‘What is it? What are you thinking?’
‘Oh – nothing. Just that it would be nice to be able to contact him. That’s all.’
‘Yes, well, we will be able to,’ said Francesca irritably. ‘It’s just a question of finding where he is. There’s no problem.’
‘No, of course not.’
Mike Langton sounded very cheerful. ‘Yes, he went off early this morning, Mrs Channing. I expect he’ll be back pretty soon, it’s getting late. Unless he’s going to stay over in France again.’
‘Oh God,’ said Francesca. A tight band seemed to be closing on her head.
‘Why don’t you try the radio?’ said Langton. ‘Channel Sixteen, you know how to get onto that, don’t you?’
‘What? Oh, yes, yes thank you.’
‘But I expect he’ll be back soon, and if I can catch him, I’ll get him to ring you immediately.’
‘Yes, fine. Thank you, Mike.’
Before trying Channel Sixteen, she decided to ring Philip Drew, to see if he’d already contacted Bard.
He sounded tense, awkward.
‘No, sorry, Mrs Channing, I haven’t. He seems to have his radio turned off.’
‘How odd,’ she said, surprised at the calm in her voice. ‘His mobile is as well. Damn. Well, look Philip, I’ll keep trying. Let me know if you contact him, get him to ring me will you?’
‘Yes, sure. Is there anything wrong?’ he said, as if the only reasons any of them wanted him were trivial, commonplace; to know when to fix a meeting, arrange supper perhaps.
‘Well yes, there is actually,’ said Francesca, finding this suddenly irritating, illogically feeling he should have known, should have known something so important, so terrifying. ‘My little girl is ill. I wanted Bard to know.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and he did indeed sound it. ‘Is it serious?’
‘Um – a bit. Yes. We’re coming back up to London tomorrow, she may have to have an operation. That’s why – ’ Her voice shook; she swallowed hard. ‘Well anyway, Philip, tonight we’re at Plymouth General, but I have my mobile. OK? You’ve got the number.’
She went back to the small room and to Kitty. Looked down at her as she lay there, pale and listless, in her little oxygen tent. And like all mothers when their children are in danger, whether they believe in God or not, she sat beside her and prayed.
Bard ate well; he was hungry, despite everything. He also had rather a lot of red wine, a bottleful, and then a couple of brandies. He hoped it would help him to sleep. In any event, it put him in a rather sentimental mood; he sat sipping the second brandy, thinking about Francesca, about how much he loved her, in spite of everything, in spite of what she had done; about what a hash he had made of his marriage, about his criminally clumsy request of her, and the brilliant neatness with which she had turned it on its head. She was a clever woman, Francesca. He’d known that, but then he’d rejected the cleverness, tried to turn her into what she wasn’t, shut her out, make her a company wife. Stupid. Terribly, horribly stupid. Well, it had misfired, and it served him right.
And now he might never see her again. He had made his decision and now she would be in his past, his old life, lost to him, any last hopes that she might come back to him quite gone. He looked briefly at the appalling loneliness that confronted him, and then set it aside. He would cope with it when he reached it. That was the prime objective now. Reaching it. Getting there.
Sandie was enjoying the drama. She was sorry about Kitty, of course, but Mr Channing disappearing, everyone looking for him, Mrs Channing sounding quite awful, old Mrs Channing obviously worried out of her head; it was all extremely exciting.
She almost wished she wasn’t going out with Colin that night, but he’d been getting a bit funny lately, and what with her having to cancel a couple of times, she thought she’d better not do it again. She’d leave the answering machine on, she’d only be gone an hour, two at the most, they were just having a quick drink, and then she could deal with any messages when she got back. She phoned Horton, to say she was going out but would be back, re-set the machine and went to meet Colin.
Philip Drew decided to have one last go at phoning Bard. After all, if he’d got back late Mike Langton would almost certainly have missed him, and he might have been really tired and just ignored all the messages. He tried Stylings again: no, said Horton, still no word. Drew swore and phoned the London number; the answering machine was on.
‘Bard,’ he said, trying to keep his voice level, ‘sorry to bother you on a Sunday, but give me a ring at home, would you? Just a couple of points I wanted to clarify. Thanks.’
