‘I like to be common,’ Gus said happily. ‘The more gold paper and frou-frous the better. Hey, listen to this!’ He had unwrapped his motto, and was sitting there, his head crowned with a confection of pink and blue paper that made him look like a drunken cherub now. ‘Tell me what it means, someone! “Confucius he say, ‘Man who steals kisses is not thief when lady helps him to help himself.’”‘
George threw him a knife-sharp glare and said, ‘That sounds more like a prawn cracker motto than a Christmas cracker one,’ which was a feeble sally but the best she could manage. Fortunately both Vanny and Bridget had had enough of the excellent champagne, which Gus had also brought, to fuddle them and make them think this exchange was exquisitely funny, so they laughed immoderately and began to fuss over providing second helpings.
The rest of the afternoon was as agreeable as lunch had been. They washed up in a noisy huddle, then shared out their gifts from the tree and adored each other’s choices. Gus had given George a large one-volume history of London which he had had bound in crimson leather and engraved with her name in gilt, a beautiful thing that made her blush for what she now perceived as the banality of her own gift — a pair of leather gloves — but which seemed to please him greatly. And then they settled to the somnolence of an afternoon in which the television murmured softly in the background while the old ladies slept away their natural fatigue after all their efforts and Gus and George talked in a desultory fashion.
Always afterwards she was to remember that afternoon as the turning point in her dealings with Gus. They had started on the wrong foot, right at the beginning, when she was new at Old East and faced with the Oxford case. There had been a confusion of identity that had made her pugnacious in her dealings with him thereafter. They had reached a sort of friendship as the months had gone on and they had worked together over several other cases; but this afternoon — this afternoon was different.
It made them true friends, she realized, the sort who could sit and be comfortable together without actually talking all the time; the sort who could pick up the other’s thoughts and join in an elliptical conversation with immediate understanding of what the other meant. It was deeply comfortable and soothing and at the same time exciting, for the friendship carried, as they both now well knew, the promise of something more. Much more.
The afternoon light had dwindled to indigo, until the room was lit only by the flicker of the flames in the grate and the shifting colours of the TV screen, when Vanny woke — or seemed to wake — stared widely at George and sang in her high little voice, ‘“I’m off with the raggle-taggle gypsies, oh!”‘ and immediately fell asleep again. Which made both George and Gus giggle; and then both realized at the same time that she hadn’t behaved as oddly as they first thought, for the TV was now showing a resumé of the past decade, and at the point Vanny had woken had been showing scenes of deprivation and distress among the children of Bucharest. Especially gypsy children.
‘… these children,’ the voiceover intoned, ‘are paying the horrendous price for the ambitions of the dictator Ceausescu. Thrown into orphanages to rot, with gypsy children making a high proportion of the numbers, they rock themselves interminably in an effort to get some of the stimulation and comfort they fail to find in the arms of loving parents or carers, their only hope the possibility of people coming from the West — mostly America — willing and able to adopt them.’
‘That’s what reminded her of the song,’ Gus said quietly, but George shook her head.
‘She’s been singing it ever since she first heard it at the Players that night,’ she whispered, not wanting to wake Vanny again. There was no risk of waking Bridget, who was snoring happily, well away. ‘It was just one of those —’
She stopped suddenly and stared at him and then shook her head. The notion that had slipped into it was absurd. The result of too much food and drink and sleepiness. She was fantasizing. She was melodramatic. And yet —
Gus had opened his mouth to speak but she shook her head at him and returned her attention to the TV set, having to strain just a little to hear the commentary, for they had kept the sound turned low deliberately. The screen now showed scenes of street-fighting in Romania, and she watched eagerly; but then the commentary shifted and moved on to another story. The Gulf War this time. Again she pushed away the absurd notion that had come into her mind. It was absurd, too absurd even to consider, wasn’t it?
Gus was watching her curiously. Then he said quietly, ‘You’ve just had the mother and father of a hunch.’
‘Hmm?’
‘So what was it? Won’t you share it?’
