Gemma's Journey

by Beryl Kingston

  It was a mistake. Her stump was already uncomfortable from the pounding it had taken at the agency, so the walk from the car park to the theatre was more than she should have undertaken and she knew it after the first three steps.

  But once they were in their seats, Cats took her mind off her discomfort and being in a theatre again was such a pleasure that a little soreness was an easy price to pay for it. And in the interval there was so much to talk about – his day on the wards and hers in school, musicals in general and this one in’particular – that she quickly forgot all about it, especially when they began to discover how many tastes and opinions they shared. If this isn’t a date, she thought, it’s the next-best thing.

  Back in Amersham Road, Billie Goodeve was standing in the porch, waiting for someone to answer the bell. She’d been there for over five minutes and she’d rung every thirty seconds or so but there was no sign of life in the house at all, no movement, no sound, no lights, except for the courtesy light over the front door, and you couldn’t count that. Now she was getting cold and beginning to shiver. Where was the girl? She couldn’t be out. Not at this time of night and not in the state she was in. And it was much too early for her to be in bed. Oh come on, do!

  Presently she became aware that there was a light in the kitchen of the house next door. She could see a young woman busy at the cooker and a young man drifting about with a bottle in his hand. Maybe she’d just knock and see if they knew what was going on.

  They were polite and friendly and didn’t know very much.

  ‘They must be away,’ the young woman said, vaguely. ‘Can’t have gone for long or they’d have said. Who did you want to see?’

  ‘Gemma Goodeve,’ Billie said, suppressing a shiver. ‘The girl in the wheelchair. She does live there, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Nice kid,’ the young woman said. ‘Yes, she lives there. She’s got the granny flat.’

  ‘Then why doesn’t she answer the door?’ Billie asked. ‘She’s not ill or anything, is she?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. She looked bonny the last time I saw her. She must be out. Did she know you were coming?’

  This time the shiver couldn’t be controlled. I’m catching cold, standing around here, Billie thought. And all to no point, that’s the nuisance of it. It’s too bad. It really is. She’s got no business being out at this time of night. What’s the good of knowing where she is, if she’s not there? She thanked the young couple politely and set off for home.

  And after all that, she had to wait half an hour at one bus stop and nearly an hour at the other and consequently didn’t get back to Streatham until very late. By which time there was no doubt she’d caught a cold. Miserable with disappointment and with an increasing temperature, she made herself a hot milk, added a liberal dose of whisky, and grumbled to bed.

  Chapter 20

  Nick and Gemma emerged from the blaze and boom of Cats into the evening chill of a mundane Drury Lane, arm in happy arm.

  ‘I’m starving,’ Nick said. ‘Let’s go and get something to eat. I don’t have to be back on the wards till two o’clock. Do you like Chinese? There’s a really good one in Leicester Square and they’re very quick. It’s only down Long Acre. We could get a cab if you like.’

  So they took a cab to Irving Street and walked from there into the familiar, pedestrianised bustle of the square. She looked up at the neon lights of the cinemas and told him that the Odeon used to be the old Alhambra Music Hall and he looked across at a drunk staggering about in the central garden and told her that the police were always picking up junkies and winos and bringing them into Casualty.

  ‘What do you do with them?’ she asked.

  ‘Not a lot, really,’ he admitted. ‘Patch them up and send them out again. Most of them need psychiatric care and full-time nursing but they’re “in the community” now so they don’t get it.’

  ‘So your father’s right,’ she said as they walked to the restaurant.

  ‘Absolutely right,’ he agreed. ‘The government thought they’d be saving money when they closed down the psychiatric hospitals but all they’ve actually done is to shift the problems on to someone else.’

  ‘Like the police.’

  ‘And A and E, especially over the weekends.’

  ‘You must be proud of him,’ she said. ‘The stand he’s taking.’

  She expected to see some sign of pride or pleasure on his face but he was suddenly wearing his distant expression. ‘You don’t approve,’ she said.

