Frozen Charlotte
Priscilla Masters
Set in the medieval town of Shrewsbury, this is the third in the compelling '-Martha Gunn' series – When a woman arrives in A and E clutching a child in a pink blanket, Martha Gunn is not quite ready to make the discovery that the evening has in store for her. The baby is dead, and not only that, it has been mummified. Post mortem reveals the child to be a new born, deceased for over five years and, despite the mysterious woman's protestations that it is called '-poppy', most certainly a boy. As always coroner Martha Gunn reserves judgement until she is able to get to the bottom of the case.
Priscilla Masters
Frozen Charlotte
The third book in the Martha Gunn series, 2011
ONE
Saturday January 9th , 7p.m .
There was nothing to mark her out. She sat quietly in the corner of the Accident and Emergency department, in the seat farthest away from the registration hatch. She merged almost perfectly into the background in a dark fleece and paint-spattered jeans, hunched over a small bundle. She could have been a relative or a friend of a patient – even someone who had wandered in, looking for warmth, shelter and safety on this cold night. There are plenty of waifs and strays in and around a hospital and in general the staff are kind, allowing them to sit, even giving them a cup of tea. They realized later, when they had the debrief, that no one had really noticed her. She had blended into the background so successfully that even the nurses, who, like waiters in a busy restaurant, were trained to notice everyone, had not seen her. They were all too distracted and the woman made no demands so did not draw attention to herself. She had not approached the desk to register her complaint, but sat, head down over a pink woollen bundle, crooning softly, rocking it ever so slightly, to and fro, acknowledging no one.
All around there was the usual noise of a casualty department in a district general hospital on a freezing Saturday night. The snow had brought in the usual slips and tumbles, sledging collisions and car crashes. The air ambulance had been ferrying casualties to the hospital all day long so there was a line of trolleys and people waiting to be seen by the overworked staff. There was heightened tension that night. This was a hospital and a town still traumatized by the explosion on the previous Sunday afternoon which had tested out the hospital’s Major Incident Policy for only the second time in ten years. It had worked well but they were all still twitching from the effect. So tonight the bustle under the bright lights appeared particularly frenzied: the shouts of patients louder and more querulous, the screams of children shriller, the metallic clash of trolleys coming and going more discordant. Bleeps and telephones, shouts of instruction and everywhere people hurrying, a sense of urgency, of quickness, of life and death. There was colour, movement and bright lights everywhere, except in this one dimly lit far corner where a woman sat hunched over a pink blanket, isolated in her own quiet pool.
Staff Nurse Lucy Ramshaw was getting married in eight weeks’ time so she was working long shifts to earn much needed extra cash. All the time she worked that evening, carrying out the hundred and one tasks that were expected of her, she was distracted, her mind floating up the aisle to the strains of Wagner’s ‘Bridal Chorus’ to become Mrs Werrin. She was mentally making lists of Things To Do Before The Special Day: checking flowers, cars, times, lifts, accommodation, final fittings of the dresses and worrying about the iceberg of her credit card bill which seemed to have grown exponentially. On top of that were other worries: seating arrangements, potential hostility between a divorced couple – her brother and ex-sister-in-law meeting up after years. Lucy was looking forward to the Great Day but she wished that somehow she could be transported there right now with the list ticked off completely. There was too much to think and worry about and these long shifts at work were a kill. She was dog tired. She sighed as she searched the computer for a blood result that would make the difference between admission to the Coronary Care unit or a patient being reassured and sent home. It was negative.
She stood up ready to speak to the patient and felt slightly uplifted. After all the stress of the wedding there would be the honeymoon. She smiled to herself. Rob Werrin was quite a catch. A fit, smart guy who worked in a car showroom and knew how to make her very happy. She adored him and he her. So for the early part of that evening Lucy Ramshaw was happy in her work.