He didn’t want to sound in any way alarmist; if he did Bard might take serious fright. If he hadn’t already.
Bard got up slightly unsteadily from the table, paid his bill in cash and then looked at the phone again. Maybe he would try. Just once more. He heard Jess’s voice. It’s a matter of doing. Not just saying, doing. If he thought she’d let him, he would; he’d do it still, anything. Yes. It was worth a last try.
He sat down at the table again, punched out the number of the convent on his mobile. It rang for a very long time. Finally a voice he had not heard before answered: a rather old, frail voice.
‘Reverend Mother?’
‘No. I’m sorry,’ it said, after quite a long silence, ‘no, she’s not here. She’s in chapel. Father Benedict is here, saying Mass, and – ’
‘Oh. Oh, I see. Well, is Mrs Channing there? Mrs Francesca Channing? This is her solicitor speaking.’
Another long silence. Then: ‘No, Mrs Channing has left the convent. With – ’
Bard interrupted her. ‘All right. Thank you. Goodbye.’
Shit. So she’d gone. Well, in that case she was probably at Stylings. Only he didn’t want to risk speaking to anyone else. Well, he could put the phone down. He tried the number. Horton answered. He decided to risk it.
‘Horton, this is Mr Channing. Is my wife there?’
‘No, Mr Channing, I’m afraid she isn’t. But where are you, Mr Channing, we – ’
Bard felt a rush of panic. They were obviously trying to find him. Probably beginning to get worried. ‘Sorry, Horton,’ he said, ‘can’t talk now.’ He slammed the phone down again, trying to think what to do. Clearly they were wondering where he was, where he might be. He dialled the London number. It was on the answering machine. He punched in the listening facility; there was only one message on it, from Philip Drew. He sounded carefully, quietly calm, said he wanted to run over a few points. Well, he knew what that meant. He was worried to death, and trying like hell to disguise the fact. And no other messages. Not from anyone. Anyone at all. Certainly not Francesca.
‘Fuck,’ said Bard aloud, ‘fuck the lot of you.’ And walked back round the harbour to the Lady Jack.
Kitty was a little better in the morning. Her colour had returned, and she even took a bit of her feed.
‘Good,’ said the young doctor. ‘Well done.’ He smiled at Francesca. ‘She’s better. No doubt about it.’
‘Do you think … ?’ said Francesca, and he looked at her sitting there, exhausted, ashen, and knew what she meant at once: that perhaps her baby was going to be all right, would get better by herself, wouldn’t need the surgery, the journey to London; and he said at once, because he knew it was much better that way, ‘No, Mrs Channing, I’m sorry, I don’t. She’s only better because of the increased medication. She won’t be well until she’s had this operation. Then she’ll be very well indeed, I promise you.’ He reached out, patted her hand. ‘Honestly. I won’t say it, in case you scream again, but it is true, they are, babies, the human race wouldn’t have survived otherwise. The ambulance will leave here at about nine, so good luck. Bring her back to see me when she’s a teenager, will you, I can see she’s going to be absolutely knockout.’
Francesca smiled at him; it was a rather weak smile, but it was a smile.
‘Ah, Mr Drew. Mr Stainforth here, from the Fraud Office. I wondered if
you could help me.’
‘Yes?’ said Philip Drew.
‘We wanted to have another chat with Mr Channing. Just a few points, you understand. But he doesn’t seem to be at home. I wondered if you could help.’
‘Yes of course,’ said Drew, fighting to sound confident. ‘When would you like to see us?’
‘Oh – shall we say this afternoon? Two o’clock suit you?’
‘Yes, that’s fine, I should think. If you don’t hear from me, then we’ll be there.’
‘Good. Excellent. Good morning.’ He rang off.
‘Oh Christ,’ said Drew.
Rachel had driven back to the convent. She was going to collect Jack and then go on up to London. Reverend Mother was waiting for her with coffee.
‘You look tired. How is Kitty?’
‘She’s a little better. But she does have to have this surgery, I’m afraid. She’s being taken to London today. By ambulance.’
