That turned out to be the living room of one of the unoccupied houses and was manned by a woman with pebbledash glasses, thin beige hair and a long beige cardigan who was knitting with furious concentration when Gemma limped in through the door.
‘You’re just our sort of tenant,’ she said, beaming at Gemma. ‘The very person we had in mind when we were designing these places.’ She got up to show her the site map and to explain where the sheltered flats had been built. ‘Number 6 is for wheelchairs,’ she said, ‘and I believe it’s about ready for occupation.’ She checked the papers on her desk. ‘Yes, after Christmas. Would you like to see it?’
It was on the ground floor – which was good for a start – with a ramp leading up to the door which was wide and handsome under a gabled porch. There was a flowerbed planted with shrubs alongside the ramp and another set neatly underneath the kitchen window. The whole place looked so clean and orderly and white-painted and welcoming she couldn’t wait to get inside.
So the key was produced and in they went. The front door was wide enough to accommodate her chair and so was the hall, which was painted magnolia like every other room. And from the hall there were only two other doors to negotiate, one leading into the bedroom which had an archway through to an en suite bathroom, and the other which led to the kitchen and thence through another archway to a very pretty living room. It had a Victorian fireplace, white skirting boards and coving, magnolia walls and a huge bay window overlooking the River Thames.
Gemma wheeled her chair into the bay to enjoy the view. Beyond the window, the river was glamorous with winter sun-light, its sharp waves tipped with flashes of crystal, its width a rolling pattern of olive green and sky blue. On the opposite bank the terraces were made of the old familial London brick, dirty yellow, smudged smoke-grey, and the row of windows flashed in the sun as if they’d just been washed, reflecting the blue of the sky like a string of mirrors. Looking at it, she felt as if she’d come home. It made her think of all the other river scenes she’d enjoyed in her life, and especially the ones that had comforted her since her accident – the view of the Houses of Parliament from the restaurant in St Thomas’s, the milky blue water that had lapped around her on that river journey to York. There was no doubt in her mind. If she could afford this flat, she would rent it. No, damn it, she would rent it even if she couldn’t afford it. It was simply too good to pass up.
Chapter 22
Because the girls were clowning about, Catherine missed her train that Sunday morning, so she got home an hour later than she intended. She was surprised to see the ramp in position because that meant Gemma must be out. As she walked into the living room to check the answerphone, she wondered briefly where she could have got to and hoped she was with Nick. But there wasn’t time for speculation. The machine was flashing and there were five calls waiting, one from Grace wondering whether they would like to come to dinner with her on Thursday, one from a man from the Independent, who said he’d call back, and three who hadn’t left a message. Blanks made her feel anxious, but there wasn’t time to worry about them either. Not when there was a dinner to cook and she was an hour behind schedule. She hung up her coat and headed for the kitchen.
The lamb was roasting nicely and most of the vegetables were prepared before Gemma limped in, using her crutches and not wearing her prosthesis.
‘Oh dear,’ Catherine said. ‘Trouble?’
Gemma grinned to show that it was nothing. She’d rehearsed what she was going to say and how it was going to be said. ‘Bit sore. That’s all. I walked too far yesterday.’ There was no need to mention going to hospital. Nick could tell them that – if he wanted to. ‘Wait till you hear what I’ve got to tell you. I’ve got a job. And I’ve found a flat.’
‘Well done, you!’ Catherine applauded. ‘Stay to dinner and tell me all about it.’
They were still talking happily when Andrew breezed into the kitchen, grey eyes beaming, hair bushing about his temples, wearing triumph like a cloak.
‘Great broadcast,’ he said. ‘That smells good! How were the kids?’
His arrival pushed Catherine straight back to the problem that had kept her awake for the past two nights. How can I possibly tell him what to do? she thought. Or what not to do? Even for Susan. It would be like telling the tide not to come in. She gave Gemma a smile to signal that the rest of their conversation would have to wait and turned to give him her full attention. ‘What was it about?’ she asked.
‘Rationing,’ he told her briefly, lifting the lid of the saucepan to examine the contents. ‘Got pretty technical. Are we having almonds with these?’
‘We are. And the carrots are cooked in cider. All your favourites. So I gather you had plenty to say.’