She was still lost in her own thoughts and he said again, a little more loudly, ‘May I know what it is?’
Now she looked at him and her slightly glazed expression cleared and sharpened. ‘Uh — know what?’
‘I said, you just had a sudden idea, right? It walked all over your face like a kid in a field of new snow. The footprints went very deep, lady. So let me share, hmm?’
She stared at him and then bit her lip, torn. He looked back at her, his head cocked. For a moment, she wanted to pour it all out, to build on the afternoon’s intimacy, to be really close. But then she caught her breath. Suppose she was wrong? Suppose it was a mad notion born out of a punch and champagne-fuddled imagination? She couldn’t bear to display herself in a bad light to him; she really couldn’t. And as she thought it, she drew back and some of the warmth faded from his eyes as he saw her do it.
‘Not — there’s nothing to share,’ she said lamely.
‘Rotten liar.’ He sounded amiable and light-hearted but she wasn’t fooled. She’d hurt his feelings and she leaned forward impulsively from her corner of the couch to put her hand on his shoulder; he was sitting on the hearth rug at her feet and it was easy.
‘Yes, you’re right. I did have a sudden notion. But it’s so — well, ephemeral. Silly really. I’d rather do some checking before I make a fool of myself.’
He twisted round and looked up at her, his face almost as close as it had been when he’d kissed her. ‘You’re a soppy ha’porth, you know that? There’s nothing you could do that would ever make a fool of you in my eyes. I thought we was proper mates. Shared things.’
‘Yes …’ she said, but drew back again, wanting to respond to him and yet aware of the deep stubborn streak that had always been her downfall exerting its pressure. ‘I will share it. But just let me check something first. I know I don’t have to with you, but, Gus, let me be what I am, for God’s sake. Don’t try and make me different. I’m stubborn, OK? I like to make sure of my facts before I go and — well, usually I like to make sure,’ she amended, then grinned. ‘I’ve learned to listen to myself, that’s the thing. I’ve gone in half-cocked too often in the past and made a — what is it you call it? A right royal cock-up. Give me a day or two, that’s all. Then when I’ve found out if I’m even half right, I promise I’ll tell you. But if I’m making a fool of myself, well at least I won’t have to let you know it. Fair enough?’
He looked at her for a long moment and at last nodded. ‘If that’s what you want, ducks. Do it your way. It’s not that I want to make you do anything. I’m not that sort, take it from me. You’ll find out I’m not. I just like to feel trusted, that there’s nothing hidden between me and my friends, know what I mean? It’s not nosiness. It’s just — just sharing.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘And I promise you I’ll tell you when I’ve found out a bit more. Please don’t take it personally — me needing to do that, I mean.’
‘No,’ he said, and turned back to stare at the TV screen which was now full of images of a beauty contest as the report raced on, ten years of hectic living being packed into half an hour of their time. ‘No. I won’t take it personally.’
But she knew he had.
22
In a hospital the days after Christmas are dispiriting. The decorations that looked so brave and promising before Christmas Eve are tarnished and tawdry by t
he day after Boxing Day, and the general air of untidiness upsets the staff — notably the senior nursing staff — more than a little, so they bustle and snap a good deal as they try to get straight again, while at the same time bracing themselves for the flood of new admissions that are always a feature of the post-Christmas return to normality.
This Christmas was the same as all previous Christmases and George found the laboratory an unhappy place to be when she went back to work after the break. Jerry was off sick — ‘The usual hangover, he only gets rid of it in time for a New Year booze-up so he can be off the first week in January as well, the lazy bastard,’ Sheila said sourly, and set to work grimly to scrub her department clear of any hint of tinsel and tralala and to drive the rest of the staff mad while she did it. No one was more eager for Christmas the week before 25 December nor so waspish about it the week after than Sheila.
George for her part tucked herself away in her office and, grateful that the day hadn’t produced the rash of bodies she had half expected as people succumbed to too much festive jollification, set about preparing her year’s end statistics for the Board. Not that she had to do a lot — most of the actual work could be carried out on Sheila’s computer — but still there were documents to be sorted and totals to be collated ready to be fed into the system. That took her all morning.
