In The Garden Of Stones (24 page)

Not the
candyfloss pink she threatened Ms Latimer with, that seemed a
little extreme even to her, but a glowing chestnut red that shines
like silk and captures every ray of sunlight, giving her a fiery
halo.

She hops
off the bus at the end of St Mary’s Way, Kemnay, and takes the
short walk to the imposing gateway of Pelham Chase Rehabilitation
Centre.

The
driveway leading to the facility is wide and straight, a quarter of
a mile of tree lined tarmac, no potholes yet because the place is
almost brand new, less than three years old, and the savage
Aberdeenshire winter hasn’t had chance to tear into it
yet.

Cars
pass her on the drive, bobbing over the speed bumps which help them
maintain the strict limit of 10 miles per hour. At the end of the
drive is another high red brick wall topped with spikes. Whether
its intention is to keep people in, or out, remains
unclear.

Access
into the grounds proper is via a red and white striped security
barrier, a large red hexagon in its centre demanding every vehicle
STOP and be checked.

She’s on
foot. What does she do?

Outside
the little booth, a group of soldiers in fatigues are chatting and
don’t seem to have noticed her. She keeps on walking.

Suddenly
one of them, a corporal, magically pops out of nowhere, like the
shopkeeper from Mr Benn, and is standing in front of her, barring
her way, towering over her in his big shiny boots, a Glengarry with
its cocky blue hackle perched on his head.

“
Can I help you, Miss?”

The man
is huge, built to the dimensions of a brick outhouse, neck like a
bulldog, arms like ham shanks, hands like snow shovels, and under
his steely scrutiny Grace feels very small indeed.

“
I … I’ve come to see a patient,” she says, voice tight with
nerves.

“
Can I see your pass please?”

“
I … I don’t have one. I didn’t know I needed
one.”

“
All visitors must have a pass. Security
regulations.”

“
I didn’t know. How do I get one?”

“
I’m sure Reception can help you there. If you give them a
ring–”

He
extends his arm towards the exit, a sure sign she should leave, or
else …

But
she’s come this far.

“
Can’t I just go in and ask? Seeing as I’m here?”

“
No admittance without a pass, I’m afraid.”

“
So … I can’t get in because I haven’t got a pass … and I
can’t get a pass because I can’t get in. Is that right?”

A pause,
then the corporal smiles down on her, and suddenly he doesn’t look
half so menacing.

“
Does sound to be a bit of a catch-22 situation doesn’t it?”
he says, and glances up the drive. “It just so happens I’m due a
break and I’ll be going that way, so if you care to wait a couple
of minutes I’ll walk with you, to make sure you don’t get into any
bother along the way.”

“
Thank you very much. I appreciate it.”

They
walk together up the short roadway until it forks. On a blue sign,
a collection of white arrows point in all directions, indicating
the routes to the various facilities and services Pelham has to
offer – East and West Campus Rehabilitation Wings, Family Liaison
Unit, Personnel Recovery Officers, Physiotherapy, Hydrotherapy,
Gymnasium, Occupational Therapy, Chapel, Restaurant, Shop. Every
need catered for in one easy package.

Directly ahead, at the cross of the T of the junction,
stands an entrance foyer with a sign of its own;
Welcome to Pelham
Chase
, and
an instruction for all visitors to report to Main Reception. On the
wall to the left is a plaque with the instantly recognisable navy,
red and turquoise medal logo of the Help for Heroes
charity.

“
They do sterling work,” says the soldier, proudly.
“Wouldn’t be here without them. Here we are.”

A pair
of glass doors slide aside to admit them. The area is light and
airy, functional but welcoming, stained glass panels depicting
scenes of bucolic serenity filtering the light and casting a
rainbow of colours over the tiled floor.

“
Nice isn’t it?” says the corporal, and Grace agrees that it
is quite beautiful.

“
That looks like Bennachie,” she says, pointing to a
stylised mountain, its mither tap bent like a crooked witch’s
hat.

“
Aye, it is. The craftsmen they commissioned to make the
glass wanted to depict local scenes. Some schools had a fundraiser
to pay for it all too. Bloody marvellous what folk will do, don’t
you think?”

Once
more, Grace agrees.

“
This way.”

The
corporal leads her to the Reception Desk and slaps his meaty hand
down on the counter. “Shop!”

A young
woman starts and swears, dropping the envelopes into which she has
been stuffing leaflets, and turns to give whomever scared her out
of her boots a piece of her mind.

Pin neat
in her army fatigues, blonde hair pulled back in a regulation bun,
no jewellery, minimal makeup, she looks more like a model than a
soldier, and Grace could never imagine this lithe young thing
strafing the enemy with machine-gun fire or slinging a hand
grenade.

Her name
badge identifies her as Private Susan McGuire.

“
Bloody hell, Bob. How many times have I told you not to do
that?” she says. “Jeez! Good job I have excellent bladder
control.”

Corporal
Bob grins at her. “Jest keepin’ ye oan yer toes, lass. This lady
needs some help please, M’dear. If I can leave her in your tender
care?”

He then leans forward to whisper something in Pte McGuire’s
ear, tipping her a cheeky wink before he leaves. She smiles coyly
and blushes, leaving Grace in no doubt that something is
definitely
going on between
those two.

Pte
McGuire pulls on a smile of welcome, professional again from bun to
boot. “How can I help you?” she says with a trace of a Geordie
accent.

“
As I told your young admirer there, I’m looking to visit
with a patient,” says Grace. “But I don’t have a pass. I didn’t
know I needed one. He said you could help me get one.”