‘Oh, this and that,’ he teased. ‘Actually that’s not the best news.’ And he waited happily for them to look at him. Which they both did. ‘I’ve written my next article.’ Oh the pride of being able to say that.
Catherine laughed. ‘Good heavens! What happened to your writer’s block?’
‘Solved,’ he said, taking a copy of the Chronicle out of his bag. ‘I’ve got an enemy. Look at that.’
It was an article by a reporter called Garry McKendrick, headlined QUACK-QUACK QUENNELL and printed alongside a very unflattering photograph obviously taken from a television broadcast: Andrew was in full flow with his mouth wide open.
‘Dr Know-it-all, self-opinionated Quennell,’ the article said, ‘is getting on my nerves. You can’t turn on the telly these days without him popping up all over the place, giving everybody stick and rabbiting on about how bad the NHS is. There’s a rumour he’s got a column in the Independent so he can bend our ears in print. We should be so lucky! If it goes on much longer nobody will be able to get a word in edgeways for his endless quack-quack-quack. There’s no end to the man. So I’ve got a message for him. Pin back your lug-holes, Dr Quack-quack. Here it comes.
‘We’re fed up to the back teeth with your complaining. And it’s got to stop. There’s a lot right with our Health Service in case you haven’t noticed. It’s had millions spent on it in the last five years. Some of us would prefer to hear about that instead of having our ears bent with doom and gloom. So put a sock in it Doctor and give us a break.’
‘What a revolting man,’ Catherine said, hotly. ‘And isn’t he crude!’
‘He’s perfect,’ Andrew told her, grinning. ‘A gift. He sounds off, you see, and all I’ve got to do is answer him. Do you want to see what I’ve written? It’s really rather good. All about the way those millions have been wasted.’
They read the article over dinner and Gemma promised to type it up for him when she got back from the rehab centre. Then she told him her news. They’d reached the coffee stage and she’d just handed him the brochure from St Mary’s Court, when the phone rang.
Catherine got up to answer it but Andrew was on his feet before her. ‘It’ll be for me,’ he said splendidly.
It was Nick. ‘Ah!’ he said. ‘You’re back.’
‘So it would appear,’ Andrew agreed. ‘Didn’t you think we would be?’ And he mouthed ‘Nick’ at Catherine.
‘Ask him if he rang earlier,’ Catherine said. But he ignored her.
Gemma sat at the table, trying not to look as though she was listening and feeling ill at ease. Would he ask to speak to her and, if he did, what would she say? Did she want to speak to him? She had to admit she did, despite the way he’d behaved. But only to tease him. She sat quite still, gathering her strength and honing her wits, bracing herself as if she was putting on armour, ready for a fight. Or if not a fight, a show of force. Or if not a show of force …
Andrew had taken full charge of the call and was off on a happy account of his weekend, urging Nick to get a copy of the Chronicle and describing his newly written article. ‘Absolute piece of cake! Flowed like water. I should have found myself an enemy right at the start.’ To Gemma’s troubled eyes he seemed to be growing by the minute, filling the room. If only he wasn�
��t quite so dominant all the time, she thought. Nick can hardly get a word in edgeways.
As Nick himself was miserably aware. This was his lunch break and he only had a couple of minutes left so he couldn’t afford to waste them. Work was waiting and his bleeper lay in his pocket like a grenade about to explode. If he’d been talking to his mother, he’d have asked her to hand the phone over to Gemma. As it was, the best he could manage was to ask how she was when his father paused for breath.
‘She’s all right,’ Andrew said. ‘Got herself a job.’
‘I know,’ Nick said. ‘She told me.’ And he willed his father to put her on.
‘And a flat,’ Andrew went on easily. ‘Did she tell you that? We shall be losing her.’
The news was so sudden it made Nick’s heart sink. ‘When?’ he said, although the question he wanted to ask was ‘Why?’
‘Don’t know. Week or two, I expect. Could be earlier. I shall have to learn to do my own typing.’ He smiled at Gemma.
He’s not going to speak to me, Gemma thought. Just about me. One doctor to another, discussing their patient. There’s no point in sitting here. It’s just embarrassing. And she got up, made a mumbled excuse to Catherine and limped back to her flat.