At lunchtime, however, she felt reasonably free of Old East work and could turn her attention back to the two deaths Gus was investigating. The first thing she did was to pull out the Chowdary file which she had kept hidden in her top drawer. She’d have to give the notes back soon; someone surely would notice they were missing from the Registry and Cherry, she knew, was too concerned about Harry’s posthumous reputation to let them stay with her for much longer; and anyway she’d promised their swift return. She had to sort it out now, or lose the chance.
She read with great care the PM report made by her locum. It wasn’t precisely the sort she’d have written herself, of course; whenever did any doctor think a locum’s work good enough? But it wasn’t all that bad. He had clearly been a careful man and one given to paying due attention to details.
And he had made no mention anywhere of a strawberry naevus on the body of the Chowdary baby although he’d described every other aspect of the surface appearance minutely. Surely, surely, had there been one, he would have noted it? Minor blemishes though such naevi were, usually fading before a child was three, it had been there, and he should have mentioned it. Perhaps she could track him down, see if he remembered? Where was he working now? She looked at the name at the end of the report; James Browne. No address and a common name. She’d have to make enquiries and that could take time — unless she could get evidence from elsewhere of course.
She made up her mind what to do quite suddenly. She went into the lab to give Sheila all the material ready for the computer work she would have to do, and escaped to make her way over to Cherry’s little cubby hole of an office in Fertility. Please let her be at work this morning, she prayed in a vague unfocused fashion. Don’t let me waste more time. The sooner I can tell Gus what my idea is, the better. I don’t want him thinking I’m being remote and cool, when it’s the last thing I feel. But that was not a subject she could think about right now. So she refused to. It was not easy, however.
Happily for her peace of mind, Cherry was at work, sitting drooping at her desk and chewing the end of a pencil as she stared at the shabby almost-dead calendar on her wall.
She greeted George in a lacklustre fashion, but cheered up a little when she saw the Chowdary notes that George put down on the desk in front of her.
‘Oh, I’m glad to see them,’ she said. ‘I was just wondering when you’d fetch them back. I mean, I know you promised, but you know how it is. People forget. I’ve really got to put them back in the Matty files. They’ll come complaining about how untidy Harry was if I don’t and I don’t want that.’
‘Nor do I,’ George said. ‘I’ve got all I need from them. Thanks.’ She hesitated. ‘Will it be hard to put them back without anyone noticing?’
‘Mmm? Oh, not really.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I go when I know the office’ll be quiet. It’s pretty quiet now, I think. Lunchtime, you see.’
‘Good,’ George said briskly. ‘Then let’s take them back now, shall we? And Cherry, will you do something for me?’
Cherry looked dubious and George patted her arm. ‘It’s all right. I’m not asking for anything outrageous. It’s to save me time. I could track down what I need through the Registry if I had to, but you know how slow they can be. I just want the address of a patient — another one who had a baby who died. Like this one.’ She tapped Angela’s notes.
‘Oh, well, I suppose I could,’ Cherry said doubtfully. ‘As long as no one’s there. If there is someone, I’ll have to make an excuse and not even put this file back. But it should be all right around now, like I said. Lunchtime. Will you wait here? Tell me what it is you want and I’ll be right back.’
‘I’ll come with you. Then I can keep people out of your hair if necessary.’ George grinned at her. ‘Anyway, it’s always easier for two people.’
Cherry seemed grateful for her company and led the way back towards Maternity, George falling into step beside her. George asked the question more to have something to say than anything else. ‘Those crumpled sheets of paper, the ones you found under this file in Harry’s room, they’re odd, aren’t they?’
‘Odd?’
‘Well, just rows of numbers and letters and so forth.’
Cherry shrugged. ‘All this medical stuff looks like that to me,’ she said. ‘I thought it was just, you know, medical. Isn’t it?’ She threw a sharp glance at George who remembered again how astute this girl could be.