7.30 p.m., The White House
Martha was decorating what had been Martin’s study. In overalls and with a shower cap protecting her red hair from the paint spots, she was making very slow progress. It had seemed as though it would be a simple, quick job, splashing emulsion over the walls but, as with many DIY jobs, it was taking a lot longer than she had anticipated, which was frustrating. Sam was home for the weekend and she would have preferred to spend more time with him, particularly as he was more subdued than normal. He was suspended from playing in any of the junior league matches because of a tendon strain and the inactivity had made him grumpy and a little reflective about his future as a football player. Martha looked at her freckle-faced son and wished she could find the right words to console him, maybe even direct him towards more positive thinking. The worst thing was that since he had been signed up for the Liverpool Football Academy his erstwhile local friends had drifted away into their own lives. Now when he came home he was largely alone, his friends now being the Liverpool gang. She wasn’t much good. Mothers rarely are when it comes to sporting chit-chat. The entire clannish football world was foreign to her and after a few attempts at describing matches, goals, runs, passes and so on, Sam had given up. She dipped her roller in the paint tray. She had long grown out of the habit of wishing that Martin was here to help her through this or even believing that he would have dealt better with the situation. He hadn’t been a great football fan either. It was a mystery to her where Sam had got this talent from. Riding on the back of this puzzle was the knowledge that Martin had never known this Sam, this teenager with the complicated life, this emerging man. He had left behind three-year-old twins. A little boy and a little girl.
Sukey, in a white towelling dressing gown, wandered in, frowning. ‘Mum, have you seen my white top?’
‘In the wash?’ Martha ventured.
Sukey looked impatient. ‘It’ll want ironing.’
Martha turned around and gave her daughter a straight look. Agnetha, the au pair, was leaving in a month. From then on she would only have Vera, the daily, for a couple of mornings a week. And Vera, famously, did not like ironing. In the future if Sukey wanted something ironing she was going to have to do it herself. She may as well get used to it. But instead of answering her daughter’s very indirect question Martha countered with one of her own.
‘Where are you going tonight, Suks?’
It is the question every teenage girl resents. Sukey’s scowl deepened. ‘Out.’
‘You know the rules,’ Martha said quietly. ‘Where?’
Sukey flushed and looked evasive. ‘With a bunch of people.’
Martha put the paintbrush down with exaggerated deliberation. ‘You know the rules,’ she repeated. ‘Where are you going, who will be with you and-’
‘What time will you be home,’ Sukey chimed in with a squeaky, mocking voice.
Martha ignored the cheek and smiled. ‘Precisely,’ she said.
Sam decided it was time he contributed to the discussion. ‘As I’m home I’d have thought you’d have wanted to stay in,’ he said grumpily. ‘I’m hardly ever here, Suks, specially at weekends.’
Mercurial as ever, Sukey’s face changed. She gave them both a wide, warm smile, each in turn. ‘I’m going out with Sally, Emma, Feodore and Rumilla,’ she said carefully, spoiling this innocent statement of intention by slipping in, ‘and so
me of the sixth-form boys are tagging along too.’
In spite of the warning bells alarming in Martha’s head, she forced herself not to over react. ‘And where are you going?’
‘To the new club that’s just opened in town. It’s a sort of disco/coffee shop. Don’t worry, Mum’, Sukey said quickly, ‘Feodore’s dad is being taxi driver tonight and he promises to have me home before eleven. And as for you, little brother,’ she said, turning to Sam, ‘as penance for abandoning you tonight for the fleshpots of Shrewsbury I shall spend all day tomorrow listening to your utterly boring football talk.’ She diluted the insult by rumpling her brother’s hair and they exchanged a small, secret smile, one that perhaps only twins can share.
‘All right, Suks,’ he said, good-naturedly, then eyeing the decorating with resentment he continued, ‘I suppose I shall have to help Mum paint this room.’
Both mother and son looked around them with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. ‘It seems to be taking an awfully long time,’ Sam tagged on disconsolately.