‘Is she there?’ Nick asked at last.
‘No. Actually she’s just gone out of the room.’
She’s putting a distance between us, Nick understood. She’s not interested. Well if that’s the way she wants it, so be it. I can handle it. ‘I must go,’ he said, stern with disappointment. ‘Duty calls.’
‘Shall we see you Tuesday?’ Andrew asked.
‘No,’ Nick decided. He couldn’t face a visit quite so soon. ‘Tell Mother I’ll come round on Wednesday week. About teatime.’ He hung up.
‘They’ve had a tiff,’ Catherine said as Andrew rejoined her at the table.
He laughed at her. ‘Now how could you possibly know that?’
‘They were going out. Remember? To the theatre. Neither of them have said a word about it. He didn’t, did he? And he’s rung here four times.’
‘Well if that’s the case,’ Andrew said easily, ‘I suggest we keep well out of it. Let them sort it out for themselves. Much the best thing. Is there any more coffee? This lot’s cold.’
Once she was back in her green and gold living room, Gemma recovered deliberately quickly. She took out the brochure and studied it until she felt calm again. Then, feeling bolder than she’d done for a long time, she wrote an application for the least impossible job in her trade magazine, as an ASM at a theatre she’d never heard of, and folded it into her largest envelope, along with a stamped, addressed envelope for their reply. Then she found a notebook and began to work out what furniture and fittings she would need for her new life in her new flat and how much they would cost. The minute I know I’ve got this job, she decided, I’ll put down a deposit. Then I can get on with it. I might even hear tomorrow.
But she didn’t, so it was a long week, even though there was plenty in it to keep her occupied. On Monday she went to the rehab centre, where she was prescribed special dressings and a week’s rest because the stump was still sore.
‘Use the chair,’ the consultant advised, ‘and give yourself a chance to heal again.’
On Tuesday, she typed up Andrew’s article for him and showed him how to operate the dictaphone. It was a way to avoid facing the fact that Nick hadn’t visited.
But by Thursday, when the letter still hadn’t come and Nick still hadn’t phoned or written, her limited patience deserted her and she spent the entire day fretting from one domestic catastrophe to another. Pens ran out of ink, the kettle boiled dry, the duvet wouldn’t stay on the bed. She made cakes and burnt them brown, did her ironing sitting down and scorched her best blouse, tried to dust her living room and ended up spraying so much polish on the clock face that she couldn’t see the hands.
‘I hope to God they write and tell me tomorrow,’ she said to Catherine that evening. ‘I’m a walking disaster area.’
But at last the letter arrived, in the second post on Friday morning, and the job was hers. She put on her coat and drove her chair to St Mary’s Court at once, as if there wasn’t a minute to lose. The sooner she was fully independent the better.
Tim Ledgerwood returned to Streatham that evening in a brand new BMW, a designer suit and an expansive mood. He wore his hat at a jaunty angle and his arms were full of flowers.
Billie had been sitting by the gas fire watching a film on the television and feeling miserable, with a scarf wound round her neck to ease her sore throat and a hot-water bottle in the small of her back to ease her aching bones, but his arrival lifted her spirits at once.
‘Oh!’ she said, as she received the flowers. ‘You shouldn’t have. You’re spoiling me.’
‘Sweets to the sweet!’ he said, giving her his well-worn smile. ‘Come and see my new car.’
Billie wasn’t terribly interested in cars, not being a driver, but she remembered how much he enjoyed being praised so she went to the window and said the right things, commenting that business must have been good.
‘So-so,’ he said, looking modest. In fact, it had been far less conclusive than he’d hoped, even with the solicitor’s letter as collateral, but he certainly wasn’t going to tell her that. Now, what with the purchase of the suit and the hire of the car, to say nothing of business lunches and cigars, he was considerably out of pocket. ‘Was there any mail?’
‘You’ve had two from Mr Gresham,’ she said, taking them out from behind the clock. ‘That one came this morning.’ Then she went off to the kitchen to put the flowers in water so as to give him time to read them. He was still reading when she got back, and his forehead was quite wrinkled. Better not disturb him, she thought. It’ll only make him angry and I don’t want to do that. He’ll tell me in his own good time. She put the flowers on the sideboard and returned to the fire, where she settled against the heat of the hot-water bottle and blew her nose as discreetly as she could.
