A Conspiracy of Friends: A Corduroy Mansions Novel

by Alexander McCall Smith

  When she awoke, her first thought was of Ronald. He had slept in Jo’s room, which had a made-up bed. She wondered what time he would have to be at work, and whether he would want any breakfast.

  She got up, donned a dressing gown and went into the kitchen. Ronald was sitting at the table, a bowl of cereal before him.

  “Hi,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind: I helped myself to muesli.”

  Caroline said she did not mind. “It’s Jenny’s, actually. But we all help ourselves to it. As long as we replace it from time to time.”

  “Would you like me to cook for you tonight?” asked Ronald.

  Caroline smiled. “You don’t have to.”

  “I know, but I want to.”

  “All right,” she said. “What will you make?”

  Ronald thought for a moment. “Risotto?”

  She could not help herself smiling. “Oh …”

  He looked concerned. “You don’t like it? I can do something else if you want. I can make pizza—as long as I buy the base somewhere, I’ll do the topping.”

  She assured him that risotto would be fine. “I had a friend who made risotto for me,” she explained. She blushed as she realised that she had said she had a friend. She had lost James because she lied.

  “I can pick up everything on the way back from the office,” he said. “You could show me where things are in the kitchen.”

  Ronald went off to work, and Caroline followed shortly afterwards. Throughout the early part of the day, though, she found herself thinking of him, glancing at her watch to see what time it was and how long it would be before they met again. It was a familiar feeling, even if she had not experienced it for some time. It was, she realised, the feeling that attends falling for somebody; not just becoming mildly interested in somebody, but falling for him completely.

  She tried to take command of the situation. I barely know him, she told herself; I have no idea what he’s like. It would be rational to get to know him better before becoming involved; after all, one never knew whether closer acquaintanceship would lead to a dislike of a person’s mannerisms, or their views for that matter. She would find out about Ronald in due course, and it would be so much more sensible if she were to wait a while. But then that was not how these things worked. Love came upon one; one did not plan its arrival. It arrived in its own time and with an agenda all of its own devising.

  Caroline’s employer, Tim Something, noticed that she was distracted.

  “Something biting you?” he asked, as they made their way in his car to a late-morning photo shoot.

  She was deliberately disingenuous. “What do you mean, biting me?”

  He lit a cigarette, holding the wheel with one hand while he did so.

  Caroline said, “I wish you’d be more careful. You shouldn’t light a cigarette while you drive.”

  He sent a cloud of smoke up to the roof of the car; her nose tickled and she felt the urge to sneeze.

  “Oh, listen to you,” said Tim Something. “Little Miss Health and Safety.”

  “You may laugh,” she said. “But accidents are caused that way. You can’t drive and do other things. It’s irresponsible.”

  “Oh yeah?” sneered Tim Something. “You may not be able to multitask, darling, but some of us can.”

  She sighed and looked away.

  “Big date?” asked Tim Something. “That what’s on your mind?”

  It was none of his business, she thought. “Maybe,” she said.

  He sniggered. “Who is he?”

  “A rather nice architect,” she said. “You won’t know him.”

  “Try me,” said Tim Something.

  “I don’t know why you’re being so poisonous today,” said Caroline. There was something worrying her employer; normally he was perfectly civil. He liked her, she thought, or at least he gave every outward sign of being well disposed; she could not understand why he appeared to have turned against her. Unless … unless he was jealous.

  The shoot was in Richmond. The traffic was slow and they were moving at a snail’s pace when Tim Something opened his window to toss out the butt of his cigarette.

  “Don’t throw it out,” said Caroline. “There’s an ashtray.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Tim Something. “Well, this is my car, as I recall, and I can do what—”

  He did not finish the sentence. A van turned out of a side road and swung a wide arc across two lanes. Although Tim Something was not driving fast, the car’s speed was enough for a considerable impact. Caroline screamed as the other vehicle thudded into them, and she screamed again as she saw Tim Something, who was not wearing a seatbelt, pushed forwards into the windscreen as if by a giant hand. There was the sound of shattering glass and rending metal. Then, in the silence that followed, the hiss of steam as liquid of some sort fell on a warm engine block.

  Caroline, who had been wearing a belt, felt a sharp restraining tug and then, in her left leg, a searing pain. For a moment or two she was confused; everything happened so fast and with such attendant noise that it was difficult for her to take it all in. But then, as she slumped back in her seat, her mind became perfectly clear. They had collided with another vehicle, and Tim Something had been propelled through the windscreen. He was somewhere outside, and she was inside the crumpled shell of the car.

  She stretched to feel the painful leg. It was wet to the touch, and she realised that what she felt was blood. She closed her eyes. She was alive. But what had become of Tim?

  Her belt was not stuck and a quick movement released it. She leaned sideways and used her shoulder to push at the door of the car. Some obstruction seemed to be preventing it from opening, but with a further bit of pressure, it swung open.

  She shifted in her seat and began to slide her legs out of the car. She could move, she discovered, but when she lowered her feet to the ground a searing pain shot up her leg. It was as painful as when the dentist touches a dental nerve: a sensation not unlike a bolt of electricity.