‘Mmm.’ Martha wiped her face, smearing emulsion across her right cheek and privately she agreed. Perhaps she had bitten off more than she could really chew. The ceilings in this room seemed particularly high and full of nasty small cracks that would all need filling with Polyfilla. She’d never done much decorating and now wished she’d summoned a professional. She was not enjoying this, particularly as tonight was a rare occasion. She would have her son all to herself. It seemed a waste to spend it doing something so mundane as decorating. As Sukey left the room, presumably to see if Agnetha would iron her white T-shirt, Martha put the paint tray down. ‘You know, Sam,’ she said, ‘I don’t much feel like doing this tonight. How about we do some cooking and watch a film or something instead?’
His answer was a wide grin. She and Sam shut the door firmly on the chaos, took the brushes out to the laundry and started rinsing them through.
But now she had dealt with one problem her mind focussed on Sukey’s deliberately careless words. Sixth-form boys?
A mother might see her daughter every day but the moment is still sudden when she realizes her little girl has become a woman. Martha watched the paint-stained water swirling down the plughole. It had happened so fast.
When Sukey came downstairs fifteen minutes later Martha and Sam were rifling through the kitchen cupboards, trying to decide what to cook. Sukey walked into the kitchen and Martha realized that her daughter had the poise of a woman twice her age. She shook her head almost in disbelief and watched her. When had Sukey turned from sweet schoolgirl into something so resembling a super model? As she eyed the tiny black skirt around boyish hips, long, slim legs and blonde hair swinging almost to her waist and noted that she was wearing the newly ironed T-shirt – ironed by whom? – Martha felt a snatch, not only of apprehension, but also of pride. Was this really her own daughter?
‘You look lovely, Sukey,’ she said. ‘Really lovely.’ She sighed. ‘Nothing like me or your father. I don’t know where you get it from.’
Sukey gave her a grin. ‘Neither do I,’ she said cheekily. Behind her Sam chortled and for a brief, precious moment, they were a family of three, undamaged by grief or unhappiness.
‘What do you think, Mrs Gunn?’ Agnetha had appeared in the doorway. ‘I am glad I ironed the shirt so she could wear it. It looks so good on her.’
One question answered.
‘She does look great, Agnetha. You’re going to miss her when you leave to get married.’
‘I am. But maybe you will allow her to come over to see me?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘That would be lovely. My family will like her so very much.’ She and Sukey looked at each other and smiled conspiratorially. In the years since Agnetha had been their au pair they had built up a close friendship.
Uninterested in Agnetha’s impending wedding, Sam had stayed silent during this girlish exchange. He was still rooting through the fridge to see what he could find to cook. He waited with unaccustomed patience as the three women chatted about clothes and fashion and the forthcoming wedding in the summer.
The conversation was cut short by the ring of the doorbell. Sukey jumped up and kissed her mother’s cheek. ‘Bye, Mum,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry. See you later. Bye, Sam. Bye, Agnetha.’ And she was gone leaving Agnetha a free evening to watch the television, surf the Internet and chat with her fiancée and Martha and Sam to enjoy cooking fish pie, once they’d defrosted some cod steaks.
As they steamed the fish, grated the cheese, peeled and cooked the potatoes, Sam began to unburden himself.
‘It’s sort of unsettling, Mum,’ he said, his face looking troubled. ‘I mean – you’re never really on an even keel, you know. One minute they’re calling you a god, the next they’re throwing shit in your face and calling you a dickhead.’
‘Sam.’ She was shocked at how cynical he’d become so very quickly. Her daughter might have the poise of a woman twice her age but her son had the cynicism of someone twice his age. He’d only been at the academy a little over a year and he’d changed completely. She felt a sudden anger. What the hell did they teach boys there? She studied his face. He’d always been a gritty little character, biting his lip when he’d fallen and hurt himself, determined not to cry. In that way he had not changed at all. He was still her tough son, wiry and determined, yet vulnerable, but this newly acquired cynicism made him appear older, much wiser, than his almost fifteen years, even a littler careworn. She watched him with concern until he started forking in the food, energy and enthusiasm increasing by the mouthful. She smiled and relaxed. It turned out a pleasant evening.
