Gemma's Journey

by Beryl Kingston

‘But they won’t tell us.’

  ‘I shan’t ask them,’ he said, putting the car into gear. ‘I shall stalk them. Softly softly catchee monkey.’

  She was very impressed. ‘Like a private eye, do you mean?’

  He drove out into the main road and turned to smile at her. ‘That’s about the size of it,’ he said. ‘You just go back to work, my poppet, and don’t you worry your pretty little head about a thing. You can leave it all to me from now on.’

  Billie snuggled into her luxurious seat. ‘You’re so good,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I am.’ Taking action always gave him a kick and taking action for half a million pounds was the best kick of all.

  He started his stalking the very next day, rising early for once and driving to Amersham Road as soon as he’d had his breakfast. He found a parking space where he could see the front door of the Quennells’ house. Then he watched.

  Within two days, he’d discovered that the Quennells had a charlady who came in every morning and left at noon, that Dr Quennell went in and out a lot and that Mrs Quennell took her car to the supermarket early on Friday morning. I’ll bet she does that every week, he thought, as she left the house that Friday calling out to her charlady, ‘I’m off then, Polly.’ Especially when Polly came to the door to wave her goodbye and promised to have the coffee on when she got back.

  Polly, he wrote in his notebook. Mrs Q Supermarket out 9.35. Now all he needed was a time when she was out shopping and he was out wherever he went.

  And at that moment, wonderfully on cue, the doctor appeared, wearing a smart suit and carrying a briefcase, and set off along the road, on foot.

  This is it! Tim thought. He stretched out his hand to open the car door.

  And somebody tapped on the window. The sound was so unexpected, it was all he could do not to jump. Police? he thought. Traffic warden? He put on his most charming smile to face them, whoever they were.

  The face peering down at him belonged to an elderly lady and was wearing a very fierce expression. ‘Excuse me, young man,’ she said. ‘Can you tell me what you’re doing here?’

  Now he was aware that there was an elderly man hovering behind her, white-haired, tweedy, baffled expression. So she’s the boss. And a sharp-faced Dobermann pinscher standing beside her, ready to bite.

  ‘No problem,’ he said, easing himself out of the car. His mind was spinning in a frantic effort to think up a plausible excuse, but he held his smile and stayed calm. ‘No problem.’

  ‘We’re the neighbourhood watch,’ the old lady announced importantly. ‘We’ve seen you here two days running, haven’t we Oswald? Sitting in your car. You’d better explain yourself.’

  ‘Actually,’ he said, pulsing charm at the highest voltage he could manage. ‘I’m being a coward. It’s my daughter, you see.’

  The woman was taking mental note of his clothes, his car and his accent, her face full of suspicion. ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘I’d better come clean,’ he said, appealing to the old man. ‘My daughter used to live in that house over there. Dr Quennell’s house. You’ve probably seen her. In a wheelchair, poor kid. Gemma Goodeve, the girl in the rail crash.’ Then he hesitated, wondering what else he could say.

  ‘Ah yes,’ Oswald said, brightening. ‘We know Gemma. We read all about her in the papers. So brave. An inspiration, you might say.’

  His wife was still pecking-fierce. ‘According to the papers, Mr Goodeve,’ she said, ‘Gemma’s father walked out on her when she was an infant.’

  ‘All true,’ he confessed, looking suitably contrite. ‘I was young and silly.’

  She snorted.

  ‘I’ve regretted it ever since,’ he went on. ‘I came straight back the minute I heard about the accident.’

  ‘If you ask me,’ she said, ‘it’s just as well she’s got Dr Quennell to look after her, don’t you think so, Oswald?’

  ‘He’s a good chap,’ Oswald agreed. ‘War hero, you know. Won the Military Cross in Cyprus during the troubles. Kept very quiet about it though. Never said a word to anyone. We wouldn’t have known to this day if it hadn’t been in the Herald. Very modest, our Dr Quennell. Odd that, for a man who speaks out the way he does. You’d think he’d want everyone to know about it. I know I would if I’d won a medal. But he never said a word to anyone, did he Christabel?’