  She gasped.

  Tim Something was standing on the edge of the road, looking at his ruined car with anger. His face was scratched from the impact with the glass, but only mildly so. Caroline was astonished that her employer should be uninjured.

  “Look what you made me do,” he said peevishly.

  Caroline closed her eyes. Ex-employer, she thought. As from now—right now: ex-employer.

  46. In Helping Hands

  THE DRIVER OF the van with which they had collided was shaken, but, like Tim Something, unhurt. It was he who telephoned for an ambulance, and it was he, too, who helped Caroline limp to the side of the road. Once there, she lay down on the coat that he placed on the pavement, while he held her hand and comforted her. Tim Something, still glowering, walked about his car, inspecting the damage and muttering to himself. From time to time he looked at his watch, obviously irate about being delayed.

  “We’re going to lose this job,” he spat out as he came over to Caroline. “The client is going to find someone else.”

  Caroline said nothing, but at her side the van driver stared up at Tim.

  “Are you blind, mate?” he asked. “Can’t you see this young lady’s hurt?”

  Tim Something, who appeared not to have noticed him until now, looked at him scornfully. “Mind your own business. What do you know?”

  This brought a spirited response. Standing up, the driver shouted, “I know that she’s hurt, and all you seem to be concerned about is your precious—”

  Tim did not let him finish. Swinging round, he brought his clenched fist up towards the man’s chin. He muttered something as he did so, but his words were unclear. The driver saw what was coming and ducked, at the same time jabbing with his own fist at Tim’s abdomen. His attack was more successful: with a sound like wind being knocked out of a bag, Tim doubled up, lost his footing and fell to the pavement.

  Had he fallen a few inches to the right, Tim Something might have escaped injury. As it was, he fell in such a way that hi
s head hit a metal bollard at the side of the road. Blood appeared remarkably quickly, running down Tim’s face from a gash across his forehead. He groaned, and held a hand to the wound.

  It was not a major wound, and the application of a handkerchief, passed to Tim by Caroline, soon stemmed the flow of blood.

  “Did you see that?” Tim spluttered. “You’re my witness, Caroline. You saw that?”

  Caroline shook her head. “I saw you attack him,” she said quietly. “I saw him defend himself. That’s what I saw.”

  Tim glared at her in astonishment. “You’re fired,” he shouted.

  “You can’t fire somebody who’s resigned,” said Caroline. “And I resigned five minutes ago.”

  Any further exchange was prevented by the arrival of the ambulance. The two ambulance men, clad in green outfits, attended to Caroline first, placing her on a stretcher which they slid gently into the back of the vehicle. Then they inspected Tim Something’s wound and offered to take him to hospital too. He had risen to his feet by now, though, and said that he needed no help.

  “You take that to your GP then,” said one of the ambulance men. “Get it dressed, sir.”

  The ambulance set off. Inside, Caroline lay on the stretcher and remembered a little rhyme from her childhood. It was for use when one saw an ambulance, and involved reciting the words “Touch your collar. Touch your toes. Hope you never go in one of those!” She used to say it religiously whenever she saw an ambulance speeding past, and had believed, as children do—and adults as well—that the words could protect us. And they sometimes did, of course, when uttered with such a degree of conviction as to rally the spirits. But now she was in an ambulance, heading to hospital; any protection the shibboleth might have given must have worn off.

  “You’ll be all right,” said the ambulance man who was riding in the back with her, taking her hand gently in his. “A small laceration, I think, on your leg. Bruises too. But it doesn’t look broken to me.”

  “It’s sore,” said Caroline.

  He squeezed her hand. “Won’t be long, love. Five, ten minutes.”

  They made their way through the traffic. Caroline stared up at the ceiling of the ambulance and thought of how, for some, it might be the last thing they saw in this world. Somewhere, for each of us, was a last ceiling, a last sky, before the end. She started to cry.

  The ambulance man touched her cheek with the back of his hand. She was grateful for the sign of human comfort, even if the thought occurred to her that it was probably against the rules. No doubt these paramedics, these specialists in human suffering, were cautioned not to touch their passengers unnecessarily, for fear of all sorts of accusations. It was the same with teachers, who were warned against comforting children lest similar accusations arise. Caroline reflected: how strange, how completely bizarre that we should seek to prohibit the normal human responses to pain and distress. Of course we should embrace people who need embracing; of course we should hold their hands and seek to comfort them; of course we should.

  She looked at the ambulance man. He had a kind face, she thought. There was a hint of the Caribbean in his accent.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for coming to collect me.”

  He smiled at her. “That’s our job. We can’t let people lie around on pavements all day, can we?”

  Caroline laughed. “I feel so stupid. All helpless and stupid.”

  “Nobody’s stupid, love,” said the ambulance man. “None of God’s children are stupid. You, me. Everyone.”

  She nodded. Her eyes were once again filling with tears. I am not crying for me, she thought; I’m crying because of … well, because of everything. Because there are people in the world who help other people. Because there are people who believe that we are God’s children, as this man puts it. There are those who would mock an expression like that, who would condescend to this man, but he knew better than they; he knew one hundred times better, with his experience of pain and disaster.