Saturday night is ‘drunks night’ which always keeps the staff busy. But this night was different. After the initial rush of casualties during the day and early evening, the department gradually emptied out as the snow was obviously keeping people to their own homes and encouraging those who were out to return earlier than usual. By a little after 9 p.m. the department was clearing, the chairs slowly emptying.
Dr Jane Miles wiped some hair out of her eyes and looked at Staff Nurse Ramshaw. ‘How’re we doing, Lucy?’
Lucy grinned back and rotated her shoulders to loosen them up. ‘Not bad. We should manage a cup of-’
This was being a little over optimistic. The bleep interrupted her. ‘Dr Miles to Resus. Dr Miles to Resus.’ Jane picked up the number and started running.
There is a particular atmosphere which surrounds a cardiac arrest. Noise and stillness, activity and a lack of movement. Quiet words of direction and finally a decision. Screens are put round, relatives ushered away and anyone who does not have an active role keeps on the periphery, to act as messenger. It was a young road-traffic victim, a youth of twenty who had been walking along the road because the pavement was icy but a car coming in the opposite direction had struggled to maintain control and had smashed into him causing multiple injuries. The team worked on him for an exhausting half hour before their eyes met and they made the decision to stop resuscitating. There is nothing more defeating than this moment. But it is not only a time of grief. It is the moment of decision. Tragedy for some can be the ray of hope for others. There is the question of organ donation which has to be hurried past already traumatized relatives.
And so, amid the bustle and noise of the A &E department on this Saturday evening, the woman continued to sit with the pink woollen bundle on her lap. She was not so much ignored as sitting at the bottom of the department’s priorities. Finally, at half past ten, it was left to Staff Nurse Lucy Ramshaw, to deal with her just before she finished her twelve-hour shift. First of all she went to speak to Sarinda, the clerk on the registration desk. ‘Do you know anything about the lady sitting in the corner?’
The receptionist leaned over to peer over Lucy’s shoulder. ‘No,’ she said. ‘She hasn’t registered here. Maybe she’s waiting for someone. She doesn’t look like a down-and-out.’
That was when Lucy started to feel just a little uneasy. ‘The cub
icles are empty,’ she observed. ‘The weather’s keeping most sensible people indoors.’ She pushed open the door into the waiting area. ‘I’d better find out what she’s doing here.’
She threaded her way through the rows of now-empty chairs. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m Staff Nurse Lucy Ramshaw. Can I help you?’
The woman looked up, a polite, questioning smile on her face.
It seemed a slightly odd, inappropriate expression so Lucy sat down beside her. ‘Have you been here a while?’ she asked. ‘I’m sorry if you have. We’ve been really busy.’
The woman seemed to understand, even to sympathize. She put a hand out and touched Lucy’s arm. ‘It’s all right,’ she said in a soft voice. ‘I’m in no hurry.’
‘Are you waiting for someone?’
The woman shook her head.
‘Do you need medical attention?’
The woman appeared not to understand her. She looked confused. Stared at the nurse, her face frowning as if trying to comprehend. She said nothing. Her lips didn’t even move to begin to form a reply.
Lucy felt further prickings of disquiet as she glanced at the woollen bundle in the woman’s arms. ‘Is that a baby?’ she asked sharply.
The woman’s eyes dropped sentimentally to the contents of the pink blanket.
Fuck, Lucy thought. Babies were meant to be seen by a medical person within half an hour of arrival. This woman had probably sat here for hours.
‘Is it the baby who needs seeing?’
At last there was a vocal response. ‘Yes, yes,’ the woman said, still in a soft, polite, rather formal voice. ‘I thought I’d better bring Poppy here.’
‘But you haven’t registered her.’
The woman stared back, again without responding to this statement. Lucy was torn. This promised to be ‘an incident’. A baby who needed medical attention had not been registered at the desk and therefore had been ignored for what could have been hours. She didn’t want to leave this loose end for the night shift to sort out but she was dog-tired. She wanted to go home and this woman seemed strange. They always took the longest to sort out. Already she was wondering who the duty psychiatric social worker was.
Frozen Charlotte Page 1