  Christabel brushed his comments away with a wave of her hand. She had something more interesting to occupy her wits. ‘You haven’t seen her yet, have you Mr Goodeve?’ she accused. ‘You’ve come back but you haven’t seen her yet. That’s why you’ve been sitting out here in this car. I’m right, aren’t I?’

  He admitted it, suitably shamefaced.

  ‘Then I’ll give you a bit of advice,’ she said grandly. ‘If I were you, I’d get back in that car of yours and drive right away. You can’t come bouncing back into a girl’s life whenever you think fit. That’s not fair. You just get back in the car and drive away.’

  ‘You could be right,’ he said, thinking fast. He could drive round the block, park somewhere out of their sight and walk back to the house from the opposite direction when they’d gone back indoors.

  ‘You know I am,’ she said and nodded with great satisfaction when he climbed into the car and switched on the ignition. She even waved as he drove off. Nosy old bat!

  He allowed them ample time to get indoors before he walked back into the road. And he slipped into the Quennells’ front garden like a thief, feeling anxiously excited in case the heroic doctor came home while he was still there. It was quite an adventure.

  The charlady came to the door with an expression on her face which said, ‘No we don’t want it, whatever it is.’

  ‘Good morning,’ he greeted her, all charm. ‘Polly, isn’t it?’

  She was suspicious and none too pleased. ‘How d’you know my name?’

  ‘My little girl told me,’ he explained. ‘She’s always talking about you. And Mrs Quennell, of course. Mustn’t forget Mrs Quennell. I don’t know what we’d have done without her. She’s always saying how good you’ve been to her. My little girl, I mean. Gemma. Gemma Goodeve. I’m her father.’

  ‘Oh!’ Polly said, relaxing. ‘I see. She’s not here.’ She’d gone off in her chair barely two minutes ago.

  ‘I know,’ he said, easily. ‘She’s at her flat. The thing is, I’ve got a little present for her, and I was going to take it over there, and now I can’t find the address. I feel such a fool, losing it. I’m always losing things. It’s the story of my life. I don’t suppose you know what it is, by any chance?’

  She couldn’t remember it off hand but if he’d like to wait a minute she’d go and find it for him. Mrs Quennell would have it in her address book. ‘Yes. There it is. St Mary’s Court. Number 6. Have you got a pen to write it down?’

  ‘I’m much obliged to you, Polly,’ he said, writing happily. ‘I can see why Gemma thinks so highly of you. You’re a star! Thanks very much,’

  As he strutted back to his car he felt like a million dollars. Or half a million pounds. He’d got it sussed in two days. Two days! And Billie had been faffing about for months. He should have taken over right from the start. There’s no doubt about it, he thought, as he drove off, if you want a thing doing, do it yourself. Now he’d go straight to the flat and beard the silly girl in her den.

  But the place was empty, as he could see when he peered through the kitchen windows, having rung twice without reply. She must have gone out shopping or something. It was rather an anticlimax after the speed of his success. And an irritating one.

  I’ll go and have lunch, he decided, and come back this afternoon. Now that he knew where she lived, there was no urgency. He could visit her whenever he felt like it. Meantime there was the pleasure of knowing how skilful he’d been – and of being admired as he drove his classy car through the south London streets.

  So it was odd that he barely noticed the envious glances he was earning. And even odder that it was the voice of that f
unny old man that filled his thoughts all the way home. ‘War hero … you’d think he’d want everyone to know … a man who speaks out … kept very quiet about it … never said a word.’

  Billie was cooking lunch when he got in. ‘How did you get on?’ she called. ‘Did you find anything out?’

  ‘Quite a lot,’ he said and began to tell her about the old feller from the neighbourhood watch. But she was too involved with what she was doing to give him more than a glancing attention.

  ‘I won’t be a tick,’ she promised when he sighed. ‘You can watch the news while you wait, can’t you.’

  It wasn’t the welcome he wanted or expected. He sighed again as he turned the television on, feeling hard-done-by. And to add insult to injury that wretched Quack-quack’s face swam into focus in the huge close-up of a one-to-one interview.

  ‘You won a medal, I believe?’ the presenter was prompting. Nice young girl, blonde and eager.

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ Dr Quennell said.

  ‘But I dare say you remember it as if it was yesterday,’ the presenter hoped. ‘Would you care to tell us about it?’

