Her further anxiety that the septicaemia might turn out to have damaged his growth plates, stopping his limbs from developing properly and resulting in a whole series of wretched operations, was also in due course allayed. Honestly, sometimes she wondered if her medical knowledge was a burden in the circumstances. It required iron self-discipline not to assume the worst, simply because one knew all the possible implications of a condition. And then, when the worst did happen—
‘Granny! You’ve missed the turning!’ Sam’s urgent voice next to her interrupted her train of thought. Bother. She signalled and pulled into a layby. Time to turn round. She needed to get a grip.
The walkers appeared to have had a good morning, too. Everyone was appreciating the better weather. The path had taken them along the ridge, down to a pretty village sandwiched between two motorways and a bypass. Then they had climbed uphill again into the woods.
‘It was really steep!’ Milo told Sam. ‘Can I come with you and your grandma this afternoon?’
‘Better not,’ said Sam. ‘Orchid-hunting is delicate work.’
‘But—’
‘Hey, Milo, want some lunch?’ said Tamsin. ‘And you know what, I really think Sam needs a little space this afternoon. You and George and I have got Smith to look after, anyway. We can all have lunch together, though. Come over and sit on the rug, both of you. Sandwiches? Crisps?’
Good, thought Ruth. One battle I don’t need to fight. She wandered over to find William, who was talking to Theo.
‘Good morning, dear heart?’ he asked, kissing her cheek.
‘Bliss!’ she replied with a smile. ‘And Theo, I think Sam’s on the mend. We’ve been enjoying a little meander.’
‘What about this afternoon?’
‘See how he feels after lunch. But my hunch is he’ll stick with me.’
‘What are your plans?’
‘More of the same. There’s another reserve I want to visit, at the other end of today’s route. We’ve been filling in my journal, and I’d say we’re on a roll.’
‘I’m so grateful,’ said Theo. He looked relieved.
‘Don’t be daft. You know I love having him. It’s a great treat for me.’ Perhaps, she reflected, Theo didn’t quite appreciate the joy Sam brought her. She was fairly certain that none of the family suspected that Sam was her favourite grandchild. Of course, it wasn’t really on to have a favourite, but somehow one couldn’t help it, just as she’d always had an extra soft spot for Thomas – darling Tom, the sunny, happy accident of a late baby. She concealed this secret knowledge through scrupulous even-handedness in her interactions with both children and grandchildren. If anything, she overcompensated the less favoured children to be sure they didn’t miss out.
With Tom, it had been his easy-going nature, a breeze compared with James’s earnest desire to please and Anna’s fierce determination, both of which proved exhausting in different ways. And Tom had been her baby, when the others were both at school. He turned out to be sweet-tempered and utterly portable, simply gurgling with pleasure wherever you took him. It helped, no doubt, that his brother and sister provided constant entertainment; there was always something to watch, someone to amuse him. Probably she was also a more relaxed mother, third time around. Even today he had the same sunny optimism, the same expectation that life was good. Or he had, until the sudden death of his sister. She wished he had a partner. She and William had always assumed that he would marry Mel, his college sweetheart, a wholesome and capable primary school teacher, but eventually they had gone their separate ways. Ruth couldn’t decide whether Tom’s unpredictable working life was to blame, or if the relationship had simply expired from natural causes. She didn’t ask. But something she had noticed over the last few days was the magnetic pull Tamsin seemed to hold for him. He constantly seemed to be seeking out her company. Did that mean anything?
As for Sam . . . well, it was hardly surprising that she had a special bond with him. Not that she didn’t adore Beth, or James and Kelly’s three almost-grown children, thousands of miles away in Washington. But Sam had been such a trooper, so dogged in his fight for survival as he lay there in his hospital cot, covered in tubes, that he’d totally won her heart. She directed the full force of her character into willing him to pull through. Theo and Anna had been so utterly unable to take care of him at the time that she naturally assumed the task herself, taking a sliver of comfort in the fact that, here at least, she could be of some practical help, by fighting the good fight with him.
‘Ruth. Ruth!’ She looked up.
‘William?’
‘Father Stephen was just telling us about the afternoon.’
‘Of course. Sorry. What’s the plan? What do I need to know?’
The priest was consulting his map. ‘There’s a church I had my eye on for our lunchtime reflection,’ he said. ‘But the weather’s so glorious, and this place is so lovely, that I thought we might hold it out of doors instead. What do you think?’
‘What – in among the standing stones?’ said Ruth. ‘Isn’t that a little pagan?’
‘Well, why on earth not?’ he said, looking up the hill in the direction of the Neolithic long barrow. ‘The views from the top are utterly splendid. But it’s a fair old climb up there, and off our route. On a long day like today I don’t think we want any detours. Besides . . .’
‘You don’t think I’ll make it. Probably right. Is there another quiet corner that’s more easily in reach?’
‘I’m sure we can find one,’ said Father Stephen. ‘And are you OK for the rest of the day?’
‘I think so, thank you. I have plans. A few errands to run before we all meet again. I’d better go and find out what Sam’s thinking.’