  The ambulance man glanced through the back window. “We’ll be there in less than a minute. Then we’ll pop this stretcher out and get you inside.” He paused. “Would you like me to phone anybody? A friend? It would be good if somebody knew you were here. Your people, maybe.”

  My people. Who were they? Her mother and father, of course; they were her people, but who else was there? There was James: too late for that. And then she thought: Ronald. She had entered his mobile number into her own mobile and she had that on her, in the pocket of her jacket.

  She gestured towards the pocket and the ambulance man took the phone out for her. “Go to the address book,” she said. “Look up Ronald. Please phone him.”

  The ambulance man nodded and made the call. They were entering the hospital grounds, and Caroline was distracted by the flashing of a light as they approached the building.

  The ambulance man handed the phone back to her. “I’ve told him,” he said. “He’s coming straight here.”

  She took the phone and thanked him.

  “You don’t need to thank me,” he said. “You just go in there and get better quickly. Understand?”

  47. Ronald Shows What He’s Made of

  CAROLINE FELT HERSELF being wheeled out of the ambulance and up a short ramp through the busy door of the Accident and Emergency department. It was an odd sensation, and she found herself wondering when she had last been wheeled by anybody; it must have been as a small child, she thought, when she was pushed in a pushchair, but naturally one remembered nothing of it. After that, wheeling happened only on occasions of misfortune—such as this undoubtedly was—until the time came to be wheeled on one’s final journey, while people sang, perhaps, and one was surmounted by flowers. But enough of such thoughts; one should not think about final journeys on entering a hospital, and she put them out of her mind and thought instead of … of Ronald, who was coming to the hospital. She would ask him to phone her parents and tell them, although she did not want them making a great fuss and rushing up from Cheltenham when all she had was a sore leg.

  And it was very sore, making her wince when her trolley went over a bump. The porter at her head bent down and said, “Sorry, love, the roads are in a terrible state.”

  Caroline managed to smile, if not to laugh. “Your driving’s pretty good so far. Don’t worry.”

  “You tell my missus that.”

  They continued along a corridor, and then stopped in what seemed to be a sort of lay-by for stretchers and trolleys. A nurse appeared and took Caroline’s name and address, and asked her what medicines she was on. Then the nurse went away, to be replaced by another person who looked at her leg and said, “Not too bad. Seen worse.” Then somebody else arrived and said, “X-Ray,” to a person standing behind her, and that person said, “X-Ray,” too.

  Half an hour passed before somebody came to take her down the corridor. Caroline said, “X-Ray?” more in an attempt to make conversation than anything, and the person pushing the trolley nodded and said, “X-Ray.”

  They turned a corner. “X-Ray,” the porter said again. And then added, “So long.”

  “So long,” said Caroline.

  A man in a blue outfit now arrived, and peered at her. She looked up. He smiled and consulted a piece of paper that somebody had placed on her lap. She stared at his badge. The print was smudged for some reason and she could not read what it said.

  “I’m Ray,” he said. “And we won’t keep you long here. I just want to pop you over here and then you can go back. Take a quick holiday snap.”

  Caroline was helped onto a table. A machine hovered above her and the lights were bright. She closed her eyes.

  “Stay still for a moment,” said Ray from behind a screen. “That’s it.”

  An assistant helped her back onto her trolley, and the porter who had first wheeled her in appeared. “Me again,” he said, and then to the radiographer, “Thanks, Ray.”

  “Yes, thanks,” said Caroline. And then added, “Do you think it’s broke
n?”

  Ray shrugged. “I won’t be reading the scan, but it doesn’t look like it to me. But you can get little fractures. Wait and see.”

  Ronald arrived another half an hour later. He had spent some time trying to locate Caroline, having been given conflicting directions, before he found her in the corridor. He came up to the trolley, running the last few paces, and took her hand in his.

  “Oh my God, Caroline, what a terrible thing …”

  She sought to calm him. “Not really. I don’t think I’m badly hurt. It’s just a bit sore.”

  “They said your leg was crushed. Somebody down there said—”

  “It isn’t. It’s been cut, I think. I haven’t really looked, but that’s what it feels like.”

  Ronald squeezed her hand. “That’s awful, just awful.” He paused. “You’re being pretty brave. I’d be terrified if it were me.”

  She smiled. “I’m sure you wouldn’t.”

  He straightened her sheet—a useless, thoughtful gesture. “There,” he said. “I’m going to stay with you until everything’s sorted out. Then I can take you back. I borrowed a car from somebody at the office. I’ve left it down the road. I’ll get a ticket, but it doesn’t matter.” He stroked her hand gently. “Poor you,” he said.

  Caroline considered the words “poor you.” It was the best, most sympathetic thing you could say to anybody. There did not have to be an accident; you could say “poor you” in any circumstances and it would help. It was much better than saying good morning or uttering any other greeting; “poor you” could be used at any time and with anybody—everybody, but everybody, felt hard done by in at least some respect and would appreciate the sympathy.