‘Oh, dear. I’m sorry. We said a Mass for her last night. We shall say another today. How is Mrs Channing?’
‘All right. Just. Nothing from Mr Channing, I suppose?’
‘No. There was one call last night, Sister Ignatius took it, from her solicitor. He left no message, seemed in a hurry.’
‘Her solicitor? But why – oh dear. Oh, my God.’ Rachel stared at Reverend Mother. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that was not a solicitor.’
Jack was outraged at having to leave.
‘I like it here much better. I’m going to be a monk now, so why can’t I stay?’
‘Because you can’t train to be a monk yet,’ said Reverend Mother firmly, ‘you have to pass all sorts of exams before you can even join us. But you must come back lots of times, to see Richard and Mary and me.’
‘And the Curdle, and our tunnel, what about that?’
‘Colonel Philbeach will be here for a long time yet,’ said Reverend Mother. ‘You can see him again.’
‘Anyway, why can’t we go back with Kitty and Mum? Is she better?’
‘Well,’ said Rachel carefully, ‘Kitty is a little better. But she has to have a little operation, to make her completely well.’
‘In London?’
‘Yes, in London.’
‘Well,’ said Jack with matchless logic, ‘I’d be much better staying here. I always make too much noise, everyone says so, and ill people need quiet.’
‘Jack darling,’ said Rachel, ‘Kitty will be in hospital for a while. So you can make as much noise as you like. Now go and say goodbye to Richard and Mary.’
Reverend Mother was driving them to Bideford; as she started the car, turned it in the courtyard, Richard and Mary came out of the house with Jack, each holding one of his hands. Richard had tears rolling down his face.
‘Come back soon,’ he said, giving Jack a hug. ‘Come back to us here.’
‘Come back soon,’ echoed Mary, ‘and your baby. Bring your baby again soon.’
Rachel looked at the two of them, and for a moment she forgot Kitty, forgot Francesca, forgot everything except the sadness of what was to happen to them, and what they were about to lose. And realised she had given the whole problem no thought whatsoever for days. Well, it could wait just a little longer. It would have to. But a solution had to be found.
She hugged them both, told Mary to be a good girl, and that she’d be back soon, and turned her mind very firmly onto more immediate concerns.
As the car pulled out of the lane, she saw Colonel Philbeach’s old Rover chugging down towards them; he pulled up alongside them, put his head out of the window.
‘Good luck,’ he said, ‘with the nipper. She’ll be fine, I’m sure. Very tough little things, babies. Send my good wishes to your daughter.’
‘Thank you,’ said Rachel, thinking what a very good thing it was Francesca was not in the car, and thinking at the same time what an extraordinarily good-looking man Colonel Philbeach was. She really hadn’t noticed it before.
Bard sat on the Paris train. His plane left at four, five French time, he would have plenty of time. He hoped to God it was soon enough, that they wouldn’t yet be moving into some kind of official action. Hopefully Philip would be stalling furiously. All he needed was – what ? Five hours, five more hours, and then the plane would be in the air, on its way, and there wouldn’t be anything else they could do. Or that he could do, come to that.
The ambulance seemed to be going quite slowly; Francesca had somehow thought they would race to London, with the bell ringing. The ambulance man laughed when she told him.
‘No, my love. Not necessary. Maybe if we hit some traffic when we get there … We’re going fast enough. Anyway, she’s fine. Don’t you worry about her. Look at her sleeping like a baby.’ He seemed to find this very funny.
He was very cheerful; kept telling her stories about past dramas. Francesca was finding it hard to be polite. And she was getting worried now, about Bard. She wanted to know where he was. Just so that she could tell him what was happening. No more than that. He was Kitty’s father, and he ought to know.
After Reverend Mother had left them at Bideford, Rachel phoned the house.
‘Sandie? This is Mrs Duncan-Brown. Would you give me the number of Mr and Mrs Channing’s solicitor, please? It’s very urgent.’
‘Yes of course,’ said Sandie. ‘Just a moment. He’s phoned this morning actually, left his number, here it is, yes, it’s Mr Drew and he’s on – ’
She gave it to Rachel. Rachel dialled it; Drew answered at once.