There was indeed a quiet corner, in the shape of a little amphitheatre. Unlike Ruth, Father Stephen had no concerns about intruding on the privacy of others, and steered the party through a knot of walkers and a family picnic.
‘This way, friends,’ he called, waving at the strangers. ‘Come through. I’m sure there’s room for us all.’
‘What are you doing?’ asked one of the walkers, a man in his sixties, in a none-too-friendly tone.
‘We’re pilgrims, walking to Canterbury,’ he replied. ‘We pause for reflection each day. It’s very short; just a chance to gather our thoughts, offer some short prayers. Would you care to join us?’
Ruth felt her toes curl with embarrassment. She could see Beth staring at her feet in a futile attempt at invisibility. Was he totally oblivious? ‘Are you that group walking for the mother?’ asked the man, in a softer tone. ‘Anna someone? Saw something on Twitter.’
‘We are indeed!’ Father Stephen beamed. ‘These are Anna’s friends and family. You are welcome to join us.’
‘Sheila, over here!’ The man summoned his wife and their friends into the circle. Ruth stood back, and watched as introductions were made, and hands were shaken. Father F drew them into the group with outstretched arms.
‘Everyone, I’m sure you’d like to welcome Bob and Sheila, and John and Elizabeth. They’ve heard about our journey and are going to join us, albeit briefly. It’s always good to meet fellow travellers. You’re most welcome,’ he told them again.
He passed round orders of service, and led them through the liturgy. It was interesting, Ruth noted, how natural it now felt to lose oneself in the rhythm, to repeat the words, to enjoy the poetry. ‘Oh God, make speed to save us. O Lord, make haste to help us. Make me to know your ways, O Lord, And teach me your paths.’ Four days ago – was it really only four days? – it had felt forced and unnatural. With the exception of William, the group had stumbled through the words, embarrassed and awkward. Now it was as if they had been carrying out this small act of worship all their lives. She gave herself over to the simple aesthetic pleasure.
‘Now, friends,’ Father Stephen said at the conclusion of the prayers. ‘Today’s silence. For the benefit of our visitors, we spend an hour after lunch in silence, and we always have some
thing to think about. Pilgrims, I don’t know if you realize this but today is the fifth day. So we’re at the midpoint of the middle day of our journey. That feels significant to me. There are many miles behind us, and many miles ahead. It’s a stage of any journey when some of us may be feeling a bit fed up. We thought yesterday about the load we’re carrying with us. Life is sometimes just plain sad. Does anyone know the shortest verse in the Bible?’
‘Jesus wept,’ said Theo.
‘Thank you, Theo,’ said Stephen, almost managing to conceal his surprise. ‘Jesus wept. He wept because he’d just heard that his oldest friend, Lazarus, had died. Now if you know your Bible, you’ll know that this wasn’t the end of the story for Lazarus. But that very short verse reminds us that even Jesus wept. It’s the most natural response in the world, to shed tears in the face of grief. But we need to remember that when we weep, God weeps with us.
‘Forgive me if this is painful. But I’m going to suggest that we think about weeping this afternoon. Can we allow ourselves to be held in the arms of Jesus as the tears fall? If that seems too much, can we instead try to remember that when there are no words to be said, God is there, at our side?’
Ruth and Sam lay on the picnic rug. Ruth felt it was important that Sam felt he was a full participant in the day’s task, even if he wasn’t actually walking the path. ‘We’ll have our own silence,’ she told him as they packed up their picnics. ‘Then we’ll see what we feel like doing with the rest of the day. Sound OK?’
Sam nodded gratefully. ‘I really think we ought to go to Ranscombe Farm, Granny. According to your guidebook, there should be poppies as well as orchids. And they’ve got something called the pink corncockle. Actually that sounds more like a fish than a flower. Anyway, it’s so rare it’s practically extinct. I can’t see that anywhere in your journal. And something called a fumitory?’
‘You’ve done your homework! Now you see why I needed your help. That sounds like a fine plan.’
Now they lay side by side on their backs in the soft sunshine. Ruth had pulled her old straw hat over her face. Sam had opted for sun cream and the iridescent blue surfer sunglasses he assured her were the height of cool. They must look a pretty bizarre sight to anyone passing, she thought. How much odder if that passer-by knew that they were meditating on the subject of weeping . . .
Weeping. It was almost as if Father F had witnessed her collapse that morning. If it had been anyone else but William who’d seen her tears, one might have suspected that the priest had been given a tip-off. But that was absurd. He’d hit on tears quite naturally, in the context of the grief they shared. At least she could cry; it sometimes felt to Ruth as if she’d done little else since January. Never in public, of course, but in the garden, in the car, in the privacy of her own home. She wasn’t at all sure that William shed tears. It had probably been beaten out of him at that barbaric school, she thought savagely. They were of a generation that didn’t – what was the phrase? – let it all hang out. Good thing too. She couldn’t abide all that ghastly public emoting that people went in for these days. She dated that precisely back to the death of Diana, Princess of Wales. That was when the rot set in. None the less, she would admit there was a time and a place for grieving; she’d seen enough bereaved families through her hospice work to know that those who held it all in suffered the consequences later. Much later sometimes.