‘You’ve got a cold,’ he observed mildly, his eyes still on the letters. But he didn’t sound particularly concerned.
I’m ill, she thought, and despite the pleasure she’d felt at seeing him again, she was niggled by his lack of sympathy. He’d never been good about illness. In fact, he’d been quite heartless when she was carrying Gemma and being sick all the time. She’d forgotten all about it until now. But even as the thought was in her head, she felt ashamed of it. She was remembering far too many negative things about him and it was no way to treat him, when he’d come back to her, and he still loved her, and he’d brought her all those lovely flowers. Especially when he was looking so worried. He needed support, not criticism.
‘Problems?’ she asked.
He changed his expression at once and smiled at her. ‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ he said. ‘He’s drawn up the application. Looks fine to me. For half a million, as we specified. Now he’s ready for Gemma to sign it.’ He was also ready to be paid and had sent an invoice to prove it. Damned man! ‘I don’t suppose we’ve had any news of her, have we?’
‘Well, yes,’ Billie smiled, feeling pleased with herself. ‘I’ve found her.’
His response was wonderfully dramatic. ‘Brilliant!’ he said, looking up at her, eyes gleaming. ‘You clever, clever girl! How is she? When’s she coming over? Did you tell her I wanted to see her?’
If only she could have told him what he wanted to hear instead of having to confess to a partial failure. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘what I mean is, I found out where she lives. She wasn’t there when I went. Nobody was. They were all out for the weekend. I was hanging about for hours. That’s how I caught this cold.’
‘But you’ve been back,’ he insisted. ‘You’ve seen her?’
‘Well no,’ she admitted. ‘I’ve been in bed ill. I was so bad I had to take Monday and Tuesday off work.’
‘My poor poppet!’ he sympathised. ‘How beastly for you. Well it can’t be helped. In a way it’s q
uite a good thing. We can go back together. It’s a bit late tonight, but first thing tomorrow.’
His enthusiasm made her feel tired. ‘I’ve got work to do,’ she pointed out. ‘Saturday’s my busiest day. I’ve missed two days already this week. I can’t afford to take any more time off, not if I’m to pay the mortgage.’
‘Sunday, then.’
But on Sunday she would be doing her books, which had to be brought up to date because the Christmas stock was coming in on Monday and Tuesday.
He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, so as to hang on to his patience. ‘I tell you what,’ he said. ‘Why don’t I go on my own? You go to work and leave it all to me. How about that?’
She was horrified by such an idea. ‘You can’t do that, Tim. I must prepare her. She can be very tricky when she likes.’ It would be awful if she refused to see him. It would break his poor heart. And you never really knew with Gemma.
‘All right then, Poppet,’ Tim conceded. ‘We’ll do it your way. But we must find her soon. I can stall old Gresham until after Christmas but he’ll get suspicious if we don’t produce her then. What about Wednesday? That’s a pretty slack day. You said so yourself.’
So she agreed to Wednesday.
‘We’ll invite her here for Christmas,’ he said. ‘That’ll be nice. A real family Christmas. We’ll just have time to get everything ready.’
‘If she’ll come.’
‘You are down in the dumps,’ he said. ‘You leave her to me. She’ll come. I’ll handle her. Now give me a smile and tell me where you’d like me to take you for dinner.’
In Poppleton, Christmas had already begun. The decorations were up and Helen and Naomi were singing at the tops of their voices, beating time on the kitchen table with two wooden spoons:
‘Jingle Bells, Batman smells, Robin’s flown away.
The batmobile has lost a wheel, and landed in the hay.’
Mummy hadn’t come home yet so Daddy was looking after them and that meant they could sing as many rude songs as they wanted. They’d had chocolate fudge cake, peanut butter and lemon jelly sandwiches, mince pies and ice-cream for tea and their school jerseys were well messy, although they had licked their fingers clean. If Mummy’d been there they’d have got done. But Daddy hadn’t said anything. He’d just sat there drinking tea and smiling.
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