Gemma's Journey

by Beryl Kingston

  ‘Medical orderly?’ Tim hoped. ‘Red Cross?’

  ‘Soldier,’ Fat Nico agreed.

  Why can’t the stupid man speak English? Tim thought. This incessant pidgin was frustrating. ‘Has she got any evidence?’ he asked slowly, looking at the old lady. But the word meant nothing to Nico. ‘Something written?’ miming writing. That simply provoked the watermelon smile. Tapers?’

  ‘Ah, paper!’ Nico said. And returned to yet another flowing conversation in Greek.

  I’m not getting anywhere with this, Tim thought, watching them with irritation. Trying to converse without a common language was like walking uphill on a sheet of ice.

  The old lady got out of her chair and disappeared into the darkness of the house. That’s the end of that, Tim thought.

  But she came back, holding out an ancient newspaper, much creased and as brown as tea. And this time she addressed him directly, spitting the words at him, her face contorted with hatred.

  ‘Paper,’ Nico explained happily. ‘You look.’

  It was all in Greek of course but there was a page full of pictures – a funeral procession, a group of women standing round an open coffin, a snapshot of a young boy with a rifle slung over his shoulder and right in the middle, a wonderful familiar, helpful picture of a wrecked lorry, the young Dr Quennell kneeling beside it, a dead body crumpled on the ground. Almost exactly the same as the picture that had started him off on the search in the first place. Bingo! Nobody could argue with that.

  The only trouble was that he couldn’t find the words to persuade the old lady to part with the paper. No matter what he said, neither she nor Nico understood that he only wanted to take a photocopy. He tried charming her, telling her she was wonderful, promising extreme care, but the longer the conversation went on the tighter she clutched it to her black bosom. Stupid old fool! In the end he had to leave the damned thing in her possession. But he’d got the lever he wanted. He couldn’t wait to get back to London and use it. Next flight, he thought, here I come.

  It wasn’t exactly a hero’s welcome. Billie met him at the door of the flat with her face full of trouble, words spilling from her before he had a chance to say a thing.

  ‘Oh Tim!’ she cried. ‘You can’t believe how pleased I am to see you. I was just writing you a letter.’

  ‘Well that’s nice,’ he said. ‘Listen …’ But she was still talking.

  ‘I’ve been at my wits’ end to know what to do. Mr Gresham’s been on and on at me. It’s been really awful these last few weeks. And now he’s made us an appointment. I was just writing to you. We’re to go and see him tomorrow.’

  His triumph was wrecked. ‘What do you mean, we’re to go and see him?’

  ‘Like I said. He’s made us an appointment. He says it won’t wait. There’s the letter, look.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know how I got on?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said untruthfully. ‘What are we going to do about it? He sounds so cross. I mean, look at all these letters.’

  A bit of sweet talk seemed in order at that point. His story would have to wait. ‘Don’t worry about it, Poppet,’ he said. ‘If he wants to see us, he’ll see us. I’ll manage him. I manage most things, don’t I?’

  But when they arrived in his office, it was plain that Mr Gresham was in no mood to be managed by anybody. He was standing by the window looking out in a rather brooding sort of way and the first thing he said when they were ushered in was, ‘Is your daughter not with you?’

  ‘No I’m afraid not,’ Tim said. Damn man. There’s no need to come straight out with it like that. We haven’t even sat down. ‘She couldn’t make it, I’m afraid. She’s not very well. You know how it is.’

  ‘This isn’t at all satisfactory,’ Mr Gresham complained, indicating that they should sit down and seating himself behind his desk. ‘As I told you in my letter, I cannot proceed any further with this matter until I have your daughter’s signature on the application.’

  ‘She’ll be here within the week,’ Tim promised, assuming his earnest expression. ‘I mean she can’t help being ill, can she, poor girl, after all she’s been through. But she’ll be here.’

  ‘So you say,’ the solicitor sighed. ‘But can we depend upon it? I have to tell you I am beginning to have very serious reservations about this case.’

  ‘She’ll be here,’ Tim repeated. ‘You have my word.’

  ‘With respect, Mr Ledgerwood,’ Mr Gresham said, ‘I have had your word before, on several occasions, and nothing has ever come of it. There is also the little matter of my invoice, which is still outstanding I believe.’