Just thinking about the hospice twisted the knife in her heart again. She would never in a hundred years have anticipated that one of her own children would be cared for by the very hospice she’d fought so hard to establish. There was a terrible irony in the fact that her life’s work – the very enterprise that had taken her away from Anna at the time Anna needed her most – had proved its purpose in such a personal way. Was irony too mild a description? At her lowest moments her daughter’s death felt more like divine retribution for Ruth’s lack of attention to the home front. She tortured herself with the possibility that she could have spotted Anna’s symptoms and thrown her a lifeline in the form of an early diagnosis. It seemed as if her life’s work – all those patients tended, all those illnesses treated – had been worth not an iota when she’d failed to save her beloved daughter’s life. No wonder she wept.
And yet, and yet . . . Anna had received the best of care from Hope House. She and Theo had been enormously grateful for the skill and understanding of the staff, as had scores of families ever since its opening almost a decade ago. The fact that Farmleigh finally had its own hospice was a huge achievement by anyone’s standards. It was the professional success she was most proud of. She had stumbled into palliative care almost by accident. She’d always intended to stay in general practice, following in the footsteps of her father, a pioneer of Aneurin Bevan’s NHS in the brave new post-war world. And she’d loved it: the sheer variety of the job, the fact that one got to know whole families in a community. Of course, it had its frustrations – though she had little sympathy with some of the complaints she heard from today’s young doctors, which seemed quite honestly absurd – but it was a very fulfilling career choice.
The difficulty emerged as she tried to find a way of combining work with marriage and motherhood. William’s hours in the City were long, and frankly in their day one simply didn’t expect fathers to share the childcare. Neither of them could bear the thought of a live-in nanny or au pair. So, in common with countless highly educated women before and since, Ruth took a break, and poured her energies into motherhood until they were all at primary school. What she failed to anticipate was the response of her male colleagues when she tried to find her way back into the workplace. There was an assumption – occasionally hidden but frequently articulated – that as a married woman and a mother she was now an unreliable prospect as a partner in a practice. Fury was futile. The new Sex Discrimination Act might not have existed for all the good it did one, when time after time the male candidates emerged victorious at interview.
In the end, she cut her losses and resigned herself to what her American daughter-in-law called the ‘mommy track’ (ghastly phrase!), accepting the offer of a couple of sessions a week at a practice that found itself in need of what the senior partner until his dying day termed a ‘lady doctor’. The surgery was the other side of Farmleigh, but entirely commutable from Aston. It was good to be back in harness, and the hours fitted in conveniently with the school day. She carried on, more or less content, for seven years, gradually adding in another two sessions to meet the demands of the patients who increasingly requested appointments with her. And then, just a month after Tom started secondary school, she was asked by an old friend from medical school if she had any hours to spare.
‘Come and have a look round,’ said Michael, who was the director of a hospice in Norton Chalvey, twenty miles away. ‘We’re doing something important here in our care of the dying. I think you’ll be impressed. But demand is outstripping what I can provide, what with running the practice as well. I need some help.’
And Ruth had been impressed; very impressed, from the greeting she received from the receptionist to the calm professionalism of the Matron who showed her round. As she told William that night, she hadn’t really understood how quite unlike a hospital a hospice would feel. Even in those early days, the care was much more holistic than anything she could offer as a GP, let alone in hospital. And, most encouragingly, it was an environment that allowed its staff to respond to the needs of patients, rather than being driven by the demands of time.
‘I’m a convert,’ she told Michael over a cup of tea in his office. ‘I’ll need some training in palliative care, but I assume we can arrange that. Count me in. If you’re sure you want me.’
That visit had sown the seeds of what soon became an all-absorbing passion to provide the best possible end-of-life care to all patients. She worked at Norton Chalvey for the next few years, before turning her formidable attention to spearheading the campaign to open a hospice in Farmleigh. The work itself was immensely satisfying, though
the constant battles with the local health authority and the endless fundraising had required tunnel vision and unsparing dedication. By the time the builders handed over the keys, Ruth was riding the crest of the wave. Three months later – on the very day the Princess Royal was due to visit for the formal opening of Hope House – disaster struck, and that changed everything.
Ruth was woken by the sound of sobbing. She shook herself out of sleep, disorientated by the bright sunshine.
‘Sam-I-Am!’ she said, sitting up. ‘What is it, sweetheart?’
Sam was sitting up, hugging his knees, his head buried in his lap. ‘Weeping,’ he gulped. ‘I’m . . . weeping.’
‘Well, I’d more or less worked that out,’ said Ruth. Sam gave a shaky snort, half sob, half laugh. ‘Come here!’ She put her arms round him until the sobbing had eased. As the final spasm passed, he extricated himself awkwardly from her embrace.
‘Um . . . sorry,’ he said, sniffing thickly. Ruth reached into her pocket for the large white handkerchief embroidered with a blue W that she knew would be there, and handed it to her grandson.
‘There you are,’ she said. ‘Have a good nose-blow. It’s man-sized. It can take it.’
Knowing Anna Page 13
