to speak to me?’
The jaw was misshapen and enormous, but that was the lesser of his problems. Only the drugs were keeping him alive.
‘I’m nearly ready. There’s only one thing now to keep me.’
‘Yes? What’s that?’
‘My daughter from Canada. Coming with her baby boy, on Thursday.’
‘Your grandson? You didn’t tell me! That’s great, Mr Gordon.’
He nodded vigorously, then stopped suddenly. ‘Tell me I’ll still be here, doctor. It’s all I’m holding on to, you see.’
‘There are no promises in medicine, Mr Gordon. But with the drugs you’re getting, and your will-power – that’s important too – you should just make it.’
She left the ward without a word. Her heels striking the bare stone stairs must have sounded to Sister Barrington like distant gunfire.
5
Why hadn’t Stricker arranged to call for her? One explanation came to mind: there was something he wanted to impress her with. As soon as she’d negotiated the security desk at Atherstone House she knew what it was – an opulence seldom found outside the demesnes of the seriously rich. The concierge accompanied her to the lift; then, sizing her up and without attempting to hide his uncertainty, travelled with her in silence to the tenth floor. Stricker was waiting at the door to greet her.
‘Dr Potter!’
She resented the avoidance of her first name. Retaliation was impossible to resist. ‘Dr Stricker,’ she countered.
‘Ah, you think that is one of my weaknesses, to mind being pushed from my pinnacle. I can tell you, Sarah, that I wouldn’t mind in the least if we were to exchange our identities, here and now. Sit yourself behind that desk over there, become Dame Sarah Potter, and tell me what you would think of me if I were to come through that door as a mere houseman.’
‘You wouldn’t even have got that far.’ She giggled like a schoolgirl, realising she had been stupid.
‘Then I will tell you, my girl. You would envy me from the bottom of your heart. And why? Youth and choice. To be able to turn on the spot and look in any direction at the vistas that are yours for the choosing. Drink?’
‘Cinzano and lemonade.’
‘You’re not driving?’
‘You’re supposed to be driving me home.’
‘Home, surely, is wherever the heart happens to be. But we can discuss that later.’
Under Edwin’s surprised stare Sarah seated herself at his desk. She could sense his bemusement as her eyes travelled from one object to another, neglecting his attention. She touched a photograph with her forefinger. ‘Your wife?’
‘She died. Many years ago.’
‘You loved her.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘Why do you suppose that?’
‘And you loved your daughter. But not, it seems, your son.’
He stood behind her and placed a hand gently on her shoulder. ‘How did you deduce that? It’s true, I’m impressed.’