  ‘It’s not that exactly,’ he told her, trying to be fair. ‘He’s honest and he’s got the courage of his convictions but you need more than that if you’re going to speak out the way he does.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It could be dangerous.’

  That sounded over the top. ‘Dangerous?’

  They’d reached the restaurant so he didn’t answer for the moment but stood aside to usher her in. Then he moderated his words. ‘Well, harmful then. He’s a whistle-blower, and whistle-blowers get hurt. I know he says they can’t touch him because he’s retired but I’m not so sure. I think he’s being over-confident. If he’s not careful he’ll end up paying a price for it.’

  Gemma thought that was cynical but they were being escorted to a table and the menu was being placed before them, so there was no more time to talk politics.

  The food was as good as Nick had promised and they both enjoyed it very much. Then well fed, happily entertained, still talking and feeling decidedly pleased with themselves, they took another taxi to the car park and drove back to Amersham Road.

  It was dark and private in the front garden and very quiet when he’d switched off the ignition. There was enough pale light from the courtesy lamp for them to be able to look into one another’s eyes and no necessity for them to bring their evening to an end. Hadn’t he said he wasn’t due back on the ward until two o’clock? They sat so close together they were almost touching. And the magic began again, just as it had when he carried her down to the river, holding them still and enraptured and hopeful.

  He put his arm round her shoulders and kissed her. At last. It was a tentative kiss and very gentle but it roused them both.

  ‘Beauty!’ he said, gazing at her tender-eyed. And kissed her again, this time with more passion. This time she kissed him back, her eyes closing of their own volition with the pleasure of it.

  The empty house waited obligingly in the darkness. ‘Are you going to ask me in for coffee?’ he asked hopefully.

  She teased him. ‘I’ve only got Nescafé.’

  Nescafé would be fine. What did it matter what it was? It was only an excuse and with luck they wouldn’t get to drink it. Good old ageds, he thought, as he got out of the car. Their timing’s perfect. But then he noticed that Gemma was wincing as she stood up. ‘Are you all right?’

  She tried to make light of it. ‘I’ve done too much walking, that’s all. It’s a bit sore.’

  They strolled to the side door with their arms around each other but now, besides being acutely aware of her and wanting to kiss her again, the doctor in him was noticing how badly she was limping.

  ‘It’s more than a bit sore,’ he said, as she took up a careful stance before putting her key in the lock. ‘It’s hurting you to stand. You’d better let me have a look at it when we get in.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ she said, opening the door. ‘Really.’ His abrupt change from lover to doctor upset her. Surely her leg could wait. Or didn’t he want to kiss her again?

  But he was insistent. ‘You’re limping,’ he said firmly. ‘It needs checking. You don’t want another op, do you?’

  She could see there was no hope of ignoring it now. ‘All right then,’ she said quite crossly. ‘I’ll go to the bathroom and sort it out. Will that satisfy you?’

  She thought he would wait in the living room but he followed her into the bathroom determined to see the state of the stump for himself and without the slightest inkling that he might be invading her pr
ivacy.

  She was miserably embarrassed. In hospital it had been the norm to be seen by any number of young men and women, but never like this. The fact that he’d just been kissing her turned this sudden descent into helpless patient into a mortification.

  She sat on the toilet seat and took off her shoes and socks, so that her false foot was exposed. She had to steel herself not to wince at it. Oh if only she’d got a nice normal foot covered in flesh like everybody else. ‘I can manage,’ she begged, looking up at him.

  But he was massively adamant, wearing his serious face and waiting, as immovable as a tree.

  There was nothing for it. She had to take off her jeans and let him see the damage. She set about it gingerly, as he was quick to notice, good leg first, then the prosthesis, easing the tight cloth down towards her false foot as gently as she could.

  And of course, the stump was chafed. It looked red and sore and was obviously swollen. Damn, damn, damn!

  ‘You’ll have to come into St Thomas’s,’ he decided. ‘Have you got a skirt you could put on?’

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ she protested. ‘It’ll be all right. I’ll put a dressing on it.’