  ‘I’ll take care of it,’ Tim said, grandly. ‘If you’ll just give it to me.’

  His bluff didn’t work. ‘You have received a copy of it twice,’ the solicitor said, ‘as I understand it.’

  ‘Oh have I?’ Tim feigned surprise. ‘I didn’t know. I’ve been abroad. I’ll attend to it. Of course. Naturally. First opportunity.’

  Mr Gresham took out his handkerchief and polished his face: nose, chin, forehead, neck. When he’d finished, there was still a slight film of sweat on his brow and his neck was decidedly pink. ‘With respect,’ he said, ‘I’ve heard that before too.’

  ‘With respect, Mr Gresham,’ Tim said in his grandest manner, ‘I am not accustomed to having my word doubted. A gentleman’s word is his bond.’

  The solicitor was momentarily wrong-footed but before he could think of a suitable retort, Billie joined in.

  ‘The thing is,’ she said, leaning forward to confide in him, before Tim could warn her not to, ‘the thing is, Mr Gresham, we’ve got a bit of a problem. Our daughter’s been enticed away.’

  The solicitor’s eyebrows rose in amazement. ‘Dear me,’ he said. ‘What do you mean, Mrs Ledgerwood?’

  ‘Enticed away,’ Billie explained. ‘By a doctor. She’s been living with him ever since she came out the hospital. It’s my belief he’s enticed her away from us.’

  ‘And why would he do that?’

  ‘Because of the compensation.’

  Mr Gresham’s doubts about this couple had been growing for some time. Now they knotted into a certainty. ‘Mrs Ledgerwood,’ he said solemnly. ‘That is a very serious accusation to make. I must warn you against saying any such thing unless you are entirely certain of your facts. You could be leaving yourself open to a charge of slander and if that were the case, I’m sorry to say I should have to ask you to find another firm of solicitors to act for you.’

  Tim was kicking her ankle underneath the desk to warn her, but having been challenged, Billie defended herself vigorously. ‘She’s been enticed,’ she insisted, her voice rising. ‘Don’t take my word for it. Ask him.’

  Mr Gresham’s neck deepened to turkeycock red. ‘I’m afraid I have another appointment in two minutes,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘I shall expect to be hearing from you within two days, Mr Ledgerwood. Now we really must say good morning.’

  ‘Good morning!’ Tim said his voice rising. ‘You can’t just say good morning, Mr Gresham. That’s not good enough. There’s still the matter of the compensation.’

  ‘I have made that matter abundantly clear,’ Mr Gresham said, ushering them both towards the door. ‘Without a signature there can be no application. Ah, Miss Smith, Mr and Mrs Ledgerwood are leaving. Be so good as to show them out, will you.’

  ‘This,’ Tim said angrily as he and Billie walked to the car, ‘is ridiculous. He can’t refuse to work for us. We’re his clients. We pay the piper, for Christ’s sake.’ Being put down so publicly had reduced him to aggression. And he was furious with Billie for being indiscreet, especially as he had to keep her sweet and couldn’t rebuke her the way she deserved.

  ‘It’s all that doctor’s fault,’ Billie said. She knew he was blaming her, even if he didn’t say so. ‘That’s who it is. If he hadn’t taken her away she’d have signed weeks ago.’

  ‘He needs dealing with,’ Tim agreed darkly.

  ‘What are we go
ing to do now?’

  ‘You’re not going to do anything, my poppet,’ Tim said, resuming his masterful expression. ‘I’m going to take you back to the boutique and then I’ll take action. You leave it to me.’

  In the restaurant of St Thomas’s hospital, Nick and his friends were recovering from too much action. They’d been on duty all night and now they were eating a much-needed breakfast.

  ‘Roll on next Thursday!’ Abdul said.

  ‘So what’s with next Thursday?’ Nick asked, blinking. He’d been in A and E and could hardly keep his eyes open.

  ‘It’s Mother’s Day and he’s growing daffodils as a sideline,’ Rick suggested. ‘He’s going to make a killing.’

  ‘You’re such cretins,’ Abdul said cheerfully. ‘We shall be on leave. Don’t say you’ve forgotten. We’ve all got a long weekend. Thursday to Monday. Remember?’