‘Mr Drew, this is Francesca Channing’s mother. Did you phone her last night? At a convent in Devon.’
‘No. No I didn’t.’ He sounded strained. ‘You don’t know where your son-in-law is, do you?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ said Rachel, ‘but I wish to God we could find him. And I’m beginning to think that might be rather difficult. What do you think, Mr Drew?’
‘I’m beginning to think the same. Please phone, won’t you, or get him to phone if you do find him.’
Philip Drew phoned the house again. Sandie answered the phone.
‘Drew again here. Still no news?’
‘No. But – ’
‘Yes?’
‘There was one call last night. On the answering machine. But no message, they’d rung off. But I dialled one-four-seven-one – I thought it just might be Mr Channing.’
‘Well done,’ said Drew. His heart thudded uncomfortably. ‘And – ?’
‘Well, it was an international number. That’s all it said.’
‘Oh yes, I see,’ said Drew.
Yet again, and without much hope, he rang Bard’s mobile. It was still switched off.
The train pulled in to the Gare du Nord. Bard got out, picked up his holdall, and walked carelessly, slowly but not too slowly, towards the ticket barrier. From now on, it might happen. And if it was going to, it could happen here. The ticket collector was talking to someone else, some official. Could be, could be. Steady, steady, don’t rush it. He held out his ticket, looked at the man, met his eyes; the man looked back, blankly, took the ticket, carried on with his conversation.
First hurdle over. He bought a book of ten carnets and went to find the Metro station and the train out to Charles de Gaulle. He was surprised to find he was suddenly rather enjoyng himself.
They were just into the outskirts of London when Kitty was sick. ‘Oops,’ said the ambulance man, ‘must be the motion. Never mind, darling, let’s get you mopped up.’
She was fine really, but it had upset her, Francesca could tell. She started to cry; clung to her mother, and the crying made her cough. She coughed quite a lot; by the time they reached St Andrew’s she was flushed, crying, very distressed. By the time they reached the room they had been given, Francesca was desperate.
A nurse had been allotted to them; she was very calm, very cool, rather well spoken. For some reason Francesca didn’t like her; she wanted the rosy charm, the enthusiasm, the rich accents, of the Devon nurses again.
>
She looked at Kitty, quiet again now, lying in Francesca’s arms, smiled a careful, slightly patronising smile. ‘Mrs Channing, welcome. Do put Kitty down in the cot.’
‘I can’t put her down,’ said Francesca shortly, ‘she’ll start screaming again. She’s better where she is.’
‘Of course.’ The nurse gave her a look; it was a look she knew well, the sort of look Nanny often gave her. We know best and you don’t, that look said, but we’ll humour you for now. ‘It must be so worrying for you. But of course she’s in the best possible place now.’
‘I hope so,’ said Francesca.
‘Ah, Mrs Channing.’ It was Mr Moreton-Smith. ‘How was your journey?’
God, she thought, what was this, a cocktail party? ‘Fine. Thank you.’
‘Well, you’ve done the right thing coming here.’
‘I didn’t have much choice,’ said Francesca, ‘actually.’
Moreton-Smith gave her the same look as the nurse; then smiled, a tight-lipped smile. ‘Well, I’m glad you felt that. Now then, I haven’t really had a chance to assess Kitty properly yet, but I’m going to make a full examination now, take a look at her X-rays and so on. Now you remember, of course, when I saw her in – what was it, May, yes, in May, the hole was very small and I thought it might heal of its own accord. What seems probable is that it has got larger, with her illness – ’
‘Or that you made a mistake,’ said Francesca.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I said perhaps you made a mistake. Perhaps it was bigger than you thought.’
‘Oh I don’t think so,’ he said, and his eyes were suddenly very cold. ‘No, I do assure you, that would not have happened.’
‘Mr Moreton-Smith, don’t you ever make mistakes, in your business? Most people do. It’s not a crime.’ For some reason challenging him, being rude to him, made her feel better. She was aware it was probably a mistake, but she didn’t care.
The Dilemma Page 83