‘I don’t think so,’ George said. ‘It’s not like anything medical I’ve ever seen.’
‘Oh.’ Cherry frowned. ‘That’s funny. I was sure it was. It’s like some other stuff I’ve seen, anyway.’
‘What?’ Startled, George stopped walking, and made Cherry do the same. ‘You’ve seen other pages like this?’
Cherry’s forehead wrinkled, ‘Yeah. Somewhere …’
‘Tell me about that,’ George commanded. ‘At once! Where? When? Who had the pages? And —’
Cherry shook her head, bewildered by George’s vehemence. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.
‘Don’t know? How do you mean, don’t know?’
Cherry began to walk again and George perforce fell into step beside her. ‘As I said, I can’t remember. I saw some stuff like that somewhere. Just a few lines, not whole pages or anything. I can sort of see them. They were just the same.’ She squinted at the floor. ‘But I can’t remember where.’
Again George brought herself and Cherry to a halt, holding on to her elbow. They were in the last little run of corridor before they reached Maternity proper, and it was empty. Just an expanse of red linoleumed floor and pale green-washed walls with a couple of rather grimy windows to give a little light. And themselves.
‘Listen, Cherry,’ she said with some urgency. ‘There’s a way of remembering and it’s important you try. Look at that blank wall, and then close your eyes.’
Cherry gaped at her and George shook her head impatiently. ‘Believe me, this works if you give it a chance. I’ve seen it work. Just look at the wall. Right? Now close your eyes and look at those pages you remember. See them in your memory. Can you do it?’
Cherry stood with her eyes crunched closed and concentrated. After a moment she said slowly. ‘Yeah, I sort of can. A little pile of ‘em. All crumpled up.’
‘Good,’ George said urgently. Her pulse had started to pound, she was so excited. ‘Great. Now, concentrate and let your mind’s eye sort of open out. There are the papers. What are they in or on? A table? An in-out tray? You look and tell me.’
The girl frowned, still with her eyes closed. ‘I can’t — oh! Yes, I think. Basket. There’s a sort of basket-weave alongside one of them.’
; She opened her eyes and George almost shouted at her to close them again. Cherry looked offended for a moment but obeyed.
‘I’m sorry, Cherry. I didn’t mean to be nasty. I just need to know. Look again. Tell me what you see.’
Again Cherry concentrated and George stood there with her tongue-tip held between her teeth, willing the girl to remember; and then suddenly there was a sound of footsteps, and Cherry’s eyelids flew open and George whirled.
Didier St Cloud was coming along the corridor from the Maternity Ward, whistling softly between his teeth. He grinned when he saw them and called cheerfully, ‘Meeting of the Girls’ Club is it? The places you have to go to get a bit of peace in this hospital!’
George could have hit him, she was so furious at the interruption. She glared at him. ‘Nothing of the sort,’ she snapped. ‘I was just asking Cherry for some information.’
Didier lifted his brows and said mildly, ‘Well, sorry, I’m sure. I meant no harm! I often bring people out here if I need to talk quietly. It’s just about the only part of Matty where you can be left alone.’ He stared at her curiously. ‘No need to get so shirty.’
She relaxed, deliberately letting her shoulders slump. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to get so screwed up. It was just that Cherry was trying to remember something I need to know and I think she was almost there.’ She turned to Cherry hopefully. ‘Unless you already had remembered?’
Cherry shook her head. ‘Sorry, Dr Barnabas, but it’s all gone,’ she said a little mournfully. ‘It’s like I said, I sort of remember seeing —’
‘Well, that’s all right,’ George said hastily, suddenly aware of Didier’s close interest. ‘Not important now, we have to get on. So long, Didier.’ She put her hand on Cherry’s elbow as unobtrusively as possible and urged her forward and a few seconds later they were in the main Matty corridor, leaving Didier beyond the double doors which swung closed behind them. George took a deep breath of relief.
Second Opinion Page 23