  ‘No,’ Dr Quennell said, shifting his head as if he was trying to avoid something. ‘I wouldn’t. Not really. There are other more important things …’

  Now that’s peculiar, Tim thought. The old feller was right. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He’s looking downright shifty, as if he’s ashamed. And a new and intriguing possibility began to form in his mind.

  As they ate their lunch he tested the idea on Billie. ‘Now don’t you think it’s odd,’ he finished. ‘This man loves publicity. Courts it, you might say. And yet he doesn’t tell anyone about that medal and doesn’t want to. Now why? That’s the question.’

  Billie had no idea.

  ‘I tell you what I think. I think he was up to no good while he was out in Cyprus. I think he did something he’s ashamed of, something he wants to keep hidden. Right? That’s why he never talks about it. So I’m going to find out what it is.’

  She was impressed but couldn’t see how he would go about it nor how it would help them find Gemma. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘the one you want to get at is that young doctor. He’s the cruel one. He’s the one who won’t tell us where she is.’

  ‘We’ll get at him through his father,’ Tim told her. ‘Shoot the father, wound the son.’

  But she didn’t see how he was going to get at either of them.

  ‘It’s a matter of putting pressure on,’ he explained. ‘If Quackquack’s got a guilty secret and I know what it is, they’re not so likely to go shutting doors in our faces. Right? And Gemma won’t think he’s so wonderful once she knows what he’s really like. She’ll listen to us then. He won’t be such an influence on her. When you’re in the public eye, you’re vulnerable. He ought to remember that. If we play our cards right, we’ll have him over a barrel.’ His excitement was growing by the second.

  ‘So what will you do?’ she asked.

  He knew exactly what he was going to do now. ‘I shall go to the Herald and check through their files. See what they’ve got on disc.’

  ‘But it’s Christmas. They won’t be there, will they?’

  ‘Newspaper men are always there,’ he told her with feeling. ‘But I’ll leave it till afterwards if you like. When things are slack. They’ll have more time to attend to it then.’

  ‘But what about Gemma?’ Billie said. ‘Aren’t you going to find our Gemma?’

  He was tempted to let her into his secret but decided against it. It was better for her to be in the dark. ‘Quack-quack first,’ he told her. ‘Then I’ll find Gemma.’

  There’s no stopping him now, Billie thought. She wasn’t at all sure this scheme would work although she could see the sense of putting pressure on that awful Dr Quennell. But what she really wanted was to see Gemma again, to have her home for Christmas and look after her. It was miserable not knowing where she was, especially when there was no news from her. Not even a Christmas card. It wouldn’t hurt her to send a Christmas card, she thought sadly. I mean that’s not very much to ask, is it? Most daughters visit their mothers at Christmas. I visited mine right up to the very end, even when she was half-daft and cantankerous and didn’t know who I was.

  Had she known it, Gemma was planning her visit at that very moment, as she and Catherine were cooking their lunch.

  ‘You haven’t got a local bus timetable, have you?’ she asked, as she peeled the last potato.

  ‘Is there such a thing these days?’ Catherine wondered. ‘Where do you want to go?’

  ‘To Streatham to see my mother.’

  ‘Ah!’ Catherine said and the word carried so much meaning that Gemma stopped work to look at her.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I wasn’t going to tell you this,’ Catherine confessed. ‘But if you’re going to see her, you’d better know.’ And she told Gemma about her mother’s visit.

  ‘Oh God!’ Gemma said. ‘How embarrassing! I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Catherine said. ‘I just thought you ought to know, that’s all.’

  ‘She does that sometimes,’ Gemma felt she ought to explain. ‘I’m not trying to excuse her. It’s the way she is. I wish she hadn’t done it to you.’

  ‘Not to worry. I didn’t take it seriously.’

  ‘I’m glad you told me anyway,’ Gemma said. ‘I’ve got a present for her, you see. I was going to deliver it in person. But if she’s in one of those moods I’ll send it through the post and give her time to cool off.’

  ‘Very wise,’ Catherine approved, remembering that awful shrill voice. ‘Have Christmas first. You’ve earned it.’