  For the past ten weeks, their lives had been so dominated by work that they’d almost forgotten about leave. The flu epidemic had run its course by the end of February but their elderly patients were prone to bronchitis and pneumonia and took a long time to recover. Now remembered plans came rushing back to encourage them. Abdul and Sacha were going to France early on Thursday morning ‘if someone’ll introduce us first!’ and they were taking Rick and Bridget with them, ‘if you’re still an item.’

  ‘Can’t wait,’ Rick said and joked, ‘Bridget who?’

  ‘Why don’t you come with us Nick,’ Abdul offered. ‘It’s going to be a great trip.’

  ‘Oh I don’t know,’ Nick said, trying to sound casual. And failing.

  ‘He’s got a woman in his life,’ Rick teased. ‘This isn’t hospital fatigue we’re seeing. He’s shagged out.’

  That provoked a wry grimace. ‘I should be so lucky!’

  Having started, they went on teasing. ‘So who’s the girl?’ Rick asked.

  ‘There isn’t one.’

  ‘It’s the crash girl,’ Abdul said. ‘That’s who it is. The one you brought into A and E that night. Gemma Something-or-other.’

  ‘Was,’ Nick told him, ‘is the operative word.’

  ‘She’s given you the elbow?’ Rick guessed.

  ‘No,’ Nick said, his pride stung. ‘Nothing like that. We’ve just sort of drifted apart.’

  ‘Oh dearie dearie me!’ Rick mocked. ‘What a wally! They’ve just sort of drifted apart, Ab.’

  ‘Two young leaves caught up in the waters of life!’ Ab was enjoying the joke. ‘Maybe they’ll just sort of drift together again.’

  ‘Don’t mock,’ Nick said as lightly as he could. ‘That’s easier said than done.’

  Ab was suddenly serious. ‘Have you tried?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s been going on too long. I haven’t seen her since Christmas. I can’t just ring up after all this time.’

  ‘Why not?’ Ab said again.

  ‘Oh come on! What would she say?’ Even the thought of it was making him flinch.

  ‘Only one way to find out,’ Rick said. ‘Phone her and see. I presume you’ve got her number.’

  ‘Yes,’ Nick admitted. He’d taken it from his mother’s address book when she was out of the room. Very underhand. It still made him feel ashamed to remember it. ‘But …’

  ‘No buts,’ Ab said, talking to him like a Dutch uncle. ‘Just do it and don’t be such a coward. If you’re serious about a girl you have to run a few risks, you know. Compromise and that sort of thing. You can’t expect to have everything your own way all the time.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  Ab smiled at him. ‘Don’t you?’ he asked. And when Nick frowned: ‘All right. I’ll take your word for it. So there’s no problem, is there?’

  ‘We’ll dial for you if you like,’ Rick grinned. ‘Only go and do it now. I can’t take all this testosterone first thing in the morning. You’re spoiling my cornflakes.’

  ‘No thanks,’ Nick said. ‘I can dial.’ Was it possible? Could it be done? There wasn’t really time, was there? Was there? Maybe he was being cowardly. Maybe he ought to phone. He certainly wanted to. He’d wanted to for weeks. Dammit. He would. She could only say no. ‘I won’t be a minute,’ he said to his friends. ‘But don’t wait for me.’ If she was going to turn him down he’d rather not be in their company when she did it.

  He found the most distant phone. Dialled, heart shaking. Struggled to think of something noncommittal to say …

  And she was answering – ‘Hello’ – her voice so warm and close it made him feel weak to hear it.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, breathlessly. ‘It’s me. I’m in a rush. Got to be back on the wards two minutes ago. You know how it is. The thing is I’ve got a few days’ leave and I was wondering if you’d like to have a meal with me or something.’

  There was a pause. That’s it, he thought, I’ve blown it. And he tensed himself for her refusal.

  ‘That would be nice,’ her voice said. ‘When?’

  Acceptance was so sweet and so unexpected he chose the first date that came into his head. ‘Next Wednesday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where would you like to go? I don’t know much about the restaurants in Putney. Maybe you’ve got a favourite.’

  ‘I tell you what,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you come here and I’ll feed you’

  ‘That would be great,’ he said, weak with relief. ‘Why don’t I?’