  ‘It needs more than a dressing,’ he said, already on his way to the bedroom. ‘Where do you keep your skirts?’

  ‘Look,’ she called after him. ‘I’ll go to the rehab centre first thing Monday morning. That’s all it needs.’

  The offer fell on stony medical ground. ‘Much too late,’ he said, returning with a red skirt that didn’t match anything she was wearing. ‘You can’t spend the weekend in this state. Put this on.’

  ‘I’ll phone them tomorrow and see what they say.’

  ‘Tomorrow’s Saturday. They won’t be there. Put this on.’

  ‘Don’t boss me about, Nick.’

  ‘It’s for your own good. Believe me. You don’t want another op do you?’

  She had to admit that she didn’t. But she still thought he was making a fuss.

  ‘Allow me to be the judge of that,’ he said. ‘I’d rather have you cross with me now and be sure you’re properly looked after than give in to you and have to watch you come round from another op.’

  So she had to put on her unsightly skirt and use her crutches to get out to the car – because she certainly wasn’t going to allow him to carry her when he was being so officious – and be driven to the hospital. She argued with him all the way but he was impervious to everything she said. It didn’t seem possible to her that they’d been kissing one another in this same car less than half an hour ago.

  And things got worse when they reached St Thomas’s because the A and E department was full of casualties and obviously much too busy to attend to a swollen stump, as she told him at once.

  ‘We’ll go through the side door,’ he said, undeterred, ‘and jump the queue.’ And shot off at once to get a wheelchair.

  ‘I don’t need this,’ she said.

  He was calm and implacable. ‘I’m going to see if I can find Ab,’ he said. ‘He’ll know who’s on. You’ll have to sit in with the others for a few minutes but I shouldn’t be long.’

  The others were all so much worse than she was that she felt uncomfortable to be among them. There were two drunks in mud-coloured overcoats and stained trousers held up with string, clutching cans and stinking the place out, one with bloodstained fists and the other with a blood-smeared face; two young men, pale-faced with shock and with a policeman in attendance; an old lady groaning on a stretcher with a neck brace holding up her chin and tears oozing out of her eyes; a skinhead, with six earrings in each ear and spikes through his nose and his eyebrows, being sick between his boots; ambulance men coming and going, two paramedics waiting by the entrance, nurses looking harassed, a doctor rushing through the swing doors as if the place was on fire.

  This is a waste of time, Gemma thought, as the minutes ticked monotonously by. Names were called and casualties led away to be examined, but more arrived by the minute, some very belligerently. They’ve got enough to attend to here without me. If only Nick had waited with her instead of rushing away like that. It was frustrating just sitting about. And it got more frustrating the longer she sat there. She was trying to work out how she could get home by herself, when Nick emerged from one of the curtained cubicles with a tall Indian doctor, who smiled at her as if they knew one another.

  ‘This is Ab,’ Nick said, wheeling her into the cubicle. ‘He’ll look after you. You’re in safe hands. I’m due on the wards in five minutes. Sorry about that. I’ll be back. I’ll arrange for an ambulance to take you home. Look after her, Ab.’ And he was gone before she could catch her breath.

  ‘Not to worry,’ Ab said, seeing how confused and annoyed she was. ‘Let’s have a look at this stump of yours, shall we.’

  She submitted to yet another examination and waited again while a consultant was called. There was no sign of Nick but by then she was past caring. It was half an hour before the consultant appeared. Not one she knew, but he was quick and decisive, told her she was wise to come in, prescribed anti-inflammatory drugs, advised her to use her chair until the swelling had gone down and suggested that she should get back to the rehab centre.

  ‘That’s arranged,’ Ab said. ‘Dr Quennell phoned down. He’s ordered the ambulance for nine o’clock on Monday morning.’

  I might as well not be here, Gemma thought, they’re all so busy living my life for me. Then she felt ashamed of herself for being ungrateful. They were doing their best. So she smiled and said thank you, and the consultant wrote his notes and departed. But Nick didn’t come back.