  Chapter 24

  Despite her misgivings, that Christmas was one of the best that Gemma had ever known. Christmases with her mother had always been strained, no matter how hard they tried to make them happy, the decorations too elaborate, the food too rich, the presents they felt compelled to buy for one another too lavish and, more often than not, unsuitable. This one was simple and easy, and the dinner was Dickensian, eight happy faces round a loaded table, the turkey steaming as Andrew carved the first slice and so many dishes of vegetables and stuffings and sauces that it took five cheerful minutes before they were all served. The pudding was borne in ablaze with a sprig of holly stuck on top as the kids clapped and cheered. There was even a glass of vintage port to round off the meal. And although Nick sat right down at the other end of the table, as far away from her as he could get, and hadn’t said a word to her beyond ‘Hello’, he looked happy, and very handsome, and it didn’t seem to worry him that she was being treated like one of the family.

  There were underlying tensions, of course – what family can gather without them? – but few difficult moments. One came when the meal was over and they were gathered round the fire for the exchange of presents – Andrew in his armchair, Catherine in hers, Rob and Susan on one of the two sofas, he with his arm around her shoulders. By this time the two girls had taken Gemma over and insisted that she sit on the second sofa squashed between them. Which left Nick rather apart, sitting on a leather stool, where he looked distinctly uncomfortable, his long legs bent at an inelegant angle.

  ‘You’ll get cramp sitting there like that,’ Catherine told him. ‘Why don’t you go and get an armchair from Gemma’s flat?’

  But he dismissed her concern, telling her not to fuss, and ordered Naomi to pick the first parcel from the pile under the Christmas tree. ‘I’ve got to be back in St Thomas’s by six,’ he said to her. ‘So look sharp.’

  Despite her determination to be cool, Gemma was rather cast down to hear how little time he had. She hadn’t imagined he would be on duty over Christmas. It was none of her business but it seemed sad somehow. She didn’t like to think of him missing out on the fun. Then she became aware that he was looking at her and turned her head to find herself in the full beam of a mocking smile.

  ‘It’s a rotten job,’ he joked, ‘but somebody has to
do it.’

  The smile confused her, and confusion undermined her ability to answer him. Should she commiserate or make a joke? But before she could say anything, Naomi appeared before them with a small parcel in her hand.

  ‘How about this one?’ she asked. ‘It’s for you, Uncle Nick.’

  It was the fountain pen.

  He accepted it seriously, opened it and read the gift tag aloud: ‘I hope this will save your white coat from further spills.’ Then to Gemma’s consternation, he blushed. ‘Well thanks,’ he said, ducking his head towards the firelight. ‘That’s very … I can’t reciprocate I’m afraid. I didn’t know you were going to be with us until this morning. I thought you’d be at your new flat.’ And the blush deepened.

  Oh dear, she thought. I’ve embarrassed him. ‘It’s more for your coat than for you,’ she said, trying to reassure him. ‘An act of compassion.’

  ‘Quite right!’ Andrew laughed. ‘His coats are a disgrace!’

  ‘He’s the disgrace,’ Sue teased, giving her brother a wicked grin. ‘He’s a true blue meanie. That’s what he is. Never mind Gemma, we didn’t forget you. We’ve got you a present.’

  ‘We couldn’t wrap it,’ Rob said. ‘As you’ll see. Hang on a tick and I’ll get it.’

  It was a four-foot yucca plant, ‘to bring some green into your new flat.’

  Gemma didn’t know what to say. ‘However did you get it here?’

  ‘That’s why we came down in the van,’ Sue explained. ‘We’ll take it over for you if you like. Saturday’s your moving day, isn’t it?’

  It was. ‘I haven’t got a lot to move, though.’

  ‘You have now,’ Rob laughed, looking at the plant. ‘We’ll give you a hand.’

  ‘We’ll all give you a hand,’ Andrew said. ‘How would that be?’

  ‘All of us?’ Helen hoped.

  ‘Well why not?’ Susan said. ‘If Gemma can withstand us. Many hands make light work.’

  Gemma glanced at Nick to see whether he was being included, but apparently he wasn’t, for he stood up without looking at her, strolled round the furniture until he reached the tree, stooped, picked up two small parcels and tossed them to his nieces. ‘These are for you kids!’ he said, changing the subject. ‘From me.’