  Gemma was still feeling surprised when she put the phone down. But very pleased. There was no denying that. It would be good to see him again and to hear what he had to say for himself. Now that they’d fixed their date she remembered that next Friday would be the last day of her first half-term, so she had a reason to celebrate, even if he hadn’t rung. I’ll buy something special, she decided. Salmon en croûte, perhaps. It would mean a trip to the supermarket but she could cope with that now. It was high time she put her walking ability to the test even if it meant competing with a store full of two-legged women.

  So that Wednesday, while Nick was working his last shift, she made her first expedition to a supermarket since her accident and was really quite pleased with herself. The trolley was difficult to manoeuvre but she handled it well enough, even when she was being jostled, and it gave her something to lean on when she needed a rest. She pushed it back to the car in some style, feeling competent, and packed all her plastic bags in the boot just like everybody else.

  It wasn’t until she got back to the flat that she hit trouble. Transferring bags from trolley to boot in a car park had been relatively easy, but now it was getting dark and it was cold and she had to carry them some distance, out of her poorly lit garage and across the cobbled compound to the flat. It didn’t take her long to discover that she could only manage two bags at a time, so it was going to be quite a business.

  I should have left my wheelchair here and used that, she thought, as she struggled off with a heavy bag in each hand.

  And somebody called her name. ‘Gemma! Gemma!’

  A man’s voice. Not Nick, but someone who knew her. What good timing! Perhaps he’d give her a hand. She looked round to see who it was.

  A dark figure was moving towards her from the visitors’ parking area. It wasn’t anyone she recognised but he obviously knew her, for he was calling to her again. ‘Gemma! It is you!’ his voice throbbing with some sort of emotion. As he got closer she could see that he was tanned and quite handsome in an old-fashioned sort of way.

  What if he’s a drunk? she thought, sniffing the air. And she decided to be cautious. ‘Do I know you?’ she asked.

  He wasn’t a bit abashed by the chill in her voice. ‘Know me?’ he echoed. ‘I should just think you do, Poppet. I’m your father.’

  She was shocked and, although it seemed churlish, annoyed. This wasn’t the way she’d planned to meet him again. She’d always had it in mind that, when it did happen, it would be well organised and intimate, like a well-staged play, not out here in a cold courtyard on a chill afternoon, w
hen she wasn’t expecting it.

  He was standing right in front of her now and of course, she recognised him. ‘As far as I know,’ she told him, ‘I never had a “father”. My father ran out on me when I was a baby.’

  ‘I know,’ he said, grimacing an apology, ‘and I shouldn’t have done it. You don’t need to tell me. But there you are, these things happen. Anyway here I am, come back to make amends. Do you want a hand with those bags?’

  ‘Well yes,’ she had to admit. ‘Thank you. It would be a help.’

  ‘Can’t have my little girl carrying great heavy bags about,’ he said, taking the last four out of the boot. ‘Lead the way, Poppet.’

  They walked across the courtyard to the flat together, father and daughter carrying the shopping home. And although she was glad of his help, it felt surreal.

  ‘How did you know where I was?’ she asked as they walked into the kitchen.

  ‘Polly told me,’ he said. ‘The cleaning lady at Amersham Road. Nice woman. Went and got the address for me at once, the minute I asked her. It’s only your mother you never told, you bad girl. You’ve been a bit naughty to your poor mother. She’s been very concerned about you, you know. You ought to have told her where you were.’

  Being reproved made Gemma feel uncomfortable and being called a bad girl in that condescending way was irritating. ‘I needed time,’ she said, rather tetchily. ‘I don’t like being rushed.’

  ‘Well it’s all water under the bridge now,’ Tim said smoothly. ‘How about a cup of tea?’

  She had to be hospitable whether she would or no. She hung up her coat, filled the kettle, began to unpack, covering her confusion with domestic routine. ‘I’ve got someone coming in half an hour,’ she warned, tipping the prepared vegetables into saucepans and putting the salmon en croûte in the oven.

  ‘That’s all right,’ he told her. ‘That’s all it’ll take. I shan’t keep you. I only came to see how you were and bring you a little present. You’d like a little present, wouldn’t you? All girls like presents.’

  Not particularly, she thought, lighting the oven. But he was already taking it out of his pocket.