  ‘Now what?’ she said to Ab, as a nurse arrived to wheel her back into the waiting area.

  ‘There’s an ambulance on its way to take you home. Shouldn’t be long. Nick said to tell you he’d be down to say goodbye.’

  But he wasn’t, even though it was another three-quarters of an hour before an ambulance man arrived to collect her. By the time she hopped awkwardly into her flat, it was past three o’clock in the morning and all she wanted to do was cry.

  How could I have been such a fool? she wept as she lay in the darkness of her ugly bedroom. How could I have sat out in that car and imagined I was going to start a relationship when I’ve got one leg missing and a stump that lets me down at the crucial moment and I don’t even look normal, for Christ’s sake? It was time to face up to the facts, And the first one was her own changed image.

  The lesser scars on her face were fading but the great tramline across her scalp would never go away. It was there and she would have to live with it. And it couldn’t be completely hidden by her hair, no matter how cunningly she arranged it and no matter how strongly it was growing back. The scars on her leg would always be there too and so would the deformity of that stump. No matter how well she was managing her life, the bare brute facts would always be the same. She had one more or less normal leg and one that ended in an ugly stump of flesh. How could any man love a woman in a state like that? Even a doctor who knows what I’ve been through. I thought he might be an exception, a man strong enough to accept me for what I am, but he’s not. How could he be? He’s a doctor and I’m his patient. That’s all there is to it, all there’ll ever be to it, and I’m a fool to imagine it could ever be anything else. That’s how they think of me in this house – as a patient. That’s how they’ll go on thinking of me as long as I stay here. They’re all in a mind-set. And I can’t put up with it. It’s too painful. Well there’s only one thing to be done. I shall have to move out. I’ve got a job, or as good as, now I’ll find a flat and set up on my own.

  Making plans restored her. I’ll go tomorrow, she decided, closing her eyes. Well, today really. Later on today. And with that, she slept.

  In the Pengillys’ stylish living room in Poppleton, Susan and Catherine were still awake. Catherine had spent a cheerful afternoon in York, Christmas shopping with the two girls, who’d had an Inset day off school, and tomorrow they were all going to Leeds for a day�
�s shopping there. But now, although it was well into the small hours, she and Susan were sitting up, enjoying the warmth of the log fire, talking and drinking yet another late-night whisky. Catherine joked that she was too bushed to go to bed. She was tired, that was true enough, but there was another and more pressing reason for her delay and that was her need to know what was troubling her daughter. They’d been gossiping off and on since the girls went to bed but she was still none the wiser and now they were on to yet another new topic.

  For, as Susan refilled her mother’s glass, she’d asked, ‘How are our lovebirds?’

  ‘Difficult to say,’ Catherine answered. ‘I’d hardly call them lovebirds.’

  ‘Are they an item?’

  ‘They went to the theatre tonight,’ Catherine said. ‘Thanks. Gemma told me. But I’m not sure there’s anything in it.’

  ‘What does Nick say about it?’

  ‘He hasn’t said anything yet. And I haven’t asked. It’s not something you ask your son. He’ll tell me in his own good time, if there’s anything to tell. Like Chris.’

  ‘Is she still living in the flat?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘And does he phone her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Now that’s odd,’ Susan said. ‘Why is he being so slow? I thought they were getting on so well.’

  Catherine was puzzled by these questions, just as she’d been by all the others Sue had asked her. Why the interest? she wondered. It’s not like her to quiz me about her brothers. Or to be so edgy. She’s always been quick and tense but nothing like this. She’s like a greyhound in the slips, all bolting eyes and straining at the leash. New lines on her forehead, that trick of flexing her fingers before she tackles the next chore. That’s new too. She’s doing it now. It reminded her of that awful time when the fifteen-year-old Susan had failed her mocks and locked herself in the bedroom and refused to talk to anybody. Maybe I should ask a direct question and see if I can get her to talk about what’s really troubling her. If I do it gently …