“
Who is it you’ve come to see?”

“
Colin McLeod.”

The
smile slips a fraction. “Are you a family member?”

“
No. I’m just a friend.”

And a
little bit further. “Ah.”

“
Is that a problem?”

The
smile reinstates itself. “Depends.”

“
On what?”

“
At Pelham we encourage all our residents to have visitors,
as many and as often as they like, but you have to appreciate that
for the safety of everyone concerned, both staff
and
residents, we
cannot operate an open door policy. We have to maintain strict
security measures, and they state that all visitors, out with
immediate family, have to be vetted and approved before being
issued with a visitor’s pass.”

Friends are welcome, but only if they are the right
sort?
Grace
thinks.

“
I see,” she says. “I didn’t know anything about being
vetted. Nobody said. How do I get it done?”

“
There are a series of forms to be completed and submitted,
along with proof of identity, a photograph and a suitable
reference. We also do a standard CRB check–”

“
A what? Sorry?”

“
Criminal records bureau. A necessary evil I’m
afraid.”

“
Blimey. All that just to say hello and hand over a bag of
grapes?”

Private
McGuire clears her throat, smiles, and stays diplomatically
silent.

“
So … how long might this whole rigmarole take?” Grace
says.

“
Anything up to six weeks.”

“
Six weeks!”

“
That’s an average. If all goes well it could be
less.”

“
Six weeks, six days, makes no difference. Poor Colin. I
promised him I’d be here today, with bells on I said, and now I’ve
got to let him down. He’s going to be so disappointed.” Sigh.
“Isn’t there
anything
you can do now, seeing that I’m already here? I’m totally
harmless, honestly. A bit gobby, but harmless.”

Pte
McGuire’s face softens into a genuine smile of sympathy. “I’m
really sorry, there isn’t. If you contact Mr McLeod’s next of
kin–”

“
I can’t. I have no idea who they are. Colin never talks
about his family.” Grace’s brows arch. “But…you know who they are
though, don’t you? You’ll have a telephone number on file, for
emergencies–?”

“
Yes, but–”

“
So
you
can give it to me, and I can give them a call and get it
sorted.”

“
I can’t do that.”

“
What about an address then, or an email, so I can write
them a note?”

“
I’m sorry–”

Grace
chews on her lip, biting back the hot prickling in her eyes, tears
of frustration and disappointment. Picking up on Grace’s distress,
Pte McGuire lays a hand on her arm.

“
Here’s an idea,” she says, kindly. “How about I call them
for you? If they say no, you’re no worse off than you are
now.”

“
You’d do that for me?”

“
It’s not the done thing, but I can’t see it doing much
harm. By the way, what’s your name?”

“
Grace. Grace Dove.”

Private
McGuire indicates a cosy alcove with chairs and a low table and
magazines to read. Just like a doctor’s waiting room. “If you’ll
take a seat over there, Ms Dove, I’ll see what I can
do?”

“
Thank you.”

Grace
keeps Pte McGuire on the edge of her vision, observing covertly as
she pretends to read an information leaflet. The young woman taps
on her computer keyboard, picks up the phone and makes a call. At
one point she glances over to Grace, speaks into the telephone some
more, and then hangs up.

A
pregnant pause before…

“
Ms Dove?”

On
leaden legs Grace approaches the desk. She can see from Pte
McGuire’s expression that the call did not go well.

“
I’m so sorry.” She doesn’t need to say any more, but she
does. “He said no, and without NOK permission, there is nothing
more I can do.”

Grace’s
shoulders sag as she feels the world crumble about her. Colin could
be in the next room, just feet away, waiting for her, yet while
these visitation regulations stand in her way, he might as well be
on the far side of the moon.

She
forces her mouth into the travesty of a smile and directs it at Pte
McGuire, and when she speaks, her voice comes out small and
fragile.

“
You’ve been very kind. Thank you for trying.”

For God’s sake, don’t cry.

“
I really am sorry,” says Pte McGuire. “If it were up to me,
I’d let you in, but it’s not and you have to appreciate, with the
way things are, you know, politically, we can’t be too careful. Our
residents are vulnerable. They would be an easy target. If anything
were to happen–”

“
I know, and I understand. I really do.”

“
I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey.”

Pte
McGuire reaches for a folder on a shelf behind her and takes out a
selection of coloured sheets of paper and staples them
together.

“
Here,” she says, handing them to Grace. “These are the
application forms. It can’t do any harm to complete them. You never
know.”

Grace
takes the forms, folds them and puts them in her bag, once more on
the verge of tears. She turns to leave before she makes a fool of
herself.

“
Wait! I’ll see you out.”

Pte McGuire comes out from behind her desk and they walk
together to the doors, which
whoosh
aside, letting in a breeze of warm air.

Outside,
Pte McGuire glances up at the camera monitoring the door, turns her
back on it and holds out her hand as if to wish Grace goodbye and a
safe journey home.

Grace
feels something tickle the palm of her hand.

“
Captain McLeod’s brother’s telephone number,” Pte McGuire
whispers. “But I never gave it to you.”

She
scuttles back inside to her position behind the desk and Grace
presses the paper into her palm, not daring to open her hand until
she is well away from the building. Even then she doesn’t look.
Instead she slips the tiny scrap into her purse for
safekeeping.

Chapter 25

“
I waited for you.” Colin stabs his garden fork deep into
the compost heap and turns it over, releasing a wisp of steam and
the sweet, sweaty scent of rotting foliage. “You didn’t come. You
promised.”

“
I tried, I really did,” says Grace, from upwind of the